Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By six o’clock, the kitchen windows had clouded above the sink and Maekar’s shirt was sticking between his shoulder blades. He had opened the back door twice. Both times the July heat came in carrying cut grass, petrol and somebody else’s barbecue, and both times he shut it again before a fly could reach the fruit bowl.

The onions were finished. The carrots were not. He held each one flat beneath his palm and cut it into coins of the same thickness, feeding them beneath the knife until the board shone with their wet orange flesh. Slice, draw back, gather. The stock muttered on the rear burner. Butter spat in a shallow pan. Somewhere above him, the old clock Dyanna had bought at a church fête advanced with a dry plastic click.

She had never cooked from a clean kitchen. There would have been a spoon balanced on the sugar tin, flour on the floor and three children stealing from the pan while she pretended not to see. Maekar cooked by removing every used thing as soon as it had served its purpose. The washing-up bowl was already half full. The worktop smelled of lemon cleaner beneath the onion and thyme.

He reached for another carrot, then looked at the clock.

Daeron was late. Maekar had expected him to be late and had still built twenty minutes into the meal as though expectation might bully reality into behaving. He had sent Valarr with him because Valarr possessed the rare ability to make Daeron remember traffic lights, appointments and the existence of other people. Whether the boy could also prevent Daeron from smoking in the car was doubtful.

The rest would come home hungry and in several moods. Daella would have remembered Rhae’s cardigan and forgotten her own. Aemon would know within a minute why Baelor had arrived early, even if he had the grace to keep it to himself. Egg would touch something hot after being told not to. Aerion would bring Duncan despite having been instructed, in terms Maekar had considered admirably clear, that this was a family dinner.

He cut through the carrot hard enough to jar his wrist.

The trouble with Duncan was not Duncan. Duncan was large, polite and catastrophically eager to please. The trouble was Aerion’s habit of watching his father dislike the boy and taking each objection as proof that he ought to pull Duncan closer. Once, Aerion’s anger had at least come to Maekar directly. Now it arrived by way of slammed doors, missed curfews and a boy who said sorry whenever anyone looked at him.

Maekar tipped the carrots into the pan. Steam struck his face, dampening his hair at the temples. He stirred until butter glazed every piece, then added salt with his fingers.

It was his birthday. The children had insisted on dinner, although Maekar had done the shopping, planned the menu and begun cooking before any of them returned from school. There was a cake hidden in the second refrigerator in the utility room which Daella believed he had not found. He had seen the box at half past seven that morning and had spent the day avoiding it out of respect for her efforts.

Baelor would come before the others. That had been the arrangement: ten quiet minutes to tell him where to sit, what not to mention, and how little assistance Maekar required. Instead Maekar had changed his shirt twice and laid an extra place without deciding which chair it belonged to.

His hand remained over the salt cellar. A few grains fell and melted against the back of his knuckles.

The children deserved steadiness. He had given them routines, school shoes bought before the old ones split, food at the same hour, and a parent who did not disappear merely because grief made the walls difficult to look at. They had already lost one shape of family. Wanting Baelor inside the next one felt less like beginning again than placing weight upon a mended bone to see whether it would break.

Worse, Baelor would be good at it. He remembered which books Aemon had read, let Egg explain things past the point of human endurance, and never mistook Rhae’s quietness for inattention. Daella already asked his advice. Daeron treated him with the wary courtesy he reserved for men he might one day respect. Valarr loved him; that was both the easiest and the hardest part.

Maekar set the salt down. The front latch gave a soft metallic scrape, followed by the measured tread he had been listening for without admitting it. He wiped his palms on the towel and took up the knife again before Baelor entered the kitchen.

Daeron’s car had once been advertised as suitable for a large family. This was a claim made by men who had never met his.

The engine shuddered at the kerb outside the school. Daeron kept one hand on the wheel and held his cigarette near the crack in the window, tapping ash into an empty coffee cup whenever it threatened his cuff. Smoke had settled into the roof lining years ago. The open window merely gave it somewhere to pretend to go.

Valarr sat beside him with a sheet of paper folded into smaller and smaller quarters. He had been reading the same paragraph since they parked.

“You’re going to ruin that thing before you even read it,” Daeron said, glancing over just long enough to confirm what he already knew. “Whatever it actually is.”

Valarr ran his thumb along the fold. “It’s already printed. I’m sure it’s survived worse.”

“Love the optimism.”

Daeron took a last drag and crushed the cigarette into the dregs of a coffee cup in the console. The butt hissed amongst loose coins and sweet wrappers. He kept his eyes on the school gates when he spoke.

“He’s seeing someone.”

Valarr didn’t look up. “You’ve decided that. There's a pretty big difference between observing something and just making it up.”

“Not when I’m right,” Daeron said easily. He let his head rest against the seat and gave Valarr five seconds. When he spoke again, he watched the windscreen instead of the boy beside him. “Come on. He’s different. You’ve noticed it too.”

Valarr folded the paper along the old crease and pressed it with his thumbnail. “He’s just… less tense.”

“Exactly. Which is highly suspicious.”

“Or maybe he’s just...”

“Not himself?” Daeron finished for him. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

The school gates opened. Children poured onto the pavement in blazers and loosened ties, dividing around parked cars and re-forming on the other side. Aerion emerged in the middle of an argument, walking backwards so he could continue it. Duncan followed with two bags hanging from one shoulder and the long-suffering expression of a man who had volunteered for the position.

“Tell me he’s not coming.”

“He’s already walking toward the door,” Valarr noted, watching Aerion steer Duncan by the elbow. “I don't think standard invitation rules apply to him.”

Aerion yanked the rear door open and hurled his bag across the seat. “You’re early,” he said defensively, sliding in right after it.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” Daeron countered without turning around.

Duncan bent down to the open front window, bringing with him the smell of sun-warmed wool and the bakery near the station. “Hey.”

Daeron levelled a look at him. “No.”

Duncan considered this, nodded as if a perfectly reasonable objection had been raised, and walked around the bonnet. A second later, he folded himself into the back anyway, his knees wedged against the seat in front.

“So he's just staying?” Daeron muttered, shifting gears.

“He was always staying,” Aerion said, leaning back. “Maybe if you actually invited him for once, it wouldn’t feel like an invasion.”

“If I invited him, it would be worse.”

Before the argument could circle back, the others reached the car. Aemon slipped into the back without disturbing anyone. Daella held the door for Rhae, and Egg came last with a papier-mâché object balanced across both palms. Blue paint still ran down one side.

“If a single drop of that touches the seat, Egg, you're walking,” Daeron warned.

“It’s fine, I’m holding it,” Egg lied, immediately resting it against the fabric.

Within a minute, wet paint, school dust and warm bread had overwhelmed the stale smoke. Aerion resumed his argument where he had left it. Daella told him he had omitted the only detail that made him sound reasonable. Duncan supplied it, badly. Rhae watched from behind the blue papier-mâché bulk on Egg’s lap.

Through it all, Aemon’s eyes caught Daeron’s in the rearview mirror.

Daeron tapped two fingers against the steering wheel. The thud-thud thinned the voices, not from obedience but curiosity.

“He’s seeing someone,” Daeron announced to the crowded car.

Every conversation changed direction at once.

“Who?” Daella asked, turning around as much as her seatbelt let her.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Daeron said, checking his mirror.

Aemon leaned forward between the seats. “Why? It’s not like he ever tells us anything anyway.”

“And you’re just cool with that?”

“I’m used to it,” Aemon muttered.

Aerion groaned, slumping against the door. “Look, he’s actually been nice lately. For once. Why do you want to ruin a good thing?”

“Because he’s being nice,” Daeron said. “It’s suspicious.”

From the middle, Rhae swung her feet against the seat. “He smiles more.”

Daeron caught her eye in the reflection. “Exactly. Bad sign, Rhae. Sudden good moods usually mean they broke something or did something illegal. Don't trust it.”

Valarr did not look up. He spread the paper flat against his thigh and kept it there like a screen.

“Anyway, we’re definitely not asking him,” Daeron added, finally pulling out into traffic.

Egg raised a blue-stained hand. “Why not? Just ask.”

“Because he’ll lie, Egg. And you guys are terrible at spotting lies.” Daeron shifted gears. “Besides, if you’re going to lie to family, you don’t do it when you’re cornered. You wait until you have leverage. Remember that.”

“That’s awful advice,” Egg muttered.

“It’s a life skill. You'll thank me later.”

Aerion leaned over the back of Daeron’s seat, right in his space. “Okay, so what’s the big plan, genius? Or are you just talking to hear yourself speak?”

Daeron slowed down for a red light, watching a cyclist pass them. He waited, tapping his fingers on the wheel until the light turned green.

“Dinner,” he said.

Daella pulled Rhae’s seatbelt away from her neck. “Dinner is already happening. It’s literally Tuesday.”

“Yeah, which is why it works,” Daeron said with a faint grin. “We don’t do anything. We just sit there, eat, and let him give himself away.”

“That sounds like you literally don’t have a plan,” Aerion scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“It’s the best kind of plan. People get sloppy when they think no one’s watching. You’ll see.”

Daeron looked at Duncan in the mirror. One by one, the others followed. Duncan noticed them looking and smiled, pleased to have been included.

Valarr rubbed two fingers over his closed eyelids.

“Perfect,” Daeron said, more to himself than to them. “This is going to go terribly.”

Baelor entered carrying wine in one hand and found Maekar where he had expected him: at the counter, pretending the carrots required his full concentration. Steam had curled Maekar’s hair against his neck. There was a damp patch between his shoulder blades, dark beneath the cotton, and a faint smear of flour near one elbow.

Baelor put the bottle beside the fruit bowl. Maekar’s shoulders rose at the quiet knock of glass on wood, then lowered. The knife continued through the last carrot.

“You’re early,” Maekar said, as though it were an accusation rather than an observation.

“I wanted to be,” Baelor answered.

He came up behind him. The kitchen allowed little room for ceremony: a narrow strip of floor between the worktop and table, two pan handles jutting over the hob, the open drawer against Baelor’s hip. He closed the drawer with his knee and set both hands at Maekar’s waist. The cotton there was hot.

Maekar’s next cut was crooked. He stared at it.

“You’ll disrupt everything.”

Baelor bent until his mouth was near the damp hair above Maekar’s ear. The stock smelled of pepper and bay leaf. “I think everything can survive a moment,” Baelor murmured, leaning in just enough that the words brushed close rather than carried.

“You underestimate how fragile it is.”

“I think you overestimate how much of it is yours to hold alone.”

Maekar’s jaw shifted. That answer could have started an argument; Baelor had seen the first words of it gather in the tightening beside his mouth. Instead, he reached past him, took the knife from his hand and laid it flat on the board before turning him.

Maekar let himself be turned. His hips struck the counter and knocked a wooden spoon into the sink. Neither man looked at it.

“You’re supposed to be helping with dinner,” Maekar muttered. His hands remained at his sides instead of pushing Baelor away.

Baelor came closer until the cupboard handle pressed into Maekar’s back. “I am helping. This is crucial kitchen management.”

“Being a nuisance isn't help.”

“It is to me.”

Maekar breathed out through his nose, warm against Baelor’s cheek. “You are completely impossible.”

“And you’ve been saying that for years,” Baelor murmured; the crease beside his mouth deepened. “You’re never going to change your mind about me, so why should I try to correct you?”

The corner of Maekar’s mouth betrayed him. He looked past Baelor at the stove, where the carrots had begun to hiss. Without turning, Baelor reached around his waist, lowered the flame and brought his hand back to Maekar’s face. His thumb caught on the stubble missed by the morning razor.

“Stop thinking so much,” Baelor said softly.

“I can’t just turn it off.”

“You can for a second,” Baelor promised. His thumb moved over Maekar’s jaw until the clenched muscle eased beneath it. “Just look at me.”

Maekar’s eyes settled on Baelor’s mouth; whatever reply he had prepared remained behind his teeth. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Baelor admitted. His smile had gone, but his hand stayed against Maekar’s cheek. “But it’s possible.”

Baelor kissed him before Maekar could object. It began slowly. Maekar ended that by catching both fists in Baelor’s shirt and pulling until they struck the cabinets again. A metal lid rattled on the drying rack. Baelor tasted coffee and salt at the corner of Maekar’s mouth.

Sweat gathered beneath Maekar’s collar. Each time he loosened his grip, his fingers closed again and dragged Baelor nearer. They had learnt caution in cheap hotel rooms and parked cars, listening for footsteps or watching mirrors. In the empty house, that caution lasted less than a minute.

“We really should...” Maekar managed against his lips, but went no further.

Baelor didn’t give him the distance to finish it. “Should what?”

Maekar’s grip tightened, his knuckles white against the shirt. “This is... we shouldn’t be doing this right now.”

“I know,” Baelor whispered. He didn't argue or press; he just leaned his forehead against Maekar’s, breathing him in. “We don’t have to figure anything out right now. Just stay like this.”

Not yet was enough. It asked nothing of next week, of the children, or of the extra chair Maekar had set at the table and moved twice before deciding where it belonged. It asked only that he remain where Baelor had him, warm, breathless, the counter pressing into the small of his back, for one minute longer.

Baelor put his mouth to the pulse beneath his jaw. Maekar gave him his throat before he could think better of it, tipping his head back until it struck the cupboard door. The curse that left him broke against Baelor’s shoulder, more breath than sound. Baelor kissed the same place again, slower, drawing the skin between his lips before letting it go. His hand slipped beneath Maekar’s shirt and followed the damp hollow of his spine. Muscle tightened beneath his palm, then loosened as he stroked upwards.

Maekar turned before Baelor asked him to and spread both hands upon the flour-gritted counter. The sauce spat behind them, sharp with butter and pepper, but neither looked towards it. Baelor followed him into the narrow space, fitting himself along Maekar’s back. His breath warmed the nape of Maekar’s neck; his teeth grazed the skin below the collar. He opened Maekar’s trousers without haste, letting his knuckles brush the tender skin beneath his stomach until Maekar shifted his hips and the fastening finally gave.

Baelor’s hand went beneath the loosened cloth and found him already wet. His fingers slid through the heat gathered between Maekar’s thighs before pressing inside, slowly at first. Maekar bit the heel of his palm, but the sound escaped him anyway, roughened by the effort to contain it. His hips moved back against Baelor’s hand once, then again, asking more plainly than he ever would aloud.

The low boil of the pot could not cover the wet sound of Baelor’s fingers moving inside him. Nor could it conceal the broken breath Maekar gave when those fingers curled and found the place that weakened his knees. Baelor caught him around the waist, palm spread over his stomach, holding him upright while he worked him open with long, measured strokes. Each one drew Maekar farther over the counter until his forehead nearly touched the cupboard and his body pressed back to meet Baelor’s hand.

The back door moved on its hinge.

“Right,” Lyonel said, from somewhere far too close. “That explains a great deal.”

Baelor’s hand stopped. Maekar became rigid around it.

Lyonel stood in the doorway with one hand on the latch and a dish beneath his opposite arm. His gaze travelled from Maekar’s open trousers to Baelor’s hand, which Baelor withdrew with as much dignity as the situation permitted. Lyonel’s eyebrows rose. The sauce spat once behind them.

“I can leave,” he offered.

He shifted the dish to his other arm but remained squarely in the doorway.

Maekar fastened himself with fingers that missed the button once. “What are you doing here?”

“I live next door,” Lyonel said easily. “And your door was…well. Not closed enough for what was happening in here.”

Maekar’s face had gone pale beneath the heat. “That is not an invitation.”

“It didn’t need to be,” Lyonel replied, stepping in anyway. His eyes lingered first on Maekar’s face, then on Baelor’s wet hand. “I’m not judging. I’m actually very supportive.”

He put the dish on the one clear corner of the table. Baelor washed his hand beneath the tap. The cold water felt theatrical and did nothing to improve matters.

Maekar took up the knife again, looked at the finished carrots, then began cutting a piece already no thicker than the others. Lyonel watched this too.

Lyonel braced both palms on the table, grinning. “Look, I can help manage this.”

“There is nothing to manage,” Maekar snapped immediately. The carrots struck the bin hard enough for two pieces to bounce onto the floor.

“There wasn't a minute ago,” Lyonel corrected, his eyes darting pointedly between the two of them. “Right now, it’s a rapidly developing situation.”

Baelor folded his arms against the sink. His sigh stirred the damp hair at his forehead. “Lyonel.”

“Yeah?”

“You have absolutely no intention of leaving, do you?”

“Not anytime soon,” Lyonel admitted cheerfully. “Honestly, I feel personally invested in this. It feels important.”

Maekar set the knife down hard enough to cut off the banter. His gaze pinned Lyonel where he stood. “You will not say a single word about this. To anyone.”

Lyonel immediately threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, relax. I can keep a secret.”

The three of them considered the substantial evidence to the contrary. From the hall came the faint gurgle of the heating pipes, followed by a car door slamming outside.

Baelor looked at Lyonel. The man was nosy, reckless and almost pathologically sociable, but his loyalty, once recruited, tended to survive better judgement.

Lyonel waved a hand dismissively. “Look, I’m not an amateur. I’ve covered for way worse than you two.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Maekar muttered.

Voices travelled up the path, Egg’s above the rest. Baelor set the towel down. “The kids are here. And trust me, they notice everything.”

Lyonel blinked, pausing for a fraction of a second before his utter confidence won out. “Fine. Then we just don’t let them know what they’re noticing.”

The dishcloth tightened between Maekar’s hands. “That isn’t a plan, Lyonel. It’s a disaster.”

“A manageable disaster.”

“You are the disaster,” Maekar snapped.

“Consistently,” Lyonel agreed, settling one hip against the counter. “And yet, here I am. Being useful.”

The corner of Baelor’s mouth moved before he caught it. A key scraped in the front lock, followed by feet and voices in the hall.

“Dinner,” Baelor said, waiting until Maekar met his eyes across the steam from the stove. “Dinner is still happening.”

The flush had not left Maekar’s neck, and his next breath caught against the collar. He nodded once. “Right. Dinner.”

Lyonel immediately pulled out a chair and sat down with a grin. “Perfect. I’m staying.”

“No, you're not,” Maekar said, just as Baelor countered with a calm, “He can stay.”

Maekar turned on Baelor, exasperated. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging him, I’m managing the damage,” Baelor said. He reached for the plates before Maekar could answer. “If we kick him out now, he’ll just linger around like a gossip. It’s practical.”

Maekar opened his mouth, but no answer came. The bowl remained motionless in his hands. Baelor had been in the house less than ten minutes and had already opened drawers, dealt with Lyonel and decided who would stay for dinner. He had touched Maekar beside the stove and then taken his place in the room before either of them had found a name for it.

The front door hit the wall down the hall. The children were home.

Maekar turned back to the worktop, putting the counter between them. “Fine. Set the table,” he ordered, his voice sharp enough to pass for control.

Lyonel practically sprang out of his chair. “On it.”

“Don’t touch the good plates,” Maekar barked. “Baelor, show him where things are.”

Baelor did not need a tour. He went straight to the upper cupboard and took down the plates, avoiding the chipped one at the back.

Behind him, Lyonel watched the plates pass from cupboard to counter and fell silent.

“…Oh,” Lyonel murmured, the real truth finally clicking into place.

Maekar shut his eyes. “Do not,” he warned.

Lyonel’s grin was reflected in the dark kitchen window. The first of the children entered before he could improve upon it.

Daeron stopped in the dining-room doorway with the keys still looped around one finger. The house smelled of roasted meat, onions and carrots catching in butter. Bags thumped down the hall behind him, followed by an argument about who had trodden on whose shoe.

Baelor was carrying plates from Maekar’s cupboard.

Guests asked. Family searched until told to stop. Baelor went to the correct shelf on the first attempt and nudged the stubborn cupboard shut with his wrist. He moved around Maekar without collision, taking a pan as Maekar turned to hand it over before either spoke. Maekar, meanwhile, was drying a bowl that had not been wet in several minutes.

Lyonel sat at the table with the pleased, pink face of a man in possession of private information. Daeron revised his plan. There was no need to manufacture carelessness; it had arrived early and seated itself.

Duncan hovered beside the table holding napkins and a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Aerion stood near enough to kick him if required and far enough to deny that they had come together.

“Hey,” Dunk said, the moment he noticed Daeron, bright, hopeful, as though they shared something.

Daeron slid past him. “You’re in my way.”

“Oh...sorry,” Dunk said immediately, stepping aside too fast and nearly colliding with Aerion, who shoved him back without even looking at him.

“Stop hovering,” Aerion snapped. “You look stupid.”

“I’m helping,” Dunk insisted, still trying, still upright.

“You’re not helping.”

Dunk looked down at the greasy parcel in his hands and lifted it like a peace offering. “I brought bread.”

Butter had turned the cheap brown paper translucent at the corners. Maekar turned from the stove and stared at it.

“No,” Maekar said flatly.

Dunk’s fingers tightened around the paper. He looked to Aerion and received an eye-roll. “It’s… it’s actually really good bread. From the bakery near the station.”

“That is completely beside the point.”

Baelor set down the serving spoon before Maekar could answer. “Come on, Maekar. We can use it.”

Maekar closed his eyes for the length of one breath. “We cannot use it, Baelor. It doesn’t go with anything I made.”

“It’s already here,” Baelor pointed out, holding Maekar’s gaze. “It'll be fine.”

Duncan took a half-step towards the hall. “I can just…take it back?”

“No, you're not,” Aerion said.

Maekar answered at the same moment. “Yes, please.”

Duncan stayed where he was. The heat had reddened his ears.

Daeron leaned against the wall. “You’re doing great,” he said.

Duncan’s shoulders loosened. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t praise.”

“Oh.”

Egg, who had climbed onto his chair on his knees, made a desperate grab for the greasy package. “You’re just being mean to him! He brought us food.”

Aerion hoisted the parcel beyond Egg’s reach and held it against his ribs. “Shut up, baldy, nobody asked for your input. Or his bread.”

“But people like bread!” Egg insisted, glaring. “It’s a nice gesture.”

“It’s completely unnecessary,” Aerion snapped, without relinquishing the parcel or letting Maekar throw it away.

Beside Egg, Rhae aligned her fork with the edge of the table. She spoke without looking up. “You’re just being extra cranky because you like him too much and he’s embarrassing you.”

Aerion’s head snapped towards her. Colour climbed from his collar to his ears, matching Duncan’s. “I tolerate his existence perfectly fine, Rhae, which is already a massive chore. Mind your own business.”

“You don’t,” she muttered to her silverware. “You wouldn't even let him sit next to anyone else in the car.”

Duncan bent towards Aerion, though not far enough to keep the words from the rest of the table. “Hey… I can just leave, seriously. If I'm making things weird for your mum.”

Egg dropped from his knees onto the chair with a thump. “No way,” he said, glaring on Dunk’s behalf. “You’re not allowed to leave, Dunk. You haven’t even had dinner yet.”

Duncan tried to wave it off, his face burning. “Honestly, it’s fine, Egg...”

“It’s not fine, you’re literally being bullied,” Egg insisted, slamming his small hands on the table before crossing his arms like a tiny judge. “And I’m not standing for it.”

Aerion drew himself upright against his smallest brother. “You’re nine. Shut up.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Egg shot back.

Daella hid her laugh behind her water glass. Aemon tracked the grease spreading across the parcel in Aerion’s hands.

“This is getting out of hand,” Aemon noted calmly.

“It’s been out of hand since we got in the car,” Rhae muttered, still adjusting her silverware.

Daella lowered her glass and glanced towards Maekar. “Should we… do something? Intervene?”

A chair scraped loudly as Daeron slid into his seat with a lazy, satisfied grin. “Absolutely not. Watch and learn, kids. This is educational.”

Valarr sat beside him, shoulder brushing Daeron’s, and took in the kitchen: Maekar twisting a dishcloth, Baelor at the stove, Lyonel smirking in the corner and Duncan holding a soggy paper bag.

Valarr leaned slightly towards Daeron, keeping his voice low. “This feels… incredibly tense.”

“Oh, you should see them when they’re trying to be subtle,” Daeron murmured back, highly amused.

Duncan cleared his throat, still awkwardly holding the parcel aloft like it was a cursed object. “So… should I just put this down somewhere, or…?”

“No,” Maekar barked.

“Yes,” Baelor said at the exact same time. He moved to Duncan’s side before Maekar could reach the parcel and patted him once on the shoulder.

The paper crackled in Duncan’s hands. “On the table?” Dunk tried, voice careful.

“No.”

“On the table,” Baelor repeated, gentler.

Duncan chose the man least likely to shout. He set the bread between the butter and Maekar’s untouched place. The paper sighed open, releasing the smell of rosemary and warm crust.

Once the bread landed in the middle of the table, Aerion crossed his arms and stared at it as though it had insulted him.

“He literally told you not to do that,” Aerion muttered directly to Dunk.

Duncan swallowed and glanced back towards the stove. “Yeah, but Sr.Baelor said it was...”

“I don’t care what Baelor said,” Aerion snapped, leaning in closer to him. “I’m telling you whose opinion actually keeps you safe in this house.”

Duncan sighed softly. “That’s not really how guest privileges work, Aerion.”

“It’s exactly how it works under this roof.”

Egg ignored the power struggle and reached across the table for a piece of crust. “No, it’s not. You’re just being difficult because you love making everything a huge fight.”

Aerion took the bait at once. “I do not love making everything a fight, Egg.”

“You definitely do,” Rhae chimed in from his other side, nodding with her brother. “You do it on purpose.”

Aerion glared at the two of them, his face flushing as both waited for his answer. “I literally do not.”

“You totally do,” they shot back in unison.

Daeron sat down, laughter escaping through his nose. “This is incredible.”

Lyonel leaned forward so far his tie practically dipped into his plate. “Honestly? I think the bread was a great call. Look at us, it’s really bringing the family together.”

“We are bickering over a greasy paper bag, Lyonel. That is not unity,” Maekar said, his voice dangerously tight.

Before Maekar could confiscate the loaf, Baelor tore off a thick piece of crust. It cracked between his teeth. Maekar stared; Baelor chewed.

“He’s right, though,” Baelor murmured, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s actually really good.”

“Baelor. Do not,” Maekar warned, a vein practically throbbing in his temple.

“It’s already on the table, Maekar. We might as well eat it.”

“That is not the same as me giving permission.”

“No, it’s just us accepting reality,” Baelor corrected mildly. His eyes remained on Maekar as he took another bite.

Daeron poured his water slowly, watching first Maekar and then Baelor over the rim of the jug. “You know,” he said, as though commenting on the meal, “this is officially the most drama this family has ever produced over a carbohydrate. It’s honestly historic.”

“Nobody asked for your commentary, Daeron,” Maekar snapped, turning his glare back to his plate.

Valarr sat beside Daeron. He did not watch the bread. He watched Baelor return the knife to the board near Maekar’s hand, handle turned out so Maekar could take it. Maekar did, without looking.

Daeron stretched his legs under the table. The plan had been to let Duncan attract their father’s attention, but Baelor needed no lure. The two men were conscious of one another down to the inch: who had the serving spoon, whose elbow occupied the counter, when to step aside. Their ease was more incriminating than touch.

“So,” Daeron said at last, voice light, almost casual, though it carried easily over the table. “Are we going to talk about it, or are we all just committing to this incredibly tense dinner where no one acknowledges what’s actually happening?”

Maekar’s hand stopped over the meat. “Nothing is happening.”

“Right,” Daeron said. “That explains the bread.”

“It has nothing to do with the bread.”

“Everything seems to have something to do with the bread.”

“It does not.”

“It really feels like it does.”

Lyonel looked at Daeron with the glad recognition of one meddler finding another. “I think what Daeron is asking, very respectfully, is why Baelor looks like he lives here now.”

No one moved. Butter shone on Baelor’s thumb. Maekar’s grip compressed the serving spoon.

Duncan looked up. “He doesn’t live here.”

The silence made him glance around the table. “…does he?”

“No,” Maekar said, too quickly.

Butter streaked the napkin beneath his thumb. “I visit,” Baelor said, steady.

“That often?” Daeron asked, gaze fixed now.

“When I can.”

“That’s generous.”

“It’s practical.”

“You know where everything is,” Daeron went on. “You pass bread you were explicitly told not to pass. You sit there like that’s your seat.”

Baelor held his gaze. “I was told to sit.”

The chair drew Daella’s eye. “You were,” Daella admitted.

“That doesn’t make it your seat.”

“It was empty.”

“It’s not usually.”

Valarr’s fork stopped against the plate. The seat had been his on the nights he stayed: near his father, opposite Maekar, sufficiently removed from the smaller children to keep gravy off his clothes. Daeron saw him understand that Baelor had not chosen it by accident. Baelor saw it too.

“And you don’t find the whole thing… interesting?” Daeron continued. He lowered his voice and left the smile in place. “The timing of it all. How often it’s happening. How comfortable everyone suddenly seems.”

Maekar set his fork beside the plate. The metal clicked against the china. “Drop it, Daeron.”

“I’m just asking a question,” Daeron said, opening one hand towards him.

“You never just do anything,” Maekar countered flatly. “There's always an angle.”

A breath of laughter escaped Baelor. Maekar’s head turned towards him at once. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging anyone, I was actually going to answer him,” Baelor said, lifting his glass. He drank without looking away from Daeron.

“Answering him is encouraging him.”

Lyonel rolled the wine around his glass and leaned closer. “Personally, I’m a big fan of transparency. I think we should always encourage honesty at the dinner table.”

Maekar glared across at him. “Lyonel, I swear...”

“Absolutely,” Lyonel grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Let’s hear the answer.”

Duncan’s brows drew together as he looked from Lyonel to the soggy loaf. “Wait… are we still talking about the bread, or did I miss something?”

Daeron didn’t even look at him. “It’s definitely not about the bread, Dunk.”

“It’s never about the bread,” Aemon added.

“It started with the bread,” Egg insisted.

“It escalated from the bread,” Rhae corrected.

Aerion rolled his eyes. “It’s not about the bread.”

“Then what is it about?” Dunk asked.

Nobody answered. The meat cooled in the serving dish. A bead of condensation travelled down Daeron’s glass and darkened the tablecloth.

Lyonel put both hands behind his head. “Oh, I can answer that,” he said.

Maekar turned so fast the legs of his chair squealed. “Do not”

“I mean, if we’re being honest,” Lyonel went on, despite Maekar’s stare, “it’s not that complicated. You’re all circling it like it’s some grand mystery, but really”

“Lyonel,” Maekar warned.

Lyonel’s eyes moved once to Baelor. He had promised to contain the situation, and in that instant Daeron saw him choose the worst available means of doing so.

“Really, it’s just me.”

Daeron frowned. “What?”

Lyonel gestured towards Maekar with the confidence of a man volunteering for execution. “I’m the one he’s been seeing.”

The refrigerator clicked off. In the gap it left, someone’s fork struck china in the next room, a neighbour through the adjoining wall, living a far more orderly life.

Daeron studied Lyonel. Maekar’s lips had parted; now they pressed into a bloodless line, the expression of a man falsely accused of a crime he considered beneath him. Baelor had one hand flat on the table and had not moved at all.

Daeron leaned back. “Yeah,” he said. “No.”

Maekar did not seem to have breathed. Across from him, Valarr looked straight at Baelor. It was a brief, searching glance, but it carried none of the surprise he directed at Lyonel. Baelor’s shoulder tightened beneath his shirt.

Lyonel continued smiling. A sane person might have stopped. No one had ever accused Lyonel of allowing sanity to ruin momentum.

“Well,” Daeron said at last. He drew the word out while he looked from Lyonel to Maekar. “That’s… new.”

“It isn’t,” Lyonel said easily, leaning back like a man settling into comfort rather than scrutiny. “It’s actually been going on for a while.”

Lyonel waved a dismissive hand, swirling his wine. “Look, we don't need to get bogged down in timelines. What matters is the present, right? The fact that we’re all here, sharing a lovely meal, not hiding anything anymore...”

“We are hiding everything,” Maekar hissed under his breath, glaring at his plate.

“Are we?” Lyonel tilted his head, watching Maekar’s fingers tighten around his fork. “Because this feels pretty out in the open to me.”

From the quiet end of the table, Aemon offered a grave assessment. “The entire situation feels deeply incorrect.”

Egg looked up from his food, frowning directly at Lyonel. “You’re definitely not his type anyway.”

Lyonel’s mouth stayed open a fraction longer than intended. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re just not,” Egg said without taking his eyes off Lyonel. “He doesn’t like people like you.”

Lyonel’s smile tightened, showing a few more teeth than before as he leaned over the table. “And what exactly, pray tell, is ‘people like me’?”

Egg didn’t even have to think about it. “Loud.”

“And messy,” Rhae added, nudging her fork another millimetre to the left.

“And you talk way too much,” Egg finished.

The base of Lyonel’s glass clicked against the table. “That’s a strong critique coming from someone who has not stopped talking since I arrived,” Lyonel replied.

“I talk when it matters,” Egg said.

“This matters,” Lyonel countered.

Untouched vegetables travelled from one side of Aerion’s plate to the other. “No, it doesn’t,” Aerion cut in, leaning back with his arms crossed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Lyonel asked, glancing at him. “Because you seem invested.”

“I’m not invested,” Aerion said. “I just don’t believe you.”

“On what grounds?”

Aerion looked at Maekar and away. “Taste.”

Duncan tried to assemble the available facts. “I thought” then stopped, recalibrating. “I thought he didn’t like you.”

Maekar shut his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, flat.

Duncan’s ear reddened again. “That didn’t come out right,” Dunk added quickly. “I just meant, you don’t seem like”

“Yes,” Maekar said. “We understand what you meant.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I assure you, we do.”

Daeron folded his hands on the table. The joke had stopped being funny. Since Dyanna died, Maekar had filled every hour with somebody else’s needs and treated his own as an inconvenience. If Baelor was the reason that had changed, Daeron wanted the truth before the house settled around another silence.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Let’s say we believe you.”

“We should,” Lyonel said.

“We haven't even established the timeline yet,” Daeron said, his voice dropping into that calm, precise register as he gestured vaguely between Baelor and Maekar. “But let’s say we have. You’re honestly trying to tell me that at some point, this started happening right under our noses, and not a single one of us noticed?”

Lyonel adjusted his cuff and admired the result. “What can I say? I’m subtle.”

“You have the subtlety of a car alarm, Lyonel,” Daeron said flatly.

“I can be discreet when it actually counts!”

“You literally cannot,” Aerion chimed in, slumping back into his chair with a massive eye-roll. “You’re loud, you’re dramatic, and you physically crave attention. It's a medical miracle you didn't blurt it out the second it happened.”

Lyonel grinned. “Occasionally, my dear Aerion. I can manage it occasionally.”

No one spoke. Maekar’s fist had closed around his fork, and the tines trembled above his plate with each breath.

Before Maekar could answer, Baelor turned from Daeron towards the younger children. His voice did not rise.

“Egg,” Baelor said, his tone as smooth and reassuring as if they were just discussing the weather. “Why don’t you pass the potatoes down to Duncan? Your mum worked really hard on them.”

Egg blinked. “Oh. Okay.” He reached for the bowl and passed it across without another word.

Baelor took the bowl from him and passed it on. Beneath the table, his other hand gripped his knee hard enough to bunch the trouser cloth between his fingers. His back had not touched the chair for several minutes.

He looked at Daeron. His mouth still held the shape of a smile; his eyes did not.

“And Daeron,” Baelor added. He smoothed his napkin once before setting it down. “Let's leave the house logistics for another day. We have guests.”

Aerion scoffed into his water but let the matter drop. Daeron sat back. Valarr’s fork touched his plate and stayed there.

Rhae handed Baelor the serving spoon and studied his face. “Are you okay, Uncle Baelor? Your voice sounds kind of tight.”

Baelor took the spoon. His lips curved again. “I’m wonderful. Just enjoying the dinner.”

Lyonel planted his elbows on the table before the pause could develop teeth. “I think,” he said, leaning forward again, tone conspiratorial now, “what Daeron is really asking is how serious it is.”

“No one is asking that.”

“I am,” Daeron said.

Lyonel smiled at Maekar. “There we are.”

“This is not a discussion,” Maekar said.

“It became one when he announced it,” Daeron replied, gesturing towards Lyonel. “You don’t get to control the narrative after that.”

“I was not consulted.”

Daeron’s fingers closed around the glass. “Well,” Daeron said, leaning back again, “here we are anyway.”

Valarr had not touched his food. He pushed a carrot beneath the edge of his fork and looked again at Baelor, a son trying to work out whether a father could sit in two families without leaving either.

Daella spoke gently. “Is it serious?”

“No,” Maekar said, immediately.

“Yes,” Lyonel said at the same time.

Maekar’s chair creaked beneath the shift of his weight. “No.”

“It is,” Lyonel insisted.

A forefinger levelled at Lyonel. “You are not” Maekar stopped, inhaled, tried again. “You do not get to define”

Lyonel pressed a hand to his own chest. “I think I have some authority here,” Lyonel said lightly.

“You have none.”

“I disagree.”

Daeron lowered his voice, forcing everyone else to stop in order to hear him. “Then what is it?” Daeron asked. He kept his eyes on Maekar. “Because you’re reacting like it matters.”

Maekar’s fingers stopped against the tablecloth. Lyonel’s claim was nonsense; Daeron’s last word was not. His thumb pressed into the seam until the nail whitened.

“I am simply reacting,” Maekar said, choosing each word with agonizing, deliberate precision, “to the absolute absurdity of this entire conversation.”

Daeron rested his chin on his hand, the smile returning. “Which part of it, exactly? The fact that it’s a blatant lie, or the fact that it’s actually almost believable?”

“It is completely unbelievable,” Maekar snapped.

Aerion nodded at once. Lyonel only shrugged and swirled his wine. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it has a certain poetic charm.”

Across the table, Egg and Rhae shook their heads together. “Not even a little bit,” Rhae muttered into her glass.

Duncan shifted in his chair and raised one hand from his lap. “I mean… if you look at it from a different perspective...”

“Don’t,” Aerion cut in. He did not look up from his plate. “Just don’t start.”

Duncan paused, his hand hovering in the air for a second before sinking back down. “I’m just trying to contribute to the conversation, Aerion.”

“You’re always just trying to do something,” Aerion muttered. He drove a pea through the gravy with the side of his fork. “Just eat your dinner.”

Duncan stared at him. The crease between his brows deepened. “That’s literally how talking works. People speak.”

“Not when they have nothing to add,” Aerion shot back. His fork scraped the china, though there was nothing left beneath it to cut.

Duncan’s shoulders dropped. He placed both hands beneath the table before he spoke. “Can you… just not do this right now? Please.”

Aerion’s chin lifted. He looked towards the others rather than at Duncan and gave a short scoff. “Do what?”

“This,” Duncan said. One hand emerged to make a clumsy movement between them before dropping again. He looked at Aerion and waited. “The picking. The constant snapping at me for just existing.”

Aerion looked down. He swallowed once and pulled one corner of his mouth upwards. “You’re being completely dramatic.”

“I’m really not,” Duncan said softly.

Duncan did not answer again. He turned his face towards the window and left Aerion staring at the pea stranded in his gravy.

Maekar pressed two fingers to his temple. Between Lyonel’s invention, Daeron’s questions and Aerion worrying Duncan like a sore tooth, the meal had become every conversation he had hoped to postpone, all occurring at once over cooling gravy.

“Enough,” he said. He did not raise his voice, but the knife laid flat beside his plate made a small, hard sound.

Forks paused. Even Egg lowered the bread.

“This,” Maekar continued, voice measured now, each word placed with deliberate care, “is not a matter for discussion, speculation, or interrogation. It is a misunderstanding that has been exaggerated beyond reason and will not be entertained further.”

Daeron tilted his head and looked from Maekar to Baelor. “So you’re flat-out calling him a liar.”

“Yes,” Maekar said. His hand remained beside the knife.

Lyonel let out a dramatic, offended gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ouch. That is incredibly harsh, Maekar.”

“It's merely accurate.”

“So there’s absolutely nothing to see here?” Daeron pushed, leaning forward as his voice dipped into mock innocence. “No secret dinners, no history, not even a tiny shred of subtext?”

Daeron’s smile only widened, trailing his gaze down to Maekar’s hands. “Then why exactly are you...”

The harsh screech of wood against the floorboards cut him off. Maekar stood up so quickly his chair rocked on its legs. He slammed a hand onto the high backrest, rattling the frame against the floor.

“Because,” Maekar said. He spoke low enough that Egg stopped chewing to hear him. “Because you walk into my kitchen, sit at my table, and decide you have the right to put me on trial. You turn a normal dinner into some pathetic game, and I am not sitting here being interrogated by my own damn children.”

Lyonel’s grin vanished. His wine glass touched the table with a muted click. Maekar stood with one hand locked around the chair, breathing through his open mouth; the gravy stain on his cuff had dried brown at the edges.

“I'm done,” he muttered.

He released the chair and left the kitchen without looking back. Nobody spoke. A second later, the washroom latch clicked down the hall.

Baelor looked at none of them. He folded his napkin once, set it beside his plate and followed.

The washroom light hummed above the mirror. Maekar gripped the sink with both hands while water ran over his right wrist and into the bowl. He had not rolled his sleeve back. The cotton darkened to the elbow.

Baelor slipped inside and closed the door. The latch failed to catch on the first attempt; he lifted it and tried again. In the mirror, Maekar watched him without raising his head.

Baelor came to stand behind him. “Let me,” he said softly, reaching for the faucet, turning it off before the running water gave Maekar an excuse not to speak.

With the tap off, the room seemed to shrink. Water dripped from Maekar’s cuff to the tile.

“That was” he started, then stopped to swallow. “It was not supposed to happen like that.”

Baelor placed his hands at Maekar’s sides without drawing him away from the sink. “No,” he said, voice steady, low. “It wasn’t.”

Maekar looked at their doubled reflection. A short, dry sound left him. “I had it planned,” he said. Once he had begun, the rest followed. “The timing, the pacing, what I would say, how I would say it something measured, something that made sense, that did not leave room for this… spectacle. I was going to do it properly.”

Baelor’s palms settled against his waist. “You still can,” he said.

“No. Not after this. Not after” Maekar dragged in a breath. “Not after being reduced to something that can be… discussed like that. Questioned. Weighed. As though this” His hand moved towards the mirror and fell back to the sink. “is something I should have justified before it even existed.”

Baelor’s grip tightened. “You don’t owe them justification.”

“I do,” Maekar said. His wet fingers closed around the porcelain rim. “They are my children. My responsibility. Everything I am is has been defined by that. Every decision, every failure, every” He stopped and tried for a slower breath. “I built my life around them, Baelor. Around what they needed, what they deserved, what I could give them after...after everything that came before. And now I bring this into it, into their space, their home, their sense of what is stable, what is safe, and it turns into this.”

Baelor rested his forehead between Maekar’s shoulder blades. Maekar’s shirt smelled of steam, soap and the peppery cologne Maekar used too sparingly. “It didn’t turn into this because of you,” he said.

“It did,” Maekar insisted. The next words were barely louder than the tap dripping into the basin. “It did because I allowed it. Because I thought” His breath shook once. “I thought I could have something for myself again without it costing them something in return. That I could… open my life to someone else, let someone else stand where” He stopped. Dyanna’s name remained between them without being spoken. “where she stood, without it feeling like a replacement, like a betrayal.”

Baelor turned him. Maekar’s wet sleeve dragged cold across Baelor’s wrist.

“You are not replacing anything,” Baelor said. His hands did not loosen at Maekar’s waist. “You are building something new. That is not the same thing.”

Maekar’s laugh was bitter and brief. “Try explaining that to them.”

“I don’t need to,” Baelor replied. “They’ll understand it in their own time.”

Maekar’s eyes moved over his face as if looking for the part Baelor had left unsaid. He had bitten the inside of his cheek; a red mark showed at the corner of his mouth. “And until then?” Maekar asked. “Until then, I am what? The mother who moved on too quickly, or too late, or not correctly. The omega who, after six children, after years of being defined by what I could give and how I could endure, decides, suddenly, that he wants more. That he deserves more. That he can… want.”

Baelor did not look away. “You do,” he said, simply.

Maekar shook his head. The tap gave a final metallic tick. “It does not feel like that. It feels” He looked towards the mirror and tried the word before saying it. “indulgent. Selfish. As though I am asking for something I forfeited a long time ago without realizing it.”

Baelor took the wet cuff and began unfastening it. “You didn’t forfeit anything,” Baelor said. The button resisted his wet fingers; he tried again. “You carried more than you should have had to, for longer than anyone should have expected of you. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to choose something for yourself now.”

He rolled the sleeve back and dried the gooseflesh on Maekar’s forearm, rubbing each finger before returning to the wrist. Maekar watched. The kitchen could be dismissed as heat and bad judgement. Baelor rubbing warmth back into his hand could not.

“And what happens when that choice costs them something? When they look at me and see” Maekar watched Baelor’s hands. “failure. Disruption. Weakness.”

“They won’t,” Baelor said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replied before Maekar had finished shaking his head. “Because I see how they look at you now, even when they’re pretending not to. They don’t see weakness. They see someone who holds everything together even when it’s falling apart. They see someone who stayed when it would have been easier not to. They see” His thumb slowed against Maekar’s wrist. “someone they trust, even when they don’t understand him.”

Maekar closed his eyes. Behind the door, a chair scraped and Lyonel began speaking again, quieter than usual and therefore probably being threatened.

“And Valarr?” he asked, quieter now.

Baelor exhaled. “Valarr is trying to understand where he fits. That’s not the same as judging you.”

Maekar opened his eyes. “He looked”

“He looked at me,” Baelor said. “Not at you.”

Maekar’s hand stopped in Baelor’s. They had both seen the same thing at the table: Valarr had not feared that Maekar wanted a man, or even that the man was his father. He feared what Baelor taking a place here might do to the one he had elsewhere.

“He’s worried,” Baelor continued, gentler now. “About what this means. Not about whether it’s wrong.”

Baelor touched his cheek. Maekar’s skin was warm; the room was cold where the damp sleeve had chilled it. When Baelor kissed him, it was without the urgency of the kitchen. Maekar returned it after a breath and rested one hand against Baelor’s chest, feeling the heart beneath shirt and bone.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said.

Maekar looked at him for several seconds. The lines around his mouth had not gone, and the conversation waiting outside had not become easier. He pressed the towel into Baelor’s hand.

“I know,” he said, finally.

When they returned, the food had been covered and the bread reduced by half. Daeron looked first at Maekar’s damp sleeve, then at Baelor, and chose not to comment. His smile was small and without mockery.

Valarr’s shoulders lowered. He moved his plate a fraction to make room when Baelor approached the table.

Lyonel was speaking, which proved the children had not murdered him in their absence.

“and I’m just saying,” he was in the middle of, gesturing broadly, “if you’re going to commit to chaos, you might as well do it properly”

Empty glasses knocked together in Daella’s hands. “Stop encouraging them,” Daella said.

“I’m not encouraging,” Lyonel replied. “I’m guiding.”

Two plates joined the stack in front of Aemon. “You’re making it worse,” Aemon added.

“I’m making it interesting.”

Crumbs covered the front of Egg’s jumper. “It was already interesting,” Egg said.

Rhae brushed one from his sleeve. “It was stressful,” Rhae corrected.

“Stress can be interesting,” Lyonel insisted.

“Not for us,” Daella said.

“Speak for yourself.”

A door slammed upstairs. Duncan’s startled face disappeared from the hall a second later, following Aerion.

Maekar set one foot on the first stair. “Aerion,” he called. The word was sharp, but it no longer caught at the edge of his breath. “Open the door.”

There was no answer. Maekar climbed another step.

“Now.”

The silence from above had the packed, guilty quality of two boys trying not to breathe. Maekar’s jaw tightened.

“We do not close doors in this house when” he stopped, recalibrated, then continued, louder, more pointed, “when your boyfriend is here. Open it.”

Behind him, Daeron leaned towards Valarr. “Ten seconds,” he murmured.

Valarr glanced towards the stairs. Reluctant amusement pulled at his mouth.

“Five,” he said.

Daeron smiled as the lock upstairs clicked.