cuddlemeshipmates

E x R art/handporn

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 17:41:59 -0400

the man named grantaire is a a mystery. enjolras had disliked him on sight for always being drunk, for not taking anything seriously, and for being generally distracting. no one gets anything done when grantaire is in one of his moods, and that seems to be the way grantaire likes it. enjolras asks him why he’s here, if he’s not serious about the cause, and grantaire only shrugs, looking impishly at enjolras’s mouth. it’s enough to drive anyone mad.

it turns out, of course, there is more to grantaire than he’d first thought. there’s the juggling, which he is surprisingly good at and uses to disrupt everything, juggling bottles of rum and whisky. (he never breaks a bottle. enjolras is convinced it’s just luck.)

there’s the dancing, which is surprising too - grantaire is surprisingly graceful, and he is guilty often of sweeping combeferre off his feet and into an elaborate waltz, which combeferre, to his credit, half-heartedly tries to escape.

but enjolras isn’t expecting the art, mostly because he isn’t expecting grantaire to be so - intellectual, to tell the truth. grantaire takes nothing seriously, not even revolution, so how could he possibly take art seriously? enjolras thinks art is a highly noble pursuit and it sort of itches that grantaire can be so good at it. and he is. good at it, that is.

enjolras is supposed to stop by grantaire’s flat to get a poster design from him, something he is certain he has forgotten about, but when he enters, grantaire is sitting at a canvas with a piece of charcoal in his long, graceful hands.

the sight of it sends a jolt up enjolras’s spine. he’s drawing a face, a woman’s, and it’s beautiful and serene. but what’s more surprising is the care grantaire is taking, using one hand to create jagged swoops of black across the canvas and the other to gently rub the harsh lines into softness. enjolras watches his long, thin fingers caress the canvas, smoothing one eye and then the other. there’s charcoal under his nails and all in the creases of his fingers. enjolras sees the way his palm lies against the texture of the canvas, the way the bits of charcoal fly into the air with each stroke. it’s positively obscene, the way his hands are forming the curves of the woman’s lips, stroking hair into existence.

enjolras’s heart is beating stupidly fast and he hates himself for it. he clears his throat.

grantaire turns around, grinning. “ah, dear apollo. how nice of you to visit.”

enjolras coughs. “i’m here for the poster. unless…”

“unless i’ve forgotten?” asks grantaire, smiling wider. “not a chance.” he stands, pulling his shirt down with his dusty hands, leaving slashes of dark black on the white fabric. it gives enjolras an ulcer.

he dives behind the easel and pulls out a rolled poster, holding it out for enjolras to take. enjolras, who is feeling very jarred and slightly annoyed by this whole experience, snatches it hastily, their fingers brushing. there is a light sheen of grey on enjolras’s hand where grantaire’s fingers have touched it. he feels a little sick.

“apollo?”

“please don’t call me that,” snaps enjolras, feeling slightly dazed. “it isn’t - “

“appropriate?” suggests grantaire, and enjolras makes a sound in the back of his throat.

” - accurate.”

grantaire laughs, and enjolras wishes he’d just sent fucking combeferre here instead. grantaire moves toward him suddenly, stopping inches from enjolras’s face. he can see the shades of blue in grantaire’s eyes. enjolras is not sure why he is not moving.

“apollo,” breathes grantaire, and does not kiss him. instead, he moves a palm to the side of enjolras’s face, who does not even flinch when the dark charcoal smudges on his cheek because here are the pads grantaire’s fingers, tracing his cheekbones, and there is his thumb flitting over enjolras’s eyelashes. enjolras inhales sharply as grantaire continues like this, his long fingers sliding over his cheeks, a thumb tracing his jaw, nails gently combing up the back of enjolras’s neck as his fingers tangle in his hair. enjolras makes a muted, strangled sound, and grantaire pauses.

“it’s - nice,” says enjolras, finally, and grantaire smiles, placing his fingers against the soft curves of enjolras’s lips as if he is reading them.

when enjolras leaves, poster in hand, his face looks like it has been composed of ash.

Blackness, Cato x Clove

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 02:16:57 -0400

In the night they can see the false stars. Clove counts them for Cato as he falls asleep, her breath hot in his ear.

One, two, three, four, five…

When the cameras are elsewhere, Cato kisses her fingers with surprising delicacy. “We’ll kill them all,” he promises her. “And then we’ll go home and they’ll have parades for us, and we’ll wear wreaths of flowers on our heads.”

She smiles sleepily, achingly, sweetly. It dances on her face like a dragonfly.

It’s harder than you’d think, loving to kill.

They’ve agreed not to make a show of it like the idiots in District Twelve. They aren’t here to be in love.

“I’d still kill you,” says Clove one day as they hunt for food. “If it came down to it, I’d slice open your throat.” She looks at him casually. “I’d make it quick. You wouldn’t even realize it was happening.”

Cato smiles quickly, flashing like lightning on his stony face. “That’s the difference between us and them.” He swats a branch out of his way. “We’re better than them.” Clove smiles to herself privately in that way she does. Cato smirks. “But it’s not an issue anyway,” he says. “Because we’re both going home.”

Clove pulls her dark hair back and out of her face as she watches a rabbit flit around a mossy clearing with a bloody hunger in her eyes. “We’re both going home,” she affirms before she flings the knife between the rabbit’s eyes.

Sometimes he watches her run, the pure adrenaline coating her face in glee, the way her hair streaks after her like a banner, the way the metal in her hand sparkles in the sunlight. He thinks about after the Games, when they’re home in the palaces they reserve for Victors. He’d like to braid her long, dark hair, feeling it slip between his fingers. He’d like to count the freckles on her skin like she counts the stars when he can’t sleep, the adrenaline pumping too deeply in his veins. He’d like to see what her eyelashes look like from millimeters away.

It’s wrong when she’s out of his sight, when she’s gone, but he lets her roam like a satellite. She’s smarter than he is. She knows what she’s doing.

But he isn’t with her when she dies. He remembers this for the rest of his short life. He remembers the cannon, though, her face flashing across the sky. He remembers something hot slipping down his face, and he thinks, So these are tears. He remembers his fists clenched tightly, he remembers finding Thresh and screaming himself hoarse at him. Thresh fights, but Clove is fueling Cato now, living in his very veins, and when he crushes Thresh’s thick neck, it feels like justice for her, and he can hear her laugh in his heart, reverberating around his ribcage.

“YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER!” screams Cato into his face, even after the light’s gone there. It’s a stupid statement of fact but it’s all he has left, this fact, because there are no words for what he really means, no words for the images Thresh has stolen from him, no words for the song of Clove’s laughter, no color to replace that of her hair and her eyes, that warm black, the color of Cato’s heart.

Cato breaks Thresh’s nose with his boot before he departs.

But the rage in his heart that was Clove is dying, dying like she died, pleading and screaming Cato’s name. And all she leaves is a scared little boy who wants to kill and to die. That’s what he’s been trained to do. That’s all he’s been trained to do.

He realizes this, a stupid epiphany, when he’s standing on top of the Cornucopia. He realizes once more how clever Clove was, how really brilliant she’d been, because she knew this all along, knew it in her bones. But it takes until the moment before his death for Cato to realize that he was born to die, that there was no Victor after all.

When he falls from the Cornucopia, it feels like relief.

Clove tears at his neck, at his heart with her teeth, just as she always has. It’s just that this time, the teeth are real.

When his heart shudders to a stall, aided by the arrow of Twelve, it makes a sound like Clove Clove Clove and for the first time in his life, Cato wonders if there’s something after this blackness, but then the blackness smooths away those thoughts.

Resignation, Cato x Clove

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 07:04:00 -0400

He’s in the training yard when he sees her - small and slick and dark, an oil smudge of a person, with eyes like a hungry wolf. He’s been told to lift weights, so that’s what he’s doing, but she’s sparring another girl, thinner and taller than her. But when the taller girl goes for her throat, she pushes back and slashes the girl across the arm, growling ferociously. She’s scolded for cutting the other girl, told that this was supposed to just be a sparring round, but she’s then praised by another trainer for keeping a knife on her at all times. She looks at them blankly when they speak, but when they leave, she smiles reflexively to herself, twirling her knife between her deft fingers.

Her name is Clove, he finds out, and she’s one of the finest killers here. She could maybe even kill him, if he was caught off guard or if his arms were incapacitated. But he could still crush her windpipe in a second flat, could twist her neck so it crunched like a timpani drum, could break her nose so hard the bones would shatter into her brain.

Even so, it’s nice to see someone so determined.

When her name is called at the Reaping, Cato feels a surge of something he thinks could be pride, because she’ll kill them all. He’ll watch her closely, and she’ll come home with blood and glory dripping from her hands. He smiles to himself as he imagines her in the Arena, slicing quickly across someone’s neck with her trusty knife, the one he knows is on a strap around her right thigh. Today, for the Reaping, she is wearing bright pink, and Cato remembers absurdly that she is a child.

When his name is called, the warmth in his body flees suddenly, diffusing out his fingertips. This is now the girl he will kill. He wonders how he’ll do it. He wonders if he’ll crush her with his hands, or if he’ll slice her open with a sword or knife, or if she’ll evade him and die from exposure.

But she will die, because Cato will not. He wonders how she must feel, knowing she will die.

He looks over at her and meets her eyes. They are cold and unforgiving.

She hasn’t resigned herself to anything yet.

Later, when they are on the train speeding toward the Capitol, Cato visits her room, pushing her hard against the wall, hot breath steaming down on her dark face.

“I’m going to kill you,” he whispers to her as her back arches against him. “I will.”

She doesn’t say anything in reply, just laughs haughtily, the rich, thick sound filling his ears.

In a few weeks, when the dogs are tearing at his skin, at his skull, he looks into Clove’s face again and she laughs and laughs and laughs, and when his eyes fade into darkness, it is the last thing he hears.

He doesn’t know that hours earlier, she had finally pleaded his name, cried out in her final moments.

Cato….CATO

Cato

c a t o.

Symmetry, Pyp/Grenn

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 03:17:57 -0400

posted for the ASOIAF minor character fic-a-thon found here.

There is a symmetry to the way they are, the way they move.

Grenn is stocky and firm. He is a tower; he is not just the watcher on the Wall; he is the wall, and sometimes when he stands, Pyp swears he goes on for infinity in all directions - all breadth and height, a massive plane of a boy-turned-man.

Pyp is not the Night’s Watch; he is the night. He is fleet and feather and dark and slick as those birds Maester Aemon keeps, the same birds Sam is always dithering on about. But secretly, Pyp feels a communion with them. They are meant for flight but are kept in cages.

Heavy and light, they are, and thick and thin, and stocky and slippery both.

In practice, in training, Grenn lunges forward and Pyp back, always a dance, every movement unintentionally balanced. It’s just the way they are, Pyp and Grenn.

They are dancing with swords one afternoon when suddenly the movement shifts and instead of being in balance, Grenn’s sword slides too close to Pyp’s face and Pyp jumps back, into the hard stone wall behind him, Grenn’s sword shaking beneath his chin, held fast by Grenn’s similarly shaking hand.

“What are you doing?” Pyp asks angrily, as if it’s Grenn’s fault for besting him at this.

Grenn peers at Pyp. “I don’t know,” he says defensively, and his voice is as confused but defiant as always. “I just did it! ‘S your fault for slipping up!”

“You’re too stupid to best me,” says Pyp, and Grenn’s grip tightens. He leans forward, close enough to see the drops of sweat ornamenting Pyp’s eyebrows.

“I’m not stupid,” he growls, and Pyp smiles.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!” says Grenn, and his voice is dark, and it makes Pyp nervous.

“Just - lower your sword, Grenn. Was just a joke.”

Grenn does so reluctantly, breathing heavily. Pyp opens his mouth briefly to say something, but then Grenn is leaning forward and so is Pyp and once again their symmetry slips up and their mouths mesh together like so many songs.

Pyp pulls away quickly, looking wildly around. There’s no one around. He isn’t sure if this makes him feel better or worse.

“I - I don’t - ” stammers Grenn, and Pyp looks at him with his dark eyes, black as night.

“Do it again,” he commands, and Grenn follows, eager to please, eager to do what Pyp asks, his lips wet but enthusiastic, thick against the thin slip that is Pyp’s mouth. His sturdy hands tangle into Pyp’s hair. There are more than a few clangs of teeth. But when Grenn’s hands stray toward the front of Pyp’s breeches, Pyp is the uncertain one, pulling back, feeling covered and sometimes smothered by Grenn’s breadth.

“The oath - ” he breathes, more a pant than anything else.

Grenn pauses for a moment, hands still dancing lightly around the laces of Pyp’s breeches. It’s perhaps the most thoughtful Pyp has ever seen him, all quiet contemplation.

“Well,” he says fairly, “the oath never said anything about not taking a man to bed, did it?” He smiles in a way Pyp might perhaps call devilish.

As Grenn’s hands and mouth find his cock, Pyp promises to Grenn’s hair never to call him stupid again.

After all, he had some good ideas.

Just Because, Finn/Gethin

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 13:04:00 -0500

It’s nearing 3:30 when Gethin stumbles into his flat, exhausted beyond measure and quite possibly more than a little drunk, and all he wants to do is fall into his bed and not get out of it for at least eight hours. It was a nice night with his mates, for sure, and he enjoys taking every opportunity he can to spend time with them, really, but spontaneously deciding to party well into the night just doesn’t have the same allure it did a few years ago.

God, he thinks, You sound so fucking old.

He pushes the door closed behind him with a click, eyes barely open as he locks it, and walks down the hall and to his room, the second door on the left. His bed is made, remarkably, and he wonders why he even decided to do that yesterday morning. Gethin doesn’t even bother undressing before just falling into bed, sighing contentedly as he gets a face full of pillow because he can finally just relax. And that works, relaxing, for a little while, until Geth feels his phone vibrate from within his jacket pocket.

He groans, annoyed, mostly because he’s being kept from sleeping but also due to the fact that he doesn’t want to move and it’s proving to be quite difficult to get a firm hold on the phone. Eventually he relents, changing his position slightly and retrieving the device, and when he can bring himself to open his eyes and look at the bright screen he reads the name there: Finn Jones. He’s not surprised in the slightest because of course it’s from Finn; no one but Finn would ever text him at such an insane hour, and despite the voice in his head telling him to just leave it until later he reads the message.

Hung over. Bed full of Legos for some reason. Not getting up. Come build stuff with me.

Gethin throws his phone down without caring where it lands, not even bothering with a reply because he assumes Finn will just pass out soon anyway and not even remember sending it. He’s able to lay there for a few minutes undisturbed, trying desperately to fall asleep, but before he can his phone starts vibrating again. He notices it’s not a text this time, unfortunately, and ignoring this call would only result in receiving another. Sighing resignedly, Geth grabs his phone and answers. “Finn.”

“Did you get my text?” Finn asks, voice low and a slightly groggy, and Geth would think that’s actually rather cute if it weren’t so early.

Gethin sighs. “Yes, I did, but it’s almost four in the morning and I only just got in not too long ago. Can’t you ask Gwen, or Oona, or even Alfie to come over?”

“But I want you to build stuff with me,” Finn replies, the words coming out as a bit of a whine.

“Why me, though?”

There’s silence for a few moments, and Gethin is about to ask if Finn’s still there when he hears him speak. “Because you…” he begins, and then there’s a sigh. “Because you care enough to,” Finn admits, and Geth can swear there’s a hint of sadness there. “You care.”

Gethin doesn’t want to admit it, but that really pulls at his heartstrings because he knows it’s true. He knows he isn’t the only person in Finn’s life who cares about the curly-haired ball of energy, not at all, but not many people would just pick up and go to over to Finn’s regardless of time. Gwen and Oona love Finn to bits and never hesitate to say or show it, but four in the morning is way too early, even for them, and Alfie… well, Alfie would probably have a good laugh about it because that’s just what Alfie does. But Gethin has this problem where he just can’t say no to Finn, no matter what it is, and he thinks about how that’s probably not a very good thing but can’t bring himself to care.

“All right, all right,” Geth says sleepily, stretching out his limbs in an attempt to wake up and motivate himself to move. “I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes. Don’t bother getting up — I’ve my key. You’re lucky I love you, Jones. See you soon.”Gethin swears he can hear Finn make a delighted squeak of a sound before he ends the call, but he’s not positive. He smiles in spite of himself and somehow manages to drag himself out of bed.

When Gethin finally gets to Finn’s, he unlocks the door and opens it as quietly as he can manage, kicking off his shoes and draping his jacket on a chair. He makes his way into the kitchen and heads to the right, walking down a short corridor and entering Finn’s room. Finn looks up as he hears Geth enter, and he smiles from within the circle of Legos that surrounds him. “Hi!” he says happily despite his hangover, moving over on his bed so there’s room for Gethin as well, and Finn moves in and wraps his arms around Geth as soon as he sits.

Geth laughs and returns the hug. “It’s nice to see you too. So,” he asks, “What have you been making while I was on my way?”

Finn reaches next to him and holds up something that Gethin can’t identify, so he’s glad when Finn provides an answer. “It was supposed to be a unicorn,” he explains, “but it wasn’t working out very well, and giving it a horn was kind of impossible, but I tried. You know what we should do, though? We should make a castle, one that’s just for Renly and Loras. Just them.”

It’s endearing, how excited Finn gets about little things like this, and Gethin agrees, calling the idea brilliant. They start to connect the pieces together, all red and blue and green and yellow, and he smiles at how it’s almost a perfect rainbow. They’re quiet for a while, content with their silence because they know constant conversation isn’t necessary between them anymore, connecting pieces until Finn just starts humming a tune he heard a few days prior. Gethin stops connecting the pieces and just watches Finn, fascinated by the look of concentration on his face. He has a clear picture of what the castle should look like in his head, Gethin knows, and he likes that about Finn. He might be a wild card sometimes (or a lot of the time, really), but he knows what he wants and goes after it.

They continue putting the pieces together, one on top of the other, connecting their individual structures. Geth’s arm brushes Finn’s more than once, and he’s surprised at how there’s a… flutter in the pit of his stomach. He leans back and thinks about it, finally just brushing it off as merely being a product of exhaustion and unexpected contact, but still rotates a Lego with his fingers thoughtfully.

Eventually they finish the castle, Finn raising his arms above his head triumphantly and grinning, and Gethin has to admit that it looks fit for a king. He’s not surprised, of course, considering they make a great team, but it’s still a lovely thing to see so early in the morning.

Finn lowers his arms, turning to an oblivious Geth and looking at him with pure adoration, and Gethin’s eyes widen in surprise when Finn leans in suddenly and presses a his lips against his left cheek. He lingers there for a moment, smiling as he does so, before moving away only slightly. Gethin turns to look at him, deep brown eyes locking with lovely blue, and he finds that they are incredibly close — so close that Geth can see every freckle on Finn’s face and every tiny fleck of icy blue within the warmer blue hue of his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to move away.

“Thank you,” Finn says softly, and he truly means it. “Thank you for caring.” He brings his right hand up and caresses Geth’s cheek with his thumb, and Gethin feels his heartbeat quicken. He swallows and bites his lip, unsure about where this is going or what’s even happening right now — he searches Finn’s face for some sort of answer, but he’s just as unsure, hanging in the balance and waiting for whatever’s going to happen.

Geth’s face is warm and his mind is a jumble of thoughts, all of which revolve around just moving in and closing the gap between them because he can, and he… he doesn’t know how to feel about that, honestly, because he’s never thought about this before. He’s had Finn this close to him before on nights out together when they had to practically be in each other’s laps due to limited space, or even the times that Finn got so tired on set that he just allowed his head to fall onto Gethin’s shoulder, and Geth rested his head against Finn’s just because. Just because. He knows it’s not that simple now, not at all, because he never felt anything before this, never once questioned himself and his relationship with Finn because it always just was, just one of the few very constant things in his life, but now it’s possible that there are feelings involved and it’s so incredibly complicated, even though he knows it really isn’t.

It doesn’t surprise him that this has happened, deep down, because everyone loves Finn, even if they’ve only just met him; that’s just the effect Finn has on people, making them laugh until they don’t know what to do with themselves, and within no time he has them charmed beyond belief. It’s hard to stop thinking about him after that, and it’s one of the many reasons why Gethin loves having Finn in his life, but right now it’s incredibly distracting because Finn’s lips are so close to his that it may actually drive him insane. He’s actually fighting with himself over this, to kiss or not kiss his best mate, and he thinks about how he should probably be having some sort of crisis over his sexuality and the bigger picture right now — that’s what someone rational would do, right? — but he just wants, wants so much, and he can’t fucking think anymore.

“Oh, fuck this,” Gethin breathes finally, moving in and closing the gap between their mouths. It’s firm, this kiss, and tentative too; he doesn’t press his luck and just lingers there for a few moments before pulling away, and when he looks back at Finn he just looks so fucking smug, like he’s been expecting Geth to do that for ages.

“Took you long enough,” Finn says smiling, and Gethin makes a face. Finn just rolls his eyes and takes the initiative this time, inching in closer and pressing his lips to Geth’s, and Geth just sighs and thinks about how, right now, this is the only place he really wants to be. Gethin notices that Finn’s lips are incredibly soft as theirs continuously touch, and he’s pleasantly surprised by that, getting distracted from his thoughts only when Finn’s hand is on his face and his tongue is in Geth’s mouth. Gethin has never really known what to do with his hands in these situations so he just lets them go where they may, and he finds that they land on Finn’s hips; Finn doesn’t mind this, not at all, and he smiles against Geth’s lips, moving in so their bodies are pressed even closer together.

They continue on like that for a while, lips and tongues moving together and warm breaths ghosting along skin as kisses move from lips to cheeks to necks; Finn tilts his head back and bites his lip as Geth bites at his collarbones, taking his hands and steadying himself by grasping Gethin’s shoulders, and when Geth looks up at him, Finn’s eyes are noticeably darker and he can’t — Geth’s absolutely powerless, really, and can’t fight, he never could, not when it concerns Finn.

He moves again, hands on Finn’s hips again and lips on lips, and he nudges Finn backwards slowly until his back is pressed against the mattress. Geth runs his hands up Finn’s sides bringing his shirt up with them, never once ceasing the kiss. His left hand continues upward and stops in Finn’s curls while his right ghosts across Finn’s abdomen, causing him to inhale and even, Geth notices, tremble a bit. He doesn’t know where this is going, doesn’t know where this is going to lead later, and doesn’t know exactly what he likes anymore, but Gethin realises there’s time to figure all of that out as he presses his body firmly against Finn’s and doesn’t look back.

Regardless of whatever is going to happen from here on out, Gethin just smiles because Finn has always been his exception in all things, anyway.

Gethin wakes up abruptly due to the sunlight streaming in Finn’s window and looks over at the table next to Finn’s bed. The clock says 8:00 a.m., much to his dismay, and he feels like someone threw him headfirst into a brick wall. As he tries to get a sense of his surroundings, he feels extra weight on his body and looks down, and what he sees makes his heart leap. Finn’s left leg and Gethin’s right are tangled and Finn’s head is resting on Gethin’s chest, and their clothes are disheveled but still on them; Geth remembers kissing Finn for what feels like ages, eventually stopping after a while to just there to talk about everything and anything, and they must have fallen asleep like that, contentedly curled up together.

He notices Finn smiling in his sleep and he smiles, too, just feeling so happy, and for the first time in a while, everything’s really okay. This is just another adventure, Gethin thinks idly, resting his head against Finn’s, and it only takes a few minutes with his arms wrapped around his best mate to make him drift back to sleep.

Time, Finn/Gethin (with the lovely Gwendoline Christie)

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 22:36:00 -0500

Based on this photo and fictional events.
When Geth’s Aunt Lily dies, Gwen comes to Finn with her delicate face twisted in concern. It’s so disconcerting, too, because she’s still partially clothed in her armor from a day of filming, still partially Brienne, still partially closed off to Finn. That’s the hardest part, going from Brienne and Loras, who are both in love with Renly and need him and need him more than anything to going to Gwen and Finn, who both love Geth more than they love themselves.

“Finn,” she says in her Brienne voice, which is a little harder and more staccato than her usual voice. She clears her throat uncomfortably. “Has - has Geth talked to you recently? About what’s going on with him?”

Finn looks at her, Loras and Finn fighting inside his chest. Of course Geth’s talked to him about it, whatever it is, he’s sure of it…because Geth tells him everything always. Right? Yes. Of course he does. And Finn tells him everything. Always. And that’s the way it is between them.

“Uh, I’m sure,” says Finn, trying to sound confident. “But - um, what do you know?”

Gwen pushes her hair back, and she’s Gwen again, even still partially armored, her pale, heart-shaped face under the Irish sun. “I know he’s really upset,” she says quietly. “She was really important to him.”

Finn looks at her, startled. “Wait - what are we talking about?”

Gwen looks at him. “I thought you knew.”

“I - I should know!” says Finn, trying to fight the panic down in his voice. “He tells me everything. Always.”

Gwen’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “I just - I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“What’s going on?”

Gwen looks at Finn and then smiles helplessly, throwing her arms around Finn’s neck a little awkwardly, with her head towering over his by a good four inches. But it’s sweet nonetheless, and it’s Gwen, who loves them both.

“Don’t worry about your - friendship - with Gethin,” she whispers to him, bending down to his ear. “He loves you.” She straightens a little. “His Aunt Lily’s died, and I’m worried about him. I just want him to be okay, and if he hasn’t told you, I’m worried he isn’t.”

“Oh God,” says Finn, and sits down on the ground, which makes the whole situation even more ridiculous because Gwen is towering over him now. Sighing, she takes a seat next to him.

“I know you’re having a hard time - coping with the idea that Geth doesn’t tell you everything like you tell him, but we need to be there for him for this, okay? He’ll tell you when it’s right for him.”

“But,” says Finn, the word slipping out like a child, “I want - I want it to be right for him now.”

Gwen laughs, that lovely chime sound that floats around her throat. “Darling,” she says, and kisses Finn on the top of the head. “Give him time.”

And that’s the way it is with the two of them - with all of them, actually - that time was the one thing Finn wasn’t willing to give, wasn’t ready to give. He wanted - what he wanted, actually, was Geth, and he wanted him now, and he wanted Geth to be ready to give everything to Finn in every way because Jesus, was Finn ready for that. Finn was never a testing-the-waters kind of person - he jumped in, head first, making a splash. But Geth was always more cautious, more reserved, less readily open. You had to earn his trust, and Finn tried not to let the snide voice in his head tell him that Gethin trusted Gwen more than him.

Later that day, on their break, Gwen is sitting with Finn in chairs by craft services when Geth comes over, briefly intercepted by a member of costuming who is appalled that he was still wearing his crown.

“Hey,” he says to the pair of them, and then looks at them. “You know,” he says to Finn. He looks at Gwen. “You told.”

“Don’t be angry!” says Gwen quickly, biting her lip. “I just - he was so upset and you were so upset - I couldn’t take both of you being upset!”

Geth looks at Finn. “Wait, why were you upset?”

Finn meets his eyes helplessly. “Because - because you were upset!” he explains, feeling stupider by the second.

“You idiot,” breathes Geth, laughing at him. “It’s fine, the pair of you. Please stop looking so fucking guilty; it’s actually painful to watch.”

Gwen and Finn stand, awkwardly circling Gethin in a hug.

“What’s - what’s happening?” asks Geth, awkwardly patting them both on the backs. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” sighs Gwen into Geth’s hair. He lets it go because he loves them, and because he knows they’re both incapable of experiencing emotion in a way that doesn’t involve a group.

Geth sighs into the crook of Finn’s shoulder. “Can we get food out somewhere? When we’re done filming for today? Can we just go get food?”

“Yeah, of course, yes,” says Finn, looking at Gwen over Geth’s head and trying not to look pleased, because, of course, he’s very sad.

They wind up going to a Brazilian steakhouse that Geth picks. It’s somewhere between entrees and dessert that he says, “She was really brilliant, my Aunt Lily.”

The sound enveloping their table dies, and Gwen slings an arm around Gethin’s shoulders easily.

And Geth starts to talk about her, about how she helped raise him as a kid, how she read him books of poetry even before he could talk, about how she exposed him to good music and had a voice like a bell, not particularly delicate, but booming, and it makes sense, about the way Geth is. And Geth talks for a while about all the things she was, and he keeps stumbling over the verbs, still not used to the word ‘was’ in his mouth.

Somewhere in the midst of this, Finn takes out his phone to take a picture. He can’t help it. Because here, in the midst of all this, with Gwen, at a table at a Brazilian steakhouse, still in makeup from a day of filming, with Geth talking about people he loves, he is so bitterly happy that he wants to document it forever. He wants to have this moment, have it with him always so that he can remember what it felt like, to be a part of this microcosm.

Geth trails off finally, looking down at his plate, embarrassingly misty-eyed. Gwen kisses the side of his head tenderly. “We love you, you know.”

Geth looks up at Finn expectantly.

Finn smiles. “You know I do.”

“Yeah,” hums Gethin quietly. “I do.” He looks at Finn. “Me too.”

And for now, it’s enough to hear it, like this, in the way Geth wants. Because Finn, really, when it comes down to it, would wait and wait for Geth. He’d give all the time he does not have.

Fic: Daenerys/Loras

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 23:09:00 -0500

Daenerys sists up in bed one night, skin shining with sweat.

“Loras,” she says in a panic, and he comes immediately to her side, pale as the moon under which she was born.

“My lady?” he asks, because he still can’t call her his queen, not while his sister is still alive, still graced with the summer crown.

“I have seen my throne,” she says, voice trembling just slightly, “and a monster sat upon it, a golden monster, and it ate me when I approached.”

Loras sighs, pulling her to his side. “You are the dragon, my lady. Dragons eat golden monsters, those damned lions. May they rot in the fires of the seven hells, all of them.”

“You are so young for such words,” she says, smiling, and Loras affords her one of his rare smiles in return.

“My lady, you are younger than me.”

She looks at him, studies his smooth, graceful skin. “I suppose I am,” she says curiously. Age has long stopped being of importance. She is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the blood of the dragon and freer of slaves. It does not matter how many years ago she was born. “But we’re so very old, aren’t we?” she asks, and Loras touches the side of her face.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We are almost as old as this whole kingdom, every drop of blood spilled.”

Daenerys sighs with exhaustion. “I don’t remember what it was like to be a child.”

Loras laughs emptily, his voice rich and sad like twilight. “I do,” he says. “I remember exactly what that felt like, before everything was torn from me.”

Daenerys turns once more to watch his sullen skin dusted with the soft night light. “You loved him,” she says, having known it since she saw him. “Your king.”

“Renly,” says Loras, and it’s the first time he’s spoken the name aloud in almost a year. It’s sad, how she can’t know the importance of this one word. His name. “Yes,” says Loras, for the first time ever, “I loved him.”

Daenerys puts her arms foolishly around his neck, hands trembling like the child she truly is, beneath her bravery. “What about me?” she asks, trying to be certain. “Do you love me?”

“Like - like Renly?” asks Loras. She smiles sweetly.

“No. Just - just at all.”

“My lady,” says Loras, knowing what he is agreeing, “of course. In many ways.”

“You’re so young,” she says. “So young and sad.” Loras smiles at her, gaze soft. “Less sad, here. Less sad with the khalasar. Less sad with the blood of my blood.”

When their lips meet, Daenerys feels as if she is touching the childhood that eluded her, and Loras feels the future, feels the icy grip of the past being worn away by the warm tongue of the dragon.

A new summer is rising, one christened with fire and blood.

Forgetting Beautiful, Renly/Loras

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 03:45:00 -0500

-3 afternoon

Renly lies in Loras’s arms, because that’s the way it is, Loras’s arms long around Renly’s stockier ones, his chin on Loras’s chest. They never say I love you, because they mustn’t, and because they’re both pretending there’s nothing important about this, that it’s just something to do. It’s ridiculous, of course, the idea that this isn’t important, but they like to experiment with apathy.

“I want you to tell me something important,” says Loras to Renly’s hair, and Renly laughs. “Like - like what?”

Loras sighs.

He knows.

“Something important,” he repeats. “In time.”

Renly feels the silence and the pressure in his stomach and rolls over and falls asleep. It’s best never to think the words, or they’ll be said, and he’ll never be able to catch them.

-2 night

“Have you thought of anything?” asks Loras the night after. Renly gives him a quizzical look. Loras sighs.

“I - I really want you to tell me something that’s important,” says Loras, kissing the side of Renly’s mouth. “I want you to tell me what you’re afraid to say.”

“I’m never afraid with you,” says Renly, and Loras smiles.

“You’re always afraid.”

-1 morning

Renly is aching with sleep and sweat. It’s the best kind of ache, the best kind of sadness, the best kind of everything. Loras is long beside him. If there was a word to ever describe Loras, it’s long. Long arms, long smile. He’s stretched. It’s beautiful.

“I’ve been thinking,” Renly tells Loras’s sleeping frame, “about what I want to tell you, but I don’t want to tell you I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t want to tell you at all. So I’m telling you while you’re sleeping.” He leans in close, wetting his lips.

I love you, he whispers, and it’s so quiet he wonders if he’s said it aloud after all.

But they’re true, even still.

Loras wakes up a few hours later, the words buried in the sweetest of dreams.

+0, the darkest time

Loras watches Renly’s face while he talks. He watches the muscles beneath the calm lake of Renly’s skin, the way they work together like cogs in the beautiful machinery of Renly’s body. He’s perfect, he’s the sun, he’s the summer.

And then things are going wrong. Very wrong, and there is darkness, and the oafish tall woman is - she can’t she can’t have how could she something beautiful cannot break but Renly is breaking, is broken, and Loras’s mind is running while he’s cradling Renly as Renly slips from this world and Renly is dying with a smile on his face.

“The words,” he says to Loras, and Loras screams, screams in Renly’s face, the words in his head guttural and angry HOW COULD SOMEONE TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME, FROM US WE HAD TIME LEFT WE WERE ALL TIME

But Brienne and Lady Stark are running and Loras is placing Renly gently on the ground and running after them, but they’d gotten a head start and were riding off and Loras is shouting things what is he shouting what is he saying

And he turns around and looks at Renly lying there, all sun in the midst of darkness, and Loras lets out a scream that is so loud it startles everything in the forest and light is fleeing from the world.

That night, Loras holds his hand over a flame to watch the skin melt and to feel himself slip from the world just a little, for if Renly is not in it, Loras does not want to be, either.

+1 morning

The phantom of Renly’s presence lies in the bed with Loras the morning following the darkest day. He feels Renly’s body in his arms, the one he’s felt and held for so many days, every line known, nothing left unexplored. This was the cruelest trick of all, like viewing a map and never traveling - this was fate’s taunt to Loras Tyrell, the shadow of the man he’d loved.

Loras sits up, dusting the ashes of Renly’s love off his arms like burrs.

It is the last time he remembers what Renly feels like.

He forces himself to forget.

+2 morning

In his dreams, he remembers. He remembers every line of Renly’s face, the way he laughs, the way he cries, the way he shouts. He remembers Renly’s dimples and Renly’s beard and Renly’s arms. He remembers the way he was anxious and cocky and serene and stupid and beautiful - mostly, always, beautiful. It was the most imperceptible kind of beautiful there was, the kind that slipped into your bones until you became beautiful, too, and Loras misses feeling beautiful, holding and feeling and being beautiful.

When he wakes, he forgets.

He chooses every day to forget. Every day for the rest of his life is spent forgetting Renly Baratheon. Forgetting beauty.

Tangles, Margaery/Loras

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:41:00 -0500

Margaery knows ever plane of Loras’s skin as her own, every bone is hers, every freckle is hers, and hers alone. Growing up they are more than brother and sister - they roam the fields like twin stars, more rare and more beautiful than anything else in the world.

Their favorite place is between the hedges of roses, where they whisper secrets to each other and to the thorns of the roses.

“I love you,” whispers Loras to her one afternoon, and kisses her softly on the lips and they giggle, running through the rows, hand in hand. The Tyrells are like roses in many ways, but one way no one ever talks about is how tangled they are in each other, all thorns and soft petals and gentle, rustling leaves embracing one another, kissed by the wind.

Now they are older and things are different - Loras has dismounted many a man and Margaery has mounted almost as many, even though they pretend she is a virgin. She fumes to Loras about how disgusting it is, how everyone is obsessed with her virginity, and Loras kisses her, pulling her close, smelling her hair.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t,” he murmurs to the spot above her ear near the crown of her head, and she tightens her arms around him.

They share everything, Loras and Margaery, and when Margaery is to marry Renly, she gives Loras a bracing smile and tells him that this is just another thing to share.

But Renly is the stake between them, sometimes, interrupting the way they are mirrors for one another, sharing more than everything, and when Loras tells Renly his secrets, Margaery cries into her pillow frustrated tears, for once she was the only one Loras would kiss and tell secrets to - secrets between and among roses.

One night, it is particularly bad, and Margaery is sobbing and shouting at Loras while Renly is off with some other soldiers, and she is crying, “It’s always him, now, never me, never me, never me again -”

And Loras is pulling her closer and closer and touching her neck with his lips and circling her waist with his arms and reassuring her with the same whispers he gave her as children: no, never, never, it is always you.

“Be mine,” murmurs Margaery, tears clogging her eyes and throat, blurring her vision. Through her crying, Loras looks like an angel, dancing in the slick moonlight.

“I am,” Loras replies easily. “I am yours, have always been yours.”

Margaery can’t stop crying, her tears wetting Loras’s doublet. “Please,” she breathes, playing with the laces to his breeches, “be mine, be mine, be mine.”

“Margaery…” says Loras, turning his head away, but he does not pull away from her fingers.

“You are mine,” she says to him, but it’s cautious. She is waiting for confirmation, and Loras has never been good at withholding things from his sister, not even this.

He slips her out of her gown, touching again what he has touched his whole life, what he knows as his own body, every curve of her bones echoing his own.

In the morning, Margaery’s body is arched against his, sleep blushing her face sweetly. He wakes her with a gentle kiss.

“This remains between us,” he says softly to her, and she nods.

“Roses are good at keeping secrets,” she says.

“And tangling,” says Loras.

Margaery smiles sleepily, the sheets slipping around their bodies. “And tangling.”

1914 - 2001, Robb/Theon

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:40:00 -0500

1914

Theon finds Robb on the deck of the ship, chin jutting out toward the horizon. The wind is gentle but brisk, and the whole place smells of rotted fish and sea salt and frankly, Theon feels sick again. But he’s a Greyjoy, and his family at home in the Isles are fishermen and they never felt seasick. They loved living off salted fish and waking up to the sound of retching. It was a Greyjoy trait. Truthfully, Theon’s sick stomach is more a result of nerves than seasickness, but Greyjoys don’t get nervous, either.

Theon spits off the side of the deck. Robb takes no notice.

“What will it be like, do you think?” Robb asks, still not looking at Theon.

Theon turns around, leaning nonchalantly on the back of the railing, the breeze licking at his hair. “Land of rubbish and shit. Bit like home.”

Robb snorts at this, but his expression does not change.

“Listen, Stark,” says Theon, bumping Robb’s arm, “if you’re going to get all moody on me, I’ll go back below deck.”

“No,” says Robb, “you won’t. You hate this boat as much as I do.”

“I’m a Greyjoy,” snaps Theon. “We were made for the sea.”

“Which is why I heard you getting sick all last night,” says Robb, and Theon scowls. Robb sighs. “Sorry.”

“You’re a prick,” says Theon, but it doesn’t have any venom. He turns back round to look at the impending horizon. The great hulking green statue of Lady Liberty is looming in the fog.

Robb sighs again. “I just want things to be right here,” he says. “Right for my mother and for the girls.” He smiles faintly, punching Theon in the arm. “We men are going to be fine.”

“Right,” snorts Theon. “We’ll be fantastic day laborers.”

“It’s America,” says Robb, but leaves it at that. He has learned not to believe in the optimistic future of his childhood. He has known it since he learned his house’s words: Winter is coming.

“Winter is coming,” says Robb, and Theon nods grimly. “But it’s better than this ship, right?”

Theon says nothing but allows Robb to slip a hand inside his coat pocket, their fingers tangling foolishly.

~*~*

1920

“It’s great, isn’t it?” shouts Theon over the noise of the burlesque. Vita Cologne is the girl of the night, all pale skin and dark lace and eyes like black pearls. And she sings.

Robb looks distinctly unruffled in this place. He’s seen naked women before – and these women aren’t even naked – he’s had a woman before. But he has never enjoyed the public spectacle of sexuality as it is nowadays – everything is out in the open, and it’s ruining the allure of it all. Robb glances to his left at Theon, who is watching Vita with the hungry eyes of a wolf.

“It’s okay,” says Robb, and Theon rolls his eys.

“Have some fun!” he says, giving a hoot at Vita.

“I am,” says Robb, but it’s weak, and Theon knows it. Robb hates it here, in the fog of cigar smoke and drenched with the smell of sweat. But he likes being with Theon and Theon likes being at the burlesque, so here Robb is.

“Ah, here you are!” coos Theon, and Robb turns to see two girls prancing toward them in velvet and cloche hats and pearls. They look like every girl Robb has seen lately, and he supposes they’re beautiful. The two girls come and perch between Theon and Robb, who awkwardly slides to the right.

“I invited them,” explains Theon. “They’re girls from the neighborhood. Alice and Enid.”

“Enchantée,” giggles one of them, and Robb smiles politely at her.

Theon puts his arm around one of them – Enid – and gestures that Robb is to have Alice. Great. Robb puts his arm awkwardly around Alice’s shoulders, feeling foolish.

“I’m afraid I’m not much fun in these settings,” Robb hears himself say, and Alice titters.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know how to have fun,” she informs him, and then shouts at a waiter. “Drinks, please! Martinis for us all!”

“You can’t have martinis anymore, silly,” Theon tells her, tearing his eyes away from Enid for a moment. “Remember?”

“Right,” she laughs. “Oh, well, I guess we’ll have to make our own fun.”

And she’s leaning toward Robb with her lipstick that smells like clay and her pale skin and eyes like orbs and Robb wishes to want to kiss her, but he doesn’t. Their lips meet clumsily, her gloved hands grasping his shoulders.

Robb stands suddenly. Alice reels back from his movement, staring at him.

“I need to go,” he blurts out, and he’s walking and walking out of the club and into the cold February air.

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m terribly sorry,” Robb hears Theon say but his legs won’t stop until he’s outside breathing deeply.

“What the fuck was that?” demands Theon angrily, shoving Robb a bit.

“I don’t know,” says Robb.

“I thought you’d like Alice, you prick, I told her how great you were and now she thinks you’re completely mad—”

“Theon, you don’t have to tell me—”

“And you’ve really mucked it up, you know—”

“I know—”

“I try to do fun things, Robb, and you’re just not—”

“SHUT UP!” roars Robb, and Theon clenches his jaw shut. Robb rubs his chin. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just—this isn’t fun to me, Theon.” He laughs hollowly. “I don’t like burlesques and loud music and—“

“And girls,” mutters Theon, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Robb sighs exasperatedly. “Maybe,” he says, growing very quiet and walking toward Theon. “Maybe I don’t like girls,” he whispers, and he’s breathing hard in Theon’s face.

Theon meets his gaze. “Maybe you should change that,” says Theon at last, and he turns to retreat back into the bar.

~*~*

1936

The night is cold and dark and empty. It reminds Robb of home a little, of the North. Winter is coming. But this shit Hooverville is no home, no Winterfell. He’s sitting outside the tent that houses his mother and sisters and Bran and Rickon because he’s the eldest and he’s the one who refuses to sleep in the tent because it won’t fit any more than are already inside and he’s the man of the family, the one who will sacrifice himself for the rest. It’s so cold tonight, though. And Robb’s gloves have long since deteriorated from previous winters. His family needs feeding and that’s the first priority, not gloves or boots that don’t have holes in their holes or pants without patches.

The thing is, no one will hire a man with patched pants.

Of course, no one’s hiring anyway, so Robb supposes it doesn’t matter. Robb wonders when he’ll have to turn to the bread lines. He’s a Stark. They find food for themselves, even in the Great Winters. But at this rate, his siblings and mother will starve.

Robb will not cry.

His tears would freeze on his face.

In the dark, Robb sees Theon trekking home from a day of work, exhausted and bruised. Robb is jealous of Theon, jealous that his friend gets to feed the Stark family when he cannot. Theon insists on giving food to the Starks even though it’s his wages paying for it, since the job was just a chance, just a kind old man in a car willing to pay a working Charlie to move coal from one work site to another in massive trucks with massive shovels. Robb hates him a little for it, because he should have a job, he should be paying for his family’s food. But as it is, Theon has the job and the money and the food, and charity from Theon is at least not charity from the government.

Theon sits beside him outside the tent, having taken to sleeping outside. Robb offered him a small corner of the tent, but Theon of course refused. Robb would have done the same, and now they freeze out in the cold together. Theon offers Robb a portion of his black bread, already stale. But it’s food and Robb went without dinner because Rickon was especially hungry tonight.

“How’d you get this?” asks Robb through a mouthful of bread.

“Stole it from a bin,” shrugs Theon. “Some man chucked it out and I managed to get it before it was too disgusting.”

It’s repulsive to think about but the hunger has long quelled the repulsion.

When they finish, there is the stillest silence Robb has ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” says Theon, and Robb turns to look at his profile.

“What for?”

“For having a job,” says Theon. “It should be you.”

Robb sighs. “Once I was the King in the North,” he says, recalling his childhood nickname. “And now I’m a poor man trying to feed his family, but so is everyone else here. I’m no better than anyone.”

“You’re a good man,” says Theon. “And that’s more than a lot can say.”

Robb smiles grimly.

“I mean it,” says Theon. “I do.” Robb turns to look at his friend, watching the stars go over his face in the night.

There is a settled silence between them, an agreement. Theon puts a hand on the side of Robb’s face, leaning in and kissing him firmly, lips tasting like oil and coal and dirt.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

Robb smiles, his face feeling stretched. “You’re a good man, too.”

~*~*

1944

Theon is the first person Robb looks for after the chaos of Normandy because if Theon is dead so is Robb and he knows he’s been taught not to think like this, but he can’t help it. He has his orders – stay in the encampment a few miles inland, but he can’t without knowing if Theon is alive or dead.

“Leave it,” growls his commander, “leave it be. He’ll find us if he’s alive.”

But Robb can’t leave it, even when he’s ordered. Theon never made much sense to him, but neither does living without him.

So it’s nighttime and Robb is risking his life to find Theon.

He’s stalking through the woods with his gun at his hip, the adrenaline coursing through his veins when

“Robb, Christ!”

It’s Theon, and he’s wounded but he’s walking but there’s blood all over him, spilling out over his clothes.

“You’re alive oh God you’re alive,” pants Robb and he runs toward Theon and kisses him squarely and Theon winces.

“I’m fucking bleeding out my stomach, maybe that can wait,” snaps Theon, but he’s happy to see Robb – more than happy, truly, because Robb is the only one who came looking for him and and the only one he’d want to come looking for him and Theon wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive without the oldest Stark.

“It’s all shit here,” says Theon. “Every bit of it.”

“But you’re alive,” says Robb and that’s truly all that matters. Robb hoists most of Theon’s weight onto his shoulders and leads him back to camp.

“You thought you’d just wander the woods to find me?” asks Theon sharply, and Robb nods. Theon sighs. “That’s daft.”

“Yes, well,” mutters Robb. “I thought there wasn’t much point in living if you weren’t alive.”

Theon closes his eyes briefly, allowing Robb to drag him along.

“We can’t,” he says, voice hissing into the night. “We can’t do this out here.”

“It’s the only place we can,” says Robb. “Because it’s here, it’s wild. No one to watch us.”

“Everyone to watch us,” corrects Theon, but there’s no arguing with Robb or the way his heart is thumping and he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or Robb’s arms around his shoulders. He’s stopped asking questions, asking what is going on between him and Robb because it’s just the way it is. He’s stopped wondering why he feels this way because the fact of the matter is that he doesand if he wants to kiss Robb he’ll kiss Robb and if he wants to fuck girls he’ll fuck girls and if Robb wants to come into his tent in the middle of the night with warm arms and a smoldering look, he’ll let him because a part of him wants that too.

“I don’t understand anything,” says Theon at last, and Robb has the indecency to smile.

“Nor do I,” he agrees. “But it’s only you.” He pauses to brush the hair away from Theon’s face.

Theon says nothing.

“Let’s get back to camp,” he says at last, and Robb obliges.

He’d do anything for Theon, even die.

~*~*

1953

Robb is sitting in the living room reading when Theon bursts in, horn-rimmed glasses sliding off his face, cardigan rumpled, face sheened with sweat.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” he half-shouts, startling Robb.

“Jesus, Theon, it’s still cold out, why are you sweating—what are you on about?”

Theon runs a hand through his hair, pacing around the room. “They’re saying you’re a communist, Robb.”

Fear bolts through Robb’s body; he sits up straight on the couch, terror pulsing through him.

“What? Who is?”

“That Jaime Lannister fellow we work with,” spits Theon. “He’s been telling everyone you’re a goddamned Red and now—“

“I’m going to get arrested, probably,” says Robb in a daze. “Or questioned, or blacklisted—”

“You need to get out of here,” says Theon quickly. “Grab your mother and your siblings and get out of here.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I can’t,” says Robb, “because then it will look true. I’m not a Communist – I swear.”

“I know,” says Theon, sidling onto the couch next to him. “I believe you.”

“Never even been to a meeting, honestly!” says Robb hysterically. “One labor union meeting when I was young but that’s all, that’s all they can find on me.”

He looks at Theon. “Is that enough? Can they arrest me on that?”

“I don’t know,” says Theon, looking at his lap. “But Lannister’s got a lot of influence and even more money. They’ll believe anything he says.”

“I’m going to get run out of here,” says Robb with horror. “I’m going to get lynched like those colored folk.” Robb grabs Theon’s arm. “Promise me, Greyjoy, that if something happens to me, you’ll take care of my mother and sisters and Bran and Rickon.”

“I do so swear,” says Theon seriously. Because this is serious, Communism is, and Theon has pledged fealty to Robb forever, since the beginning and until the end. He is for Robb, and Robb is for him, and they’re more than brothers. It’s different than brotherhood, it’s more intimate, more unspoken. Because if anyone ever found out about that, they’d have even more problems than Jaime Lannister saying Robb was a Communist. Communist and homo? He’d be run out on the streets and tarred and feathered and Theon would be right there with him. If that’s what they are. Homo, that is.

It’s not quite that but it’s not normal, Theon knows that, can feel it in his bones, inside his brain, that whatever he feels toward Robb isn’t normal, isn’t right. No one else feels that way, because homos are unnatural. Everyone knows that.

“If anyone asks, you’ll say I’m not, right?” asks Robb, and Theon nods.

“Of course. You know that I’m on your side.”

Robb leans back into the sofa, closing his eyes. “How could this happen? How could this happen to me? To us?”

Theon notices Robb’s grip on his arm hasn’t relaxed. Inhaling sharply, Theon puts his hand in Robb’s, thumb stroking the side of his hand.

“We are going to be fine,” says Theon. “We’re going to survive this, and then we’re going to castrate Lannister and feed his prick to him.”

Robb laughs, then sighs. “If I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “I would.”

Theon pulls his hand away. “Not for a long time yet.”

~*~*

1969

“They’re going to start drafting soon,” says Theon to Robb. “I heard it on the news last night.”

“Yes, well, let’s not think about that,” says Robb. They’re at lunch at a café and the news is on and it seems like it’s always on now, always saying something else about Vietnam and about the president and the world.

“Feels like the world is ending, doesn’t it?” asks Robb, and Theon exhales.

“The world always feels like it’s ending,” says Theon. Robb sighs, taking a bite of his sandwich, eyes still fixed on the television above the bar.

“Well, they’re doing a lottery by birthday and there are 364 other days besides our birthdays so we’ve got good odds,” says Robb, trying to be optimistic. “As long as it’s not one of our birthdays, we’re sorted.”

Theon stares into his plate, his food getting cold.

“I can’t go to war, Robb,” he says. “I can’t go to war for this.”

“For what?”

“Exactly,” says Theon. “No one knows what we’re going to war for, and no one cares.”

“You sound like a hippie,” says Robb with a hint of disgust. “You should be marching with those students at universities and in squares.”

“Shut up,” snaps Theon. “I’m not a hippie; I’m a realist. And realistically, there’s stuff the government isn’t telling us. Stuff they’re covering up, Robb, and the poor fools who get drafted are the ones who will have to pay for it.”

“Well that’s what we’ll do, then,” says Robb fervently, “because that’s what we do. We’re American men, and we’ll go to fight for America if they say fight, and we’ll stay here if they tell us to stay here, and we’ll kill every goddamned Viet Cong if they say to do that. Because that’s what we do. We have honor.”

“Damn our honor!” retorts Theon, voice cracking over the ambience of the café. Robb hisses at him. “Damn our honor,” he repeats, more softly, and Robb rolls his eyes. “Our honor is going to get us killed.

“Then so be it,” says Robb heatedly. “Because that’s the point. We have honor. We have decency. We aren’t the Japs and we aren’t the Europeans. We’re goddamned Americans and if they tell us to fight, we will.”

“Not me,” replies Theon. “I’m not going into that godforsaken jungle and getting shot or blown up because I’m told to.

“Well,” says Robb coolly, “you’d better hope they don’t draw September 14^th in that lottery of theirs then.”

They spend a long time staring at each other, the space between them seeming so large.

“I don’t want to do this,” sighs Robb at last. “If one of us gets drafted, I don’t want things to be like this between us.”

“You know that I’m loyal to you,” says Theon, “but I don’t have to be loyal to the government. I don’t trust them like I trust you.”

“Leave it,” says Robb tiredly. “Let’s not talk about this any more.” He looks fixedly at the television on the opposite wall.

“Hey,” says Theon, nudging Robb’s leg with his foot. “It could be fun. Killing things.”

“Yeah,” says Robb doubtfully, “maybe.”

A week later, when the results of the lottery are announced, Robb weeps in front of the radio because the man who announces it is so damned cheerful.

September 14^th.

And he never even wanted to go.

~*~*

1977

“There’s a rally next Thursday,” says Loras, “if you all want to come.”

They had run into Loras Tyrell on the street coming back from the supermarket twenty minutes ago but he’s still talking to them energetically, even though Theon is making it very clear he’d like to leave. But then again, Theon alwayswants to leave. Robb, on the other hand, is more polite and is listening to Loras with his stupid open-minded eyes.

“But—we’re not—” stammers Robb, and Theon makes a hissing sound.

Loras looks at the way they’re standing together and smiles knowingly but says nothing. “Well, still,” he says persistently, “it’s not just for queers. There are straight allies involved too. I mean, fuck, man, we just don’t wanna be second-class citizens anymore.”

“Then don’t be gay,” snaps Theon waspishly, and Robb flinches.

“Not that easy, my friend,” says Loras, looking only slightly hurt. “Wish I knew how.”

Theon lowers his voice to a near-whisper, leaning in close to Loras’s ear. “It’s very easy. Trust me.”

Loras sighs, shaking his head. “I hope someday you’re as at peace as I am.”

“As a straight man,” retorts Theon, “I suspect I will.” He turns away without a glance back. Robb shoots an apologetic look at Loras but then takes off after Theon, struggling to catch up with him.

Theon is marching heatedly, and it’s only after Robb says his name three times that he even slows down.

“The nerve of him,” fumes Theon, but there’s no end to his thought.

“Is that what you’d call this,” wonders Robb quietly. “We’re straight?”

Theon stops suddenly. “It doesn’t matter,” he says in a hushed voice, “because unless you want to be a no-good homo pinko freak like Loras Tyrell, I suggest you learn to deal with it.”

“I have,” replies Robb. “It seems like you’re the one who’s struggling with – us.”

“There isn’t an us,” snaps Theon, and then looks quickly around to see if anyone’s heard him. “Let’s get home.”

“Theon—”

“Let’s get home.”

Robb follows Theon obediently, because that’s what he does – he follows him everywhere. He’d follow him to the ends of the earth. Robb is the natural leader of the two of them—he’s on the managerial staff at the office, he understands how to deal with people, people look up to him. But when it comes to he and Theon, all his confidence fades, he’s so – in love, maybe – that he would jump off the Golden Gate Bridge if that’s what Theon said they were going to do.

Once they’re inside the door of their apartment, Theon slams his lips onto Robb’s, knocking him up against the wall, hands tangled in his hair, breath steaming across Robb’s face, narrow hips pushing up against Robb’s hips.

“My mother—sisters—the boys—” pants Robb, but Theon’s going to work on his belt buckle and it’s hard to find words.

“Out,” breathes Theon and Robb doesn’t bother to question—he hardly ever questions Theon when he’s so confident like this. If Theon says they’re out, they’re out. And that’s all there is to it.

Robb wants to talk about their relationship or whatever—talk about what they’re doing—but then Theon’s hands give a tight clench and he can’t think at all.

~*~*

1986

Theon is eating macaroni at the kitchen table when Robb enters, wearing his look of concern. It’s not uncommon nowadays for Robb to wear it – Robb worries about everything. But it’s making Theon nervous for some reason. Robb looks more anxious than usual.

“What?” asks Theon, the immediacy of his question betraying his worry. “What is it?”

Robb takes the seat opposite Theon, hands in his pockets.

“I was at the doctor’s,” says Robb, voice somber. “And—”

“No,” breathes Theon. “Is it cancer? Shit, Robb, I swear we’ll be okay, you’ll be okay—“

“It’s not cancer,” interrupts Robb, and Theon immediately feels foolish.

“Oh. Right, yes.”

“It’s not confirmed, or anything,” hedges Robb, head bent. “Nothing’s for certain.”

“What is it?” snaps Theon impatiently, even though he should be all tender and concerned – and he is concerned.

“AIDS,” says Robb, and his voice cracks. “Dr. Coleridge says I’m at a high risk of getting AIDS.”

“Why would he think that?” Theon demands, and he hates himself a little for how harsh it sounds.

“Because—he asked—he wanted to know if I was—you know, involved in any ‘homosexual behavior.’”

Theon looks at him, dumbfounded. “And you told him yes?” He stares at Robb. “Jesus, Robb, you’re going to put us on some sort of homo watch list or something.”

Robb still will not meet his gaze. “I—I’d never told anyone before,” he says.

“For good reason!” half-shouts Theon, trying to keep his voice down. “There’s a reason for it!”

“It—it felt good, Theon,” says Robb. “To say it. Out loud.” He laughs nervously. “I, Robb Stark, have participated in homosexual behavior.” He’ssmiling, the prick. “It—it’s so nice to say it. Just once.”

“And now your doctor probably thinks you’re a homo freak,” says Theon, and Robb shrugs.

“Probably.”

Theon puts his head in his arms, ignoring his macaroni. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he groans, and it’s true. Because if Robb’s at risk, he’s at risk, because he—you know.

“Why are you so set against being this?” Robb wants to know. “We fuck, Theon. We sleep together.” Theon won’t look up. “You sucked me off last night, you prick, and you want to pretend I don’t even exist in your life and I don’t know how to handle that,” admits Robb. “I—I love you, you know. Like a brother, but more than a brother, so much more than that.”

Theon looks up finally, his face red but no tears in his eyes. “I can’t,” he tells Robb, and it’s wretched the way he says it, his voice cracking. “I can’t be this way. I hate it.”

“You hate what people think about you,” says Robb, but Theon shakes his head.

“I hate it!” he shouts at Robb. “I hate the way you look at me like I’m the second coming or something I’m just me, I’m just Theon I’m just some asshole who you occasionally fuck and that’s it, Robb, I’m not who you want me to be! I’m not a homo and I’m not going to tell my fucking doctor that I am if I’m not.”

“I don’t want you to be the second coming,” whispers Robb. “I just want you to be Theon.”

“Well if that means being gay, I can’t do that,” says Theon. “I can’t do that. I can’t go to my doctor and hear I’m at risk for AIDS and be a fucking cover story of LIFE magazine. I can’t do it.”

Robb sighs, closing his eyes. “Do whatever you want, Theon,” he says softly, “because I won’t stop loving you.”

~*~*

1994

Robb and Theon are watching TV when the newscaster says that Kurt Cobain killed himself. It seems wrong for it to be a national event, a whole news story, but that’s the way it is, because Kurt Cobain’s a rock star. Was a rock star. Robb and Theon had never been really into Nirvana (Theon liked Pearl Jam better; Robb didn’t have an opinion one way or another) but it was Kurt Cobain and it felt like they knew him practically. He was – you know – Kurt Cobain. Of Nirvana. This wasn’t the way things happened.

“Shit,” breathes Robb in shock. “He was, what—”

“Twenty-seven,” says Theon, reading it off the screen. “Same age as Hendrix. And Joplin. Man.”

“Wow,” says Robb in the same voice.

They sit in silence, watching the breaking news flash across the screen. Robb thinks it feels false, the way they all want to care about him now that he’s dead, but that’s the way it is when you die, he guesses.

“It sort of makes you think,” says Theon, “that we could be next.”

“Well,” says Robb, “I mean Cobain killed himself so unless—“

“No,” says Theon quickly. “No, of course not.” He blinks. “But still. He’s gone. Dead. And now he’s just—maybe he’ll be forgotten.”

“No way,” says Robb, but he’s not certain. All sorts of important, influential people had died and faded into oblivion. Who was to say a rock star who came and went too quickly wouldn’t be one of them?

Theon can’t shake the feeling that there’s an impending doom waiting for them all, that Death is just around the corner, something tangible, a person, even. The Grim Reaper. It reminds him of Robb’s family words, the words Robb says all the time. Winter is coming. Maybe this time it’s the eternal winter of death and he’s going to be wiped from the earth soon and he’ll never have been happy, not truly.

“I don’t want to die unhappy,” says Theon without thinking, and Robb looks at him, putting a hand on his arm.

“Are you unhappy now?’ he wants to know, and he’s so kind and concerned.

“I don’t know,” says Theon. “But I’m always kind of unhappy, aren’t I?”

Robb considers this. “Technically speaking, yes,” he concedes, “but I just assumed that was, you know, you.”

“It is,” sighs Theon. “Or isn’t. I don’t know.” He looks at Robb. “Are you happy?”

Robb smiles softly. “I’m with you,” he says by way of answering, shrugging.

Theon shakes his head. “I don’t understand how you can be so happy with me.”

“Because I love you,” says Robb, and Theon exhales. “I—“

But there’s no answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say it,” says Robb. “I understand. You’re not the way I am about it.”

“I want to be,” says Theon tentatively. “I do. But – I don’t know how to be?” He swallows. “Let’s change the subject.”

“I’ll wait for you,” says Robb quietly, leaning in to kiss Theon on the cheek softly. “I’ll wait for you to be ready until the end of time.”

Theon closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s close enough.

~*~*

2001

It’s a bright September morning and Robb is off to the office, leaving Theon at home in their apartment for a mental health day.

“It’s a Tuesday,” moans Theon from the bed as Robb dresses. “I’m not going to work. I won’t.”

“Fine,” says Robb, “but I’m not explaining to Lannister why you’re out if he asks.”

“Can’t believe that prick is our supervisor,” mutters Theon, but Robb only smiles lightly, kissing Theon on the cheek quickly before he leaves.

“Oy,” protests Theon. “No shitty domestic stuff.”

“Sorry,” apologizes Robb, still looking cheerful and not at all like he means it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” grumbles Theon from the bed, and Robb smirks a little.

“Okay,” he says maddeningly, and then he’s off into the crisp New York morning.

At 9:00, the phone on their bedside table rings. Theon ignores it. It’s so early still.

At 9:05, it hasn’t stopped ringing.

At 9:06, Theon waspishly snatches it up and snaps, “What?” by way of greeting.

His face turns white and he is not aware of choking out sobs, hand clapped over his mouth as the voice on the other side of the phone explains what’s happening.

Theon sits on their bed weeping loudly into his hands, hiccoughing through his tears. Has Cat heard about this? Cat should hear about this.

Theon calls but the line is busy and he supposes she’s already heard from someone else, is probably sobbing into her pillow.

People were making it out alive. They were. Robb could be one of them. It wasn’t that absurd to think.

He can’t be dead, thinks Theon. Not after all we’ve been through. Not after all this.

Theon lies facedown on the bed, not moving, tears leaking down his face. How can he be feeling all this at once? How can he be feeling all this about Robb? Because he’s Robb, of course, that’s the answer, because he’s Robb.

The phone rings again about twenty minutes later, and Theon’s hand snatches it up quickly, mouth speaking before the receiver is even to his lips.

“Hello?”

“Theon! Theon thank God you’re there – ”

“Robb oh, God, it’s you – you’re here, you’re alive – ”

“Theon, Theon, listen, listen to me, listen, okay? I need you to – I need you to listen.”

Theon is wiping the tears stinging from his eyes. “Yes, yes, okay, I’m here.”

“I love you, Theon. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I love you more than anyone in the world. And I need you to say it, say it out loud to me, because—”

“Jesus Christ, Robb, I love you,” says Theon instinctively, and he’s coughing out the word, hacking it out through hiccoughs. “I love you I love you I love you. I’m sorry – I’m sorry for all the times I never said it before, I’m sorry, I wish I could erase everything I ever did – ”

“- No, don’t say that. It’s – it’s always been you and it will always be you, you know? Okay? Remember me, Theon, promise me you’ll remember me –”

“Don’t you dare, Robb. Don’t you dare!” Theon is shouting, hoarse already. “You aren’t going to die, I won’t let you – “

“Theon it’s so hard to breathe in here, it’s all burning, you know, it’s getting dark with smoke –“

“No, no no no no,” sobs Theon, “you can’t leave me, you won’t stay with me, please, please stay with me, Robb, I love you I love you, I love you, stay –“

“Just – remember me, okay?” pleads Robb. “Theon – Theon I think we’re I think we’re –“

And then the phone is consumed with static and Theon is consumed with the kind of tears that tear out his insides and fling them into the air. He sounds like a wolf, a wolf howling for his lost wolf, and he’s gone – and the television is showing it all collapse, the whole thing, and Robb never deserved to die, never deserved any of this, this should have been Theon there with him, going down in the flames together. They were meant to be together, to be a pair, and Theon wants to be rid of his own skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers to his pillow, and rolls onto Robb’s side of the bed, touching the fabric, the soft pillowcase touching his cheek. It smells like Robb, like his shampoo and aftershave and sleep, and everything is Robb. And now the whole of New York City will be Robb, Robb’s cells floating over everything, being breathed in by millions of people and that makes Theon angry, because Robb is his, all his, and he deserves all his cells for himself, which makes no sense but Robb.

He lies on his back, watching the ceiling, hearing the wailing of the nation and the sirens and the screaming and knowing that they are dying, all of them, dying for the dead. He laughs with the absurdity.

What is dead may never die, he reminds himself, but rises again, harder and stronger.

But the words seem futile without Robb in the world.

What is dead may never die.

Enough, Margaery/Renly

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:28:00 -0500

Renly Baratheon is strong. Stronger than either of his brothers, not that anyone bothers to notice. He is brave, too, and wise, and all anyone talks about is Stannis, as unforgiving as iron, and Robert, the soldier, that poor, foolish man.

At night, Renly thinks about himself. Someone has to.

“I am a good king,” he says to his ceiling. Margaery stirs beside him.

“Mmm?” she asks, nestling against his chest. (Sometimes Renly can pretend she is her brother, his smooth skin that Renly knows like a map - every divet, every scar, every bruise, they are as familiar as any home. When he closes his eyes, Margaery’s ribs can feel like Loras’s, the same fragile bumps beneath silken skin.)

“Nothing,” says Renly sullenly, hoping she’ll ignore him, but of course she won’t. Margaery is an attentive wife, but all Renly wishes is to be alone or with Loras, who is as close to a second skin that it’s almost the same thing.

“No,” she says, sitting up, and Renly realizes she’s naked. He flinches away and she rolls her eyes. “I’m your wife, Renly.” She gestures to her breasts, which causes him to blush.

“You’re - you’re,” stammers Renly, the words dying on his tongue, and Margaery sighs.

“His sister,” she says, the exhaustion of a loveless marriage creeping into her voice.

“Yes,” admits Renly, feeling a little sorry he can’t love her properly, or even at all. (Renly’s always been poor at loving, but with Margaery, it’s especially hard.)

Margaery makes a clicking sound with her tongue softly, swinging out of bed. She pads across the floor and kneels at her trunk. Renly watches as she takes a scarf and wraps it tightly around her breasts, tucking the ends, smoothing it flat. She retrieves a tunic from the bottom of the trunk, pulling it over her head. When she crawls back in bed, she swings a leg over his torso, straddling him.

“Margaery, please,” says Renly, and she settles her weight onto his hips, turning his face toward her.

“This is his,” she whispers, stretching her body against his. “Close your eyes. Smell the fabric and hold me like you do him.”

She leans in close to his ear, closing his eyes with a gentle touch.

“It’s me,” she breathes into the shell of his ear. “It’s Loras.”

And Renly can almost believe it, even when her back arches as he comes, the scarf slipping down and exposing her.

They fall asleep quickly after, Margaery still in Loras’s tunic. They’ve both gotten something they wanted that night - Renly got Loras, and Margaery got her consummation.

And it’s enough, until it isn’t.

Ficlet: Daenerys/Loras

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:22:00 -0500

The sun was hotter than Loras had ever felt it, bearing down on his back and blanketing him in sweat. He was broiling - was going to die if he didn’t get to a city and water soon. He had been so stupid - he’d fled after Renly - after Renly - - and - and then, he’d just wound up in the desert, nowhere to go and nothing to say to anyone. He was a traitor, a deserter, a failure. He had not protected the one person he’d meant to protect, and Renly - Renly was all his fault all his fault all his fault all his -

Loras is sitting on the hot ground waiting to die when he hears the drumming of horse hooves in the distance. Looking off into the sun, eyes watering, he sees a horde like a swarm of bees approaching on the horizon, a glowing king at the front of the pack.

But they are approaching faster and Loras realizes that it is not a king at the front, but a silver woman, hair like cornsilk, eyes a fiery violet, and the army at her back was hers. And it was when she turned her angry purple eyes on his that Loras realized who this woman was - this was the lost Targaryen girl, the one they had supposedly killed. But here she was - and there were her dragons, hovering over her protectively.

Loras struggles to his feet, and the Targaryen girl rides over to him.

“You’re dying,” she says to him, an observation of fact.

“Yes,” says Loras, his voice creaking without water. She hears his pain and nods to one of her servants, who hands him wine.

“You are very kind,” says Loras after he has taken sips of wine. He did not pause to consider whether it was wise to drink of the wine - thirst preceded any caution, “especially toward someone like me. You know my sigil?”

She narrows his eyes at the dusty rose on his chest. “I have been told,” she says carefully, “that the rose is the sigil of House Tyrell, lords of Highgarden.” She pauses. “But your cloak is - it’s too colorful for that of the Kingsguard.”

“Which king?” asks Loras, giving a hacking laugh. “They’re dropping like flies now.”

“You - you serve another king?”

Loras laughs again, the sound unpleasant. “I did. Before he died under my watch. I let him die, and I live now with the image of him dying over and over in my head.”

“You are a slave, then,” says the Targaryen girl. “A slave to grief.” She straightens as the black dragon settles on her shoulder. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and I am the protector of slaves. If you were to join my khalasar, to vow to be loyal to me, I would help you be freed from your grief. But if you are disloyal, if you plot against me - there is no force in all the kingdoms that would be able to save you from my fire. Do you understand?”

Loras looks at her, this young girl with bright eyes. And then - he nods. “My name is Loras Tyrell,” he says, “and I accept.”

“You are no longer a member of the Kingsguard,” says Daenerys, “nor of House Tyrell, nor of Westeros. You are a member of my khalasar, and you are bound by fire and blood to these, your new brothers and sisters. They are young and old, slave and free, and if you presume to be better than any one of them, you will be cut down in the night.”

Loras nods tiredly. “I am nothing more than dust,” he says. “I learned that when I held him in my arms, tears leaking onto his face as he did not move.”

“Loras Tyrell,” she says, “you will ride with Irri.” She gestures to one of her handmaidens, who allows, only a little grudgingly, Loras to climb onto her horse and seize the reins as she clung onto his sweaty back.

Loras would consider plotting to kill the Targaryen girl, but he’s lost the will to live.

Ficlets: Sansa/Sandor, Margaery/Loras

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:14:00 -0500

→ Sansa x Sandor

There is so much blood on his hands that his skin has turned reddish brown and his heart, grey, ashen. Feeling but sullen. He is the swinging sword; he is a bad man, will always be; he is a murderer without remorse.

But he feels remorse for this, these reverberations in his heart, the calls of a little white bird, the howls of a young wolf, crying for the snow. These cries are in his head, in his tight chest, and they make him feel filthier than any blood.

The Hound is accustomed to killing, but feels disgusting in the gaze of love.

His little bird - he thinks of her as his, even though he feels sick to his stomach - sings her sweet calls in her room while he guards. He wonders if she sings because she knows he’s outside her door. She sings wolf songs, sad songs, the songs of an albatross over an open sea. And the Hound stands, face glued into passivity, hand stuck to the pommel of his sword. He is an obedient little watchdog.

One night, her song stops suddenly, and he hears her climb off her bed and move toward the door. There is a soft thud as her hand connects with the wood.

Then, a quiet voice.

“Is anyone else there?”

The Hound cannot move, but his lips are somehow parting in the breathed word, “No.” He has to strain to hear the next words.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “for keeping me safe.”

“Little bird,” he says, so quietly his words are barely audible, “I’m guarding you from the ones who want to keep you safe.”

There is a short silence, followed by faint bustling. Then there is a whisper of a sound and he realizes she’s kissed the door, the rough wood against her soft lips.

She resumes her singing.

Had she heard what he’d said? Did she know that he was the enemy? That one day, he might be commanded to kill her? The thought grew panic in his gut.

She’s safe as long as Cersei wants her to be, he thinks.

But where had Cersei’s safety gotten Ned Stark?

Hounds hunt birds, he thinks bitterly. And then, her voice rings out in his head as if she had spoken aloud:

But the wolf runs alongside it.

→ Margaery x Loras dynamic

Loras enters Margaery’s tent the afternoon she arrives.

“Little sister,” he says affectionately. “you’re here. The Rose has been plucked from Highgarden.”

Margaery twists her lips into a smile as she pulls off her heavy traveling dress. “It seems my deflowering is all anybody’s talking about,” she says wryly. She slides into another dress, lighter and sweeter, reminding Loras that she is just a girl, his younger sister.

Loras smiles a little fixedly.

“Oh, don’t worry, brother,” says Margaery, kissing Loras gently. “We Tyrells like to keep it in the family.”

“Don’t,” says Loras immediately, grabbing her wrist. “No one - ”

“Everyone knows,” says Margaery, laughing, but she softens at his face. “Brother,” says Margaery, “I cannot be you and you cannot be me. It’s best we learn to live as we are.” She puts a hand to his face softly. “I fear that you are putting yourself at risk. He can never be yours.”

“He can never be yours,” says Loras ruefully, and Margaery gazes at him, eyes sweet.

“I don’t want him,” she says evenly, “only his crown.”

And that was the difference, truly, between Loras and his sister: he wanted, and she had.

The Way Things Are, Finn/Gethin

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 03:07:00 -0500

Finn is a bit of a human disaster. He drifts in and out of Gethin’s flat and life like a hurricane, ruining everything in a tragically beautiful kind of way and then drifting toward the gulf, toward the door. Hurricane Finn. But he’s so well-intentioned it’s a little adorable, even if it gives Geth an ulcer to watch him function.

Gethin wishes he could be a little more like Finn, a little looser, a little more engaging. He often feels that when people talk to him, they’re glancing over his shoulder, waiting for an escape.

But it’s never that way with Finn. Finn loves eye contact. It’s a little much, actually, how Finn has this habit of staring into your eyes and into that pit in your stomach and suddenly you’re telling him everything. It isn’t just Gethin that does this; it’s everyone on the cast. Finn and Michelle sit in chairs in the fields chatting, and Michelle adores Finn; everyone adores Finn. Sophie is infatuated with him, of course, and Finn doesn’t even think it’s annoying. He just dotes on her like he dotes on everyone, and she stares at him with her adorable puppy-dog eyes, the same one Geth is disgusted to see himself make at Finn.

He tells himself it isn’t his fault, that that’s just the way Finn is. Most of Gethin’s time, actually, is spent telling himself that the way it is with Finn is the way it is with everybody. He looks across the field to see Finn sling his arms around Alfie and Kit, laughing and making a ruckus. He’s that kind of person. He’s a ruckus.

Finn also has a habit of destroying things - everything, actually. The set designers have forbidden him from touching props that aren’t specifically his after he managed to break half of the small council chamber. Gethin feels partially responsible for him, because that’s the kind of person Gethin is. He tries not to get anxious when Finn is running around like a child and touching things because Geth knows he’s going to break something, but he only watches and laughs with the others.

But sometimes Gethin thinks about how it isn’t the same with him and Finn as it is with everybody else. Finn isn’t always at everyone else’s flats in London between shooting, drinking wine and playing Xbox, which is what they do. Or they watch movies and in the really good parts, Finn slings an arm around Geth’s shoulders, leaning his head onto him. But Gethin assures himself it’s just Finn, that’s who Finn is, that’s who Finn is with everybody. Look - he’s hanging onto Alfie’s shoulder right now. It’s not anything.

But it’s not like that with Alfie. Finn isn’t tenderly watching Alfie’s face like Geth has caught Finn doing with him. There’s actually - there’s actually one stupid picture that Oona took of them, and Gethin is staring at the camera and laughing about something, and Finn is watching his face like he’s studying and learning every line, every curve, every plane. And Gethin pretended he hated the picture, how awkward it was. But Finn had just looked at him and said in his curious voice, “I don’t know. I like it.” Which of course made Gethin feel like shit, and he stammered something stupid and in the end Finn took the photo and now Gethin wonders what he did with it.

~*~*

Finn has the picture in his bedside table next to scissors and Sharpies and Post-Its and an unused daily planner that Gethin bought him. It’s in a drawer with take-out menus and plastic utensils and a few pages of a phonebook he’d ripped out for no apparent reason.

But unlike the rest of the stuff in the drawer, the picture is removed regularly and looked at, because there’s something about it that draws Finn to it, and he thinks it’s how happy Geth looks in it, like he’s been caught off-guard by his own happiness. Finn thinks Geth does that a lot — he forgets to be happy. It isn’t that he’s sad, it’s just that he’s too busy to be happy. Finn hopes he never forgets to be happy, and so he forgets almost everything else. He forgets appointments and meetings and to buy more paper plates and toilet paper, but he remembers to be happy.

Finn knows Geth worries about him, which makes Finn worry about Gethin. It isn’t Geth’s job to take care of him, and truthfully, he doesn’t need to be taken care of. But it feels kind of nice to be worried about, to be cared for, and so Finn accepts the daily planners and doesn’t mind the six individual voice messages Geth leaves on his machine the day before an audition reminding him to show up on time and to bring his monologue just in case he forgets a line and not to forget that the photographer has his head shots and he needs to pick them up at eight before going to the studio at nine. Of course, Finn forgets the head shots and the monologue and shows up at the audition at nine thirty-five and is dismissed based on punctuality alone, but it’s nice to think that Geth cared enough that he left those messages. He can picture Geth in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember if he’d forgotten to remind Finn of anything.

Finn puts down the book he’s reading - something Geth recommended and is really dreadfully boring - and pulls the picture out. It’s wrinkled with wear and tear, but it’s still really beautiful, and Finn smiles at the way Geth is laughing in it for the thousandth time. His phone buzzes on the table.

It is, of course, Gethin.

It goes to voicemail before Finn picks up. “Ello?”

Geth sighs on the other end, his breath crackling into the receiver. “I’m calling because you’re out of tissues and you’re getting sick.”

Finn actually laughs outright. “You’re an idiot.” He can hear Geth suck in his breath like he does when Finn teases him, trying not to be amused but failing.

“I know you haven’t got any tissues and I know you’re getting sick and you need to go to a doctor, but you won’t, so at least get some tissues.” He pauses. “I’ve gotten you DayQuil which I’m bringing to set on Friday so you haven’t got an excuse.”

Finn smiles at the picture in his hand. “You’re stupid,” he says, “but thank you. Also did I have an interview today?”

Gethin makes an exasperated whining sound. “Finn,” he says tiredly, “did you not go to your interview today?”

Finn opens his laptop. Yes, sure enough, there was a reminder on his desktop reminding him to meet with the Guardian.

F -

Guardian interview tmrw @ 10 am

DO NOT FORGET!!!!!!!

Phone if you’ll be late!!!!!!!

Benioff will kill you if you don’t go!!!!!!!!!!!!

- G

Finn clears his throat. “Well. I forgot. So.”

Gethin sighs again. “I really don’t understand you.”

Finn tilts his head, resting the phone against his shoulder so he can smooth out the photo on his thigh. “You know, I don’t understand you either.”

“Well,” says Gethin, sounding begrudgingly amused, “it seems we are at an impasse.”

“Yes,” agrees Finn, “it does.”

There is a short pause.

“I’m coming over,” says Geth, and Finn grins. He’d been expecting that.

“See you in a bit.”

~*~*

When Finn lets Gethin in, he can see the veins twitching in Geth’s forehead. Finn never considers how messy his flat is until he views it through Gethin’s eyes. It could use a little cleaning, but he was tired that night he had the Chinese takeout…and the night after that, and the night after that with the Indian food.

“You - you -” stammers Gethin, but Finn just takes him by the hand into his bedroom, turning on the television. He leaps onto his bed, remote in hand, surfing the channels, while Gethin carefully takes off his shoes and folds his jacket, placing it on a chair in the midst of Finn’s clutter.

Geth reclines next to Finn when he hears a smush and reaches behind him to discover what he’s just sat on.

It’s the photograph.

“Oh,” says Geth, voice sounding faraway. “That’s where this wound up to.”

Finn looks at Gethin’s face. “Er - yeah. It’s a good one of us, don’t you think?”

Gethin is staring at it fixedly. “Yeah,” he says. “I really do.”

“You look really good in it,” says Finn casually, and Geth twitches next to him a little.

“You - you think so?” asks Geth, looking up at Finn. “I think I look - you know, weird.”

Finn shakes his head. “No - no you look really nice.”

Gethin bites his lip. “Thanks, mate.”

Finn reaches across the space between them and takes Gethin’s hand in his, and it feels different somehow, in a stupid way that makes Geth’s heart race in his throat, of all places. It’s normal for Finn to do this, that’s just who Finn is, this is normal, but it doesn’t feel normal anymore, them holding hands while they watch television on Finn’s bed.

Gethin has spent a lot of time telling himself that he and Finn have a normal relationship, but he doesn’t think Finn holds Kit’s hand while on his bed, or Alfie’s or Richard’s or anyone else’s. And that idea makes him positively ecstatic and terrified, because that means Finn’s picked him, that Geth is special, and that also happens to be Gethin’s greatest fear - standing out. He’s so happy to be beige, to be normal, to swim with the current, and he’s happy with the way that he is good at being normal. But this - this hand holding - this means that he’s different to Finn, that he’s somehow different than everyone else and what does that mean? Gethin isn’t good at being extraordinary. He’s very, very good at being subtle, at being nothing remarkable.

“What’s your biggest fear?” asks Gethin suddenly, feeling Finn’s fingers between his own.

Finn doesn’t ask why he’s asking, which makes Gethin feel like he’s falling very far down a hole.

“Being unhappy,” says Finn truthfully. He changes the channel with his other hand. “What’s yours?”

Gethin looks up at the ceiling. “Being extraordinary.”

Finn turns to look at him, propping himself up on one arm, disentangling their hands. “Oh, Geth,” he says in a quiet voice that runs up and down Gethin’s spine, “but you are.”

Geth meets his gaze, his stomach beating along with his heart to a mad drumbeat. “What?”

Finn is smiling at him kindly, looking absolutely absurd. “You’re afraid of being extraordinary, but you are. And you can’t help that. That’s the way you are.”

“I - I don’t want to be,” mutters Geth. “I’m not good at it. I’m good at being unremarkable.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Finn. “You think you’re unremarkable?” He leans in very close to Gethin’s face, so close Geth can see the strains that make up the blue in his eyes. “You, Gethin Anthony, are the most singularly remarkable person I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

Gethin is paralyzed. “I don’t understand.”

Finn’s breath hitches and then he’s closing the space between he and Geth, kissing him gently, hand resting on the back of Geth’s neck.

“What about that?” he asks. “Does that make any more sense?”

Geth looks at Finn, resisting the urge to make the strangled sounds bubbling at the back of his throat. “That makes absolutely zero sense at all.”

Finn laughs, rolling over onto his back again. “You’re an idiot,” he repeats to the ceiling. He rolls back to face Gethin. “You’re really thick, aren’t you? I thought you were really smart - ”

“I am smart,” contests Geth hotly, but Finn ignores him.

“ - but you’re an absolute moron.” Finn laughs at Geth. “I’m mad for you, you imbecile, and I think you’re the most perfect person, the most extraordinary, and the most remarkable in this world. Does that make sense?”

“No,” says Geth. “I’m not - I’m not perfect - ”

Finn shrugs. “I don’t really care what you think,” he says. “Because I’m absolutely stupid for you. And I thought you’d get it, honestly, from the hand holding, and the flirting, and the kissing your cheek, but Jesus, you’re stupid - ”

“Will you stop calling me stupid?” snaps Geth.

“I will,” replies Finn easily, because that’s what he does, “if you otherwise occupy my mouth and prevent me from doing so.”

Finn sees the battle in Gethin’s head, but then he can’t see anything anymore because Gethin has seized the sides of his head and is indeed preventing Finn from calling him stupid.

There’s not much Finn can do at all, actually, except hum contentedly, the sound echoing into Gethin’s mouth, a tin can telephone from Finn’s heart to Gethin’s.

More Than Us, Finn/Gethin

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 02:59:00 -0500

The thing about Finn is that he’s not afraid of anything. He isn’t afraid of sky diving, which he did this past summer with his mates; he isn’t afraid of making a fool out of himself, which he does on a daily basis, and mostly, he isn’t afraid of people, and that scares Gethin more than he thinks it probably should.

Because Gethin is very happy in front of the camera and at home, but not so much in front of the camera at home, where everyone wants to know about him and his life, and honestly, sometimes Geth isn’t sure that he signed up for all this. But Finn is - Finn is everything Gethin isn’t - and sometimes Finn is just everything, void of modifiers. He’s Gethin’s best mate and confidante, a role that just kind of slipped into being somewhere between fake blow jobs and shaving each other’s chests.

And it’s easy with Finn, easier than it ought to be, because this is really a little awkward. And the worst part is, while Gethin is choking with laughter while Finn apes shaving his chest, Finn is looking so earnest - he isn’t having a hard time at all, and that makes Gethin more than a little uncomfortable. Because, you know, for a moment, it’s hard to not to believe he is Renly and this is his lover Loras and they’re just having a talk in their quarters in Westeros.

But they aren’t, they are in Geth’s bedroom in London, and why did he have to pick his bedroom, Jesus Christ, this is uncomfortable. But Loras - er, Finn - er, Loras? - is looking at him with such sincere intensity that Geth feels his heartbeat pound through his veins all the way to his fingertips as Finn is touching him on the side, on the ribs, on the heart. And it’s making him turn away and blush and he hopes maybe Renly would do that because fuck acting, this is all he can do.

And then Finn is leading him away from his bed and fiddling with the waistband of his trousers and Gethin’s heart is in his throat - are they really - this was -rehearsal - his mind is all shuddering stops when Finn draws his hands away hastily and says, with a grin, “And that’s where, you know. I blow you.”

Gethin wants to laugh with the absurdity of the statement and the situation but he’s still stuck in Renly’s head, where this feels real, or is it Gethin’s head? His head? Goddammit how is he supposed to keep this all straight? It’s easy when they’re in costume, and Gethin - Renly - is allowed to be in love with Finn - Loras. But when it’s just them in Geth’s London flat and just Finn wearing his stupid tee shirt and tight, maroon jeans, it’s so hard not to think of him like that, think of his stupid crooked smile as his hands are circling Gethin’s middle.

And then it’s time for Finn to leave and Gethin watches him go to the door with a stupid puppy look on his face and Finn turns and hugs him and gives him a peck on the cheek and he’s pretty sure Finn must’ve felt his pounding heartbeat but he doesn’t give any indication at all, just floats away, out his door and onto the street, as if he never was there at all.

And it’s stupid, because Geth is straight but not narrow, and that kind of rhetoric bullshit because what if he, you know, isn’t, it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it; in the acting world, you’re mad if you haven’t. But he’d never - you know, had this kind of reaction to a man before, so he’d always just assumed by default - but what if -

Don’t be a prat. Finn is Finn.

Gethin doesn’t know what kind of rationale that is - Finn is Finn - but it’s all he can manage because - you know, Finn is Finn and he is Gethin and they aren’t Renly and Loras, and they aren’t lovers, and they aren’t anything other than this, which is mates.

And so Gethin goes on, and they film in Ireland, in Belfast, and sometimes he and Finn sneak offset at night and take walks in the hills. One night, they stumble upon a lake, big as you like, silver under the moon, and they stand there, mesmerized by the lake and the sky and the stars and the quiet of everything.

“Wow,” says Gethin, the word slipping out like a wave.

“Yeah,” says Finn faintly, and then he reaches for Geth’s hand, and they stand there for at least a quarter of an hour, hand in hand, watching the moon rise over the lake in Ireland, shivering a little because of the cold night wind but not caring and not moving. And finally when Gethin stirs, Finn smiles at him and drops his hand, setting back off toward set and their trailers, and Gethin wonders what would happen if he ran back up and seized Finn’s hand, if he would tear it away.

But he just trails behind as he does, with Finn leading and him following, exactly as it isn’t onset, when he is Renly and it’s easier to deal with whatever his and Finn’s relationship is.

It isn’t as if the others haven’t noticed.

Maisie refers to them as boyfriends, which he’s sure is hilarious to a fourteen-year-old but isn’t quite as funny to him. Finn, of course, finds it hysterical, and even encourages her half the time, slinging an arm around Geth’s shoulder and kissing his cheek and saying, “Yep. Here’s my boyfriend,” while he makes false kissing sounds in Gethin’s ear, and so Geth pulls away, awkwardly laughing. And Alfie, the asshole, makes faces at Geth whenever Finn stretches back, a strip of stomach showing between his too-short tee shirts and stupid low-slung skinny jeans and Gethin pretends not to care.

Finally, it’s Oona to say something to him in his trailer one night, as they sit on his bed playing cards and drinking wine. Finn is off with Kit and Alfie watching a horror movie and playing a drinking game, which would be great if Gethin didn’t have permanent anxiety that getting drunk in front of him would make him do something he’d regret.

“So,” says Oona, selecting her cards carefully, “what is it?”

Gethin smiles because he thinks he’s coy. “What is what?”

“Ooh,” scowls Oona as Geth collects the coins they’d been tossing into the middle. She straightens. “What’s bothering you?” she clarifies.

Geth laughs. “What d’you mean, what’s bothering me? Nothing’s bothering me. Everything’s fine! Fine.”

Oona raises an eyebrow and lays down a straight, earning back everything Gethin had just won. “Bullshit,” she says decisively. “So I’ll be straight to the point. “What’s going on with you and Finn?”

“What? Nothing! Nothing is - we’re friends,” laughs Gethin unconvincingly. “Friends, Oona. Don’t be ridiculous! We’re not - you know, boyfriends - ha, ha, don’t listen to Maisie, she’s just a kid, boyfriends that’s ridiculous.”

Oona is practically snorting with laughter. “You’re an idiot, Geth, a real idiot, and you can tell me anything you’re feeling, you know.”

Gethin pauses, insides turned to ice inside his ribcage. “No,” he says quietly, “I really can’t. Because - if I say it out loud, it’s - it’s real.”

Oona leans in, disregarding their current game of poker. “Say what, Geth?” Her hand is on the side of his face earnestly, and that’s what she’s like, all sweet physical contact and generous smile and she’s really too nice to be real, Oona is.

“About - you know, how I feel about Finn,” spits out Gethin, and Oona hugs him, smashing his face into her collarbone.

“You’re so stupid,” she says into his hair, and Gethin mumbles into her skin, “…thank you?”

There’s a knock at the door and then Finn enters, more than a little drunk, to see Gethin crushed against Oona.

“Hey!” he says in a loud voice, “get - get away from my boyfriend.” He jabs an accusing finger at Oona. After a pause, he adds, “You bitch,” as a drunken afterthought.

Oona pulls away, smiling at Gethin sadly. “So stupid,” she whispers at him before leaving him alone in a dark trailer with a drunk Finn.

“You are a bitch!” he shouts after her, and he hears her tinkling laugh as she descends the steps of his trailer.

Finn falls onto the bed, grinning lazily at Gethin. “You were fuckin’ around with Oona, eh?” he asks, putting a hand on Geth’s forearm. Gethin flinches slightly at the contact.

“Not really,” says Geth, mustering up a smile.

“I understand, man,” continues Finn as if he hasn’t heard. “She’s like, a hottie with a bod-y. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Geth stares at him. “No, Finn, I really don’t.”

Finn laughs, a little hiccough splitting it into two separate syllables, which is so stupidly adorable Gethin wants to bury his face in Finn’s neck, which is being embraced by his stupid flannel shirt.

“So here’s the thing,” says Finn, like they’ve been having an actual conversation, “it’s just - with you - it’s so, you know?”

And the stupid part is, Geth knows exactly what he’s saying, drunk or not, because that’s the only explanation that makes any sense - and that’s that there’s no explanation at all. It’s just so - you know - with Finn.

“Yeah,” breathes Geth, “I do.”

Finn tilts his head to one side, letting it swing back and forth, like his neck isn’t strong enough to support it. “And, when I’m - when I’m with you, it’s so - you,and it’s so us and stuff. It’s just - not not us. It’s us, but it isn’t us.”

Geth pauses, his muscles frozen into place by his bones and his nerves. “What?”

“It’s like - what if we were us, and not just - us? What if we were more than us?”

Geth pauses, picking some lint off his bedspread, pausing to put away the cards that Oona left out when she departed quickly. “What does ‘more than us’ mean, exactly, Finn?”

Finn rubs his eyes and flops back onto the bed. “Ugh,” he says. “I drank so much tequila.”

Geth’s heart slows down and so does his whole body, it seems, because sometimes backing away from a precipice when you feel as if you’re about to go over can be really disappointing.

“You sure did,” says Geth, and then Finn is crawling into Gethin’s bed and grinning, “I’m going to stay here tonight.”

“You can’t,” says Geth, which is a lie but it isn’t, because Gethin doesn’t know ifhe can handle Finn being there. “You’re in my bed. I need to sleep there.”

Finn smiles sleepily, already drifting off. “There’s - there’s room enough for you too, idiot.” He moves over a fraction of an inch and pats the bed. “Come on, you dolt.”

Geth watches him drift off, his stupid smirk still on his face and sometimes Geth wonders if Finn and Loras have more in common than Finn is willing to admit.

Resignedly, Geth slides into bed, making sure to keep a precious inch between their long bodies.

~*~*

When Geth’s alarm goes off, it is five-thirty, and shooting will begin in an hour. He rolls over and collides with Finn’s ribcage.

“Fuck,” says Geth, dragging himself out of bed, pulling away from the warm sheets and Finn’s even warmer body. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Loud,” groans Finn from the bed, face down. “Don’t - too loud.”

“No,” says Gethin insistently, “you can’t be hungover, we have to shoot today.”

“Can’t - won’t,” says Finn, and Gethin walks over to his bed and physically drags Finn by the arms until he’s standing, slouching onto Gethin’s shoulder, even though he’s taller.

“You’ve got to,” says Gethin in his ear. “Come on, Finn. Pull yourself together.”

Finn straightens up a little, enough to make it to the sink to gulp water directly from the faucet. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turns to Geth.

“Thanks for letting me crash here, mate,” he says. “I’m really sorry if I was a prick. I tend to be a prick when I’m drunk.”

Geth feels his insides melting, turning to sludge. “You don’t remember anything you did last night, do you?”

Finn grins sheepishly. “Not even a little.”

Geth smiles anxiously, his face feeling tight. “Ha, ha, well, that’s - great. Just great. You should probably go and get ready now, before makeup kills you for being so hungover.”

Finn grins at him. “Cheers.”

After he leaves, Geth buries his face in his hands, allowing himself to make screwed up faces but not for any tears to fall.

He won’t cry over something he can’t even speak aloud.

~*~*

Geth is a mess for the next few weeks, and everyone’s noticed, even Isaac, who keeps asking Kit what’s wrong with him and of course Kit doesn’t know, even though Kit, like most of the younger cast, has a hunch. Finn is being Finn, of course, which means he’s still kissing his scratchy, stubbly cheek and smirking at him all the time and holding his hand on lunch breaks because that’s Finn. Oona keeps making apologetic eyes at him, which means Richard knows something’s up because they’ve had to reshoot things with them at least three times because Oona keeps getting distracted by Gethin to the point that Gethin just has to stop watching them film.

And of course David keeps saying things to him like, “A little more jovial, Geth, Renly’s cocky, he’s sure of himself, okay?” And Gethin keeps giving him half-smiles and not putting his heart into it and it’s so stupid to be like this over Finn,who is smiling at him supportively because he isn’t shooting this scene.

By the end of the twelfth disastrous day of filming, Geth is nearly in tears by the time he makes it back to his trailer, all emotional and that makes him feel so uncomfortable, and he’s lying, facedown, on his bed when there’s a knock at the door and Finn is entering because Geth never locks his door and Finn never bothers to wait for an answer.

“Am I - am I interrupting something?” he asks, and it’s both sincere and a little prickish, a smile playing on his face just a little.

Geth sits up, holding the emotion tight in the back of his throat. “Oh - no. Yeah, come in. I’d make you coffee—”

“Don’t - don’t get up,” says Finn, but he doesn’t move any closer. He’s fiddling with the knickknacks Geth has on the counter by the stove, little pictures and things. “I’ve noticed you’re a bit off,” he says, and Geth collapses on his back, groaning.

“You and everyone else.”

Finn laughs a little, a hollow sound in his throat. “Right. Well, I feel a little to blame.”

Geth ignores his plummeting stomach. “Oh,” he manages, not quite a question and not quite a statement.

“Yeah,” says Finn, like Gethin had contributed to the conversation meaningfully. “Because - because I lied to you, and I don’t feel good about it.”

“Oh,” says Gethin again, and then he gets out the superbly eloquent, “About what?”

Finn isn’t making eye contact, which is weird for Finn and is making Gethin edgier than usual.

“That night I got plastered,” says Finn, voice lilting over the words carefully. “I - I actually do remember it. Remember what I said.”

Gethin tries to laugh. “About Oona? I don’t think she cares—”

Finn puts down the picture in his hand, finally making eye contact. “Not about Oona,” he says. “About - about us. About us being ‘more than us.’”

Gethin’s attempts at words are gone again. “Oh,” he says for the third time, sounding positively idiotic. “What about it?”

Finn bites his lip. “I meant it,” he says, and Geth is ignoring the way his veins are struggling out of his skin, his heart leaping emphatically, throwing itself against his ribcage. “I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we tried to be - more than, you know, what we are.”

“Like how?” asks Geth carefully, and then Finn smiles, the first real smile from him Gethin’s seen in days, probably, and he’s approaching him.

“Like this,” says Finn, and pulls Gethin toward him, kissing him hard, hand curled around the back of his head, fingers pulsing against his skull.

When he pulls back, Gethin is staring at Finn’s face, unable to speak.

“Say something,” pleads Finn, and Gethin grins, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, and Finn punches him in the arm.

“Asshole,” he says, and leans in again, hovering above Gethin’s lips. “Only if you want to,” Finn breathes, and Geth laughs.

“That’s not a problem,” he says, and meets Finn’s lips with his own.