Archive of Our Own

Summer dawns over Oldtown after a pleasant, eventful spring. The stone pavement boils like simmering water over the stove, burning right through the sole of Gwayne's white Converse, making him hyper-aware of the poor decisions with his clothing and shoe choices.

The youngest Hightower children were four years old when Otto moved them away from the artistic, quiet town and into the bustling, never-exhausted rhythm of the big city. King's Landing has been their home, all they've known as such, since they were able to have a consciousness about what home even meant to them. Their mother had passed recently, and Otto's grief was too grand for him to remain in the same place he'd loved and been loved—At last, he accepted the transfer to the Targaryen firm and plucked the twins from their roots.

Alicent steps out of the car, similarly bothered by the heat, her flaming copper hair falling in rivulets of fire across her shoulders. Her eyes squint, brows furrowed, "Do you smell that?"

Gwayne sniffs the air, his nose scrunches. "Yeah," He hums. "Flowers."

"Lavender," Alicent points out. "Is it normal that it smells like this?"

Otto returns then, dangling the keys from the rented car and eavesdropping on their conversation. "Yes, it's quite normal. The King's Landing stink doesn't reach here."

Both siblings exchange a look, curiosity and wonder painted behind their eyes. They pile up onto the backseat after hurdling their luggage in the trunk, sharing a pair of earphones and staring out their respective windows for the whole drive.

A month ago, while they gave their final exams before summer break, a call reached the house to inform Otto about the death of his brother, Hobert Hightower—lung cancer, it ravaged the man in under five months, and he'd gone in his sleep. Otto and Hobert were not all that close, but it still struck like a bucket of cold water that he was gone, of course. The funeral was planned for the end of the upcoming month, and they'd been summoned to attend.

At home, managing the family firm, remained Hobert's oldest and only son, Ormund.

Gwayne and Alicent barely remember him, truth be told. They were too small back then, and Ormund was already entering his early teens, so he never stuck around the children much. Ormund has kept to himself for as long as they've been apart. He doesn't call, he doesn't reach out, he doesn't send holiday cards or birthday messages, either. Gwayne always thought him rather cold and callous, given that even their mother's family reached out from time to time, still, but he couldn't be too harsh on his cousin when he didn't know the whole of it to begin with. Ormund might have his reasons, for all he knows.

The Hightower estate remains frozen in time, or so Otto comments from the driver's seat. Everything is kept pristine and well-maintained, though. The greenery around is well taken care of, the garden's blooming beautifully and the trees cast over arching shadows all over the corners of he property. Vines and plants corrode the outside of the home, wrapping around it as if nature were embracing it, and there's a medieval, almost fantastical look to it.

"D'ya bring your camera?" Alicent nudges as they stare at it in awe. "Say yes."

"Yes," Gwayne parrots. "The film one and the digital one, too."

Alicent beams. "My Instagram dumps are going to look so fab."

The car rolls to a slow stop, Otto exits first and his children follow, albeit lazily. The front door opens, catching their attention, and then Ormund's stepping out.

Gwayne's breath hitches in his chest at the sight of his older cousin. He's wearing a thin, almost transparent button up that's not even buttoned up, showing off a clean-shaven, muscular chest and abdomen. Shorts that are akin to a pair of briefs, almost, sticking to his powerful thighs—His skin gleams beautifully, well moisturized and freckled, tanned as if the sun had gently laid itself upon his body. His hair is curled prettily, with hints of gray here and there, and he's just gorgeous. Masculine and delicate at the same time.

Those blue, piercing eyes are set upon Gwayne momentarily, as if he could read what's going through his mind in the moment, then they glaze over to Otto. "Uncle," Ormund greets, warmly. "It has been quite a long time. It's nice to see you again, please, come on in."

"It has sure been a while," Otto nods, gracefully. "You've grown, Ormund. You might not remember them, but these are Alicent and Gwayne."

"I remember," Ormund hums. "I've seen them on your Facebook, too. It's nice to see you both, cousins."

Nervously, Alicent begins to pick at her nails, as she usually does. "We're so sorry for your loss," She bows her head, smiling apologetically. "We're happy to see you again, Ormund."

Gwayne feels as if he'd been turned to stone, stumbling behind Otto and Alicent as he carries his luggage through the doorway. The inside of the home is soaked in the scent of incense—a mix of patchouli and palo santo—and the sharpness of chemical cleanliness, like something's been freshly polished with strong anti-septic.

Ormund's eyes flash down to their feet, as if quietly signaling for them to take off their shoes. Gwayne cringes at the sight of his and Alicent's dirty pairs of Converse, nudging at her as he kneels down to undo his laces, which she mimics immediately. Otto slips off his loafers, tossing them aside, too. Everything is finely decorated in shades of green and silver, with furniture that looks like it costs more than anything they've seen at the Targaryen estate itself. The rugs on the floor are intricately knitted, strung thickly by thread and cloth, and some tapestries are hung on the adjacent walls, all seemingly from different sources.

A refined opulence is what Gwayne would describe it as, in a way. It's beautiful. Gwayne can't remember how it looked like when he was a child, but this fresher view is quite fulfilling.

A maid sweeps in, her eyes never meet Ormund's, Gwayne notes. She bows and directs the twins upstairs to show them their rooms, which happens to be one room for the two of them. It's not like they mind, but the house is so big and so vast that Gwayne feels it a bit ridiculous that they're being made to share, but such is the fate of twins, at the end of the day.

Alicent just about drops dead into the bed she claims as hers, whereas Gwayne sits carefully in the adjacent one, splaying back. "He's…"

"Hot," Alicent's voice is muffled by the pillow. "And definitely gay."

"Oh my god, Ali," Gwayne gawks, stifling a laugh. "You can't say those things."

"Why not? It's not offensive. I'm gay, you're gay—seems to run in our blood."

Gwayne chuckles. "He's our cousin."

"And?" Alicent quirks a brow. "I saw you ogling him outside, Gwayne. Plus, we don't even know him like that… That brings a degree of separation, almost, if you think about it."

Alicent's words do have a ring of truth. They haven't heard from Ormund since they were four years old, and even then the man didn't want anything to do with them. He's a stranger to them, but the bond of blood is still there even if one's not close to their family.

Otto comes knocking shortly after to tell them there's food and refreshments downstairs, which is an understatement—Ormund doesn't seem to be the type of person to have visitors around very often, because the table's full of food ranging from meats to cut up seasonal fruits and desserts. It's quite ridiculous to make such an arrangement for three people, but it's also slightly endearing in a way. Alicent fixes herself a bowl while Gwayne pops some diced watermelon into his mouth and surveys the rest.

The same maid from earlier hands over a smoothie which is cold to the touch. It smells sweet and tangy, and when he tastes it he feels his whole body cooling from the inside out. A low, unprompted sound leaves his throat, then his eyes meet Ormund's across the table.

There's a glint behind his cousin's eyes that Gwayne can't quite make sense out of. In a way, Ormund looks like he's fed up, but that might just be his default expression. After all, Otto had warned them that Ormund was kind of a clean-freak and enjoyed exerting control over everything, or so Hobert described him as whenever Otto asked about his nephew. They were to stay out of the man's way as much as possible, to be their most respectful selves and keep their teenage grossness down to a minimum.

"What of the funeral arrangements, Ormund?" Otto asks, making it so that Ormund glances away from Gwayne.

"Everything has been paid for and arranged," Ormund says. "My father's wish was to be buried next to my mother, I secured the plot and got his headstone carved already. The funeral itself will be quite private, with just close friends and family, held at the Mother's cathedral."

"Right, he would've wanted it as such," Otto smiles, thinly. "Although, I will confess that neither of my children are baptized. King's Landing isn't as devote of a place as this one, we haven't gone to church in years. If that is a problem, they might attend the burial and not the funeral."

This information seems to bother Ormund, whose jaw has gone slack, an air of disapproval roaming around his features. Gwayne's eyes glaze over to the carved statues of the seven gods all gathered in a corner, then to Alicent's face, who looks back at him in complete understanding of the situation; their lack of closeness to the faith seems to have bothered their cousin, who is a devout, religious man himself. Shocker.

"We will fix that," Ormund's words are not a suggestion, but a command. "I am close with the bishop, we may go later and he shall see this handled."

Otto looks back at his children, slightly bewildered. "Aren't they a bit old, Ormund?"

"Men my age get baptized all the time," Ormund shrugs. "They are pure and youthful, still. I assume unsullied, too. There'll be no problem for the bishop to baptize them."

"Yes, but—,"

"Enjoy the snacks," Ormund smiles, bowing respectfully as he cuts Otto off. "I will be in my study if you wish to discuss anything about my father, uncle. Ask the maid, she'll guide you."

They watch him leave, simultaneously impressed and offended at his reluctance to even ask them if they'd like to be baptized at all. Otto sighs, then he's following behind Ormund, but the twins have a shared sense that arguing with the man won't be fruitful at all.

Alicent leans in, then, and quietly murmurs, "Gay and religious, that's new."

"I know," Gwayne frowns, his voice falling to a whisper. "Wait—Stop, he's not gay."

Later in the afternoon, as the freshness blooms and the breeze grows a bit colder, Ormund drives the twins and Otto to the cathedral, which is an impressive piece of architecture.

Gwayne clutches at his camera as he slips out of the backseat, Ormund's eyes drop on him then, "Do you mind?" He asks, pointing at the cathedral. "It'll be just a few pictures."

"I'll go talk to the bishop," Ormund nods. "Come, uncle, I'll introduce you."

Otto sends his children a glare that means behave as he follows behind his nephew.

Photography became a hobby shortly after joining the theater club, Gwayne loved to take pictures of his friends and his sister, too. Some of his knowledge was self-and as a reward for acing last year's final exams Otto had paid for some professional classes, which had helped him tons. King's Landing is pretty, yes, but a lot of the city just seems rotten and forgotten, which makes Gwayne feel uninspired to take any pictures of it at all.

Now, however, he can't stop snapping pictures.

"Ali," He calls. "Go sit on the steps."

Alicent goes, always happy to be pictured so beautifully. She's gorgeous, and sometimes Gwayne looks at the pictures he takes of her and can't help but wish his eyes were lenses, so that he might capture her truthfully, with all the love he feels for her.

Ormund comes out of the church then, his eyes flickering between the twins. Alicent notices him and waves him along. "Come on, cousin," She says, warmly. "Let's get a picture together?"

"Fine," Ormund joins her on the steps, wrapping an arm around Alicent's waist and pulling her close, kicking a giddy chuckle out of her. Gwayne's stomach flips at the sight, something bitter and odd brewing inside his throat as he takes care of the angle and composition. "Say whiskey, Alicent."

Alicent looks up at Ormund, beaming. "Whiskey!"

Just as Gwayne's finger presses down, Ormund presses a chaste kiss to Alicent's temple, which makes her smile widen even more. Gwayne puts the camera down, giving them a thumbs up signal and then shutting the camera off, unsure as to why he's feeling so odd out of he blue but blaming it on the sun and the blazing heat.

He trails behind them as they walk into the cathedral, Ormund still hasn't let Alicent go.

His fingers are splayed on her side, keeping her close. It's the kind of contact one wouldn't expect from two people who've never shared any time together, but Alicent seems to melt against Ormund's side. She's never been fond of touch, though—Otto's boss, Viserys, can get quite handsy at times and she always rants about how much she hates that he can't keep his sweaty, calloused fingers to himself. She is sixteen, Ormund is in his late thirties. The whole sight of them so close makes Gwayne feel a bit nauseous.

"You smell delectable," Ormund comments. "What is that fragrance?"

"Dior," Alicent quips. "Jasmin des Anges, cousin."

"Hm, great choice, kid. I quite enjoy the honey tones."

Alicent glances over her shoulder, her smile drops as she sees Gwayne's sour expression.

They stop in front of Otto and an older man chatting. Ormund hands over Alicent to her father, then turns to nod Gwayne forward, grasping him by the shoulder as he walks over, sending a chill down the teen's spine. His touch is firm, tense, and grounding. There's a certain pressure to his grip that seems to be both reassuring and a reminder to be good, to smile and bow.

The bishop beckons them to a room where a marble carved pool lies in the middle, filled to the brim with pristine, clear blessed water. Both twins are still wearing the clothes they'd arrived in, and neither had thought to bring a change of clothes as they didn't realize they would be dunked into the water and not just have their foreheads soaked. It's no issue, the bishop grins, we'll find you both something to wear after we're done. Great. They're about to walk out of this cathedral wearing hand-me-down clothing and wet underwear.

"Let's get this over with," Gwayne sighs, stepping forward. "Do I just go in?"

Otto's expression hardens. "Gwayne, watch your tone, boy."

"Adolescence is a troubling time," Ormund's eyes turn apologetic, sympathetic. "I was a rebel once, too. Don't fret, Gwayne, this will help your soul cleanse itself from sin."

Gwayne stares, blankly. He decides that he doesn't like Ormund very much, no matter how hot and gorgeous he is—The man seems to have a stick up his ass, or maybe he's feeling particularly odd about Gwayne, which is unfounded but mutual now. "Right," He turns to the bishop. "Clean me, then, sir."

The bishop's smile is tight, forced. "Step in, my child."

"If my skin melts…"

"Your cameras are mine," Alicent finishes his sentence, chuckling. "And your jackets."

The bishop murmurs a few words, something holy and sacred, in a tongue Gwayne's unsure the origins of. He's taken Dothraki and Valyrian in school so far, but it doesn't sound like either of those—The seven-sided star is rubbed onto his forehead as the bishop dips his thumb in the water, then he's told to breathe before he's dunked.

It feels like someone forcefully dragging you to the ends of a pool, but quickly rising you up once again. He's sure some of the water even gets in his nose, going all the way to his brain.

Nothing really changes, although a part of him was expected that he'd get out of the marble feeling less attracted to Robert Redford, or something. He's just wet and soggy now. He takes back his camera from Alicent and side steps silently, getting water all over the floor which doesn't seem to be a problem at all. While brushing his hair back his eyes meet Ormund's, which are darkened and raking down his body—Gwayne looks down at himself, too, noting that his shirt is sticking to his lithe torso and his shorts are enhancing his crotch.

Ormund licks his lips, which makes Gwayne feel like the water that went inside his nose is causing hallucinations. Then, Alicent's yelp distracts him and Ormund's eyes part from him.

"There," Ormund glances back at them in the backseat, donning merch from the cathedral and a matching pair of plaid pajama bottoms. He's smiling, his eyes shining. "That wasn't so bad."

"Right," Otto says, calmly. "Is that all?"

Ormund pulls away from the church, chuckling to himself. "They've yet to read the scriptures."

Alicent's hand finds his in the middle of the seat, intertwining their fingers and squeezing. They slump into each other, as if defeated, and make the quiet decision to try and let this week pass as fast as possible.

When Ormund said the funeral would be a private affair, he truly meant it.

The cathedral is sort of empty. The few funerals they've been to in the past were rather crowded by family and friends, even visitors that didn't know the dead quite well but wanted to pay their respects—This one, though, is void of that sort of oddly comforting fullness.

Hobert Hightower seems to have been the kind of man who kept his private circle small. Most of the people who hover around the front pews are of his and Otto's age, just a few men are close to Ormund. Everyone's donning dark, mourning clothes. Everyone except for them, who instead are wearing green, which seems to be a family thing. Alicent has a beautiful, delicate emerald dress on and her hair is braided neatly—Gwayne's handiwork, thank you. Gwayne is wearing half a suit, with a silk green shirt and slacks. Otto is wearing a dark, green velvet two-piece. Ormund's wearing a full on suit, and he looks painfully delectable.

They get close to the coffin once the people clear up to the side a bit. Alicent places the flowers Ormund had given her in Hobert's chest, carefully, and wipes off a stray tear.

"It's silly, isn't it?" She sniffles. "We barely knew him, and I still feel sad that he's gone."

Gwayne frowns, sadly. He wraps his arm around his sister's shoulder and presses his face to her hair. "It's not silly," He reassures her, softly. "He was our family too. It's normal to be sad."

"Your brother tells the truth," Ormund creeps in, like some kind of stalker. He's standing behind them, towering over them both, and looking down at his dead father with a puzzling look in his eyes. "He adored you both despite the distance. He was just... a man of few words."

"I'm sorry," Alicent's sobbing gets worse, she turns away then. "Forgive me."

She runs off to Otto, most likely, while Gwayne remains frozen over his uncle's coffin.

He doesn't know why, what's just so wrong with him, but grief has always been a feeling he's struggled with. It happened when his mother died, too, despite how young he was. Alicent had been molded by that, he remembers her crying will into her later years as a child because she missed their mother and wanted her back, but he had never been able to feel like that. He missed her, yes, but the lack of memories of her mess with his capability to mourn her. Gwayne can't remember his mother, the sound of her voice or how she smelled, the way she'd sing him to sleep or how her arms felt, and that twists just how he thinks of her.

Ormund's hands pose themselves over his shoulders, the man draws closer, his hot breath fanning the back of Gwayne's neck. "I can confide in you," He whispers, leaning in. "She is soft hearted, as all girls tend to be, but you seem smart, Gwayne. This man was a bastard, and he died as one—He put himself in the ground after he took my mother, too."

"He…" Gwayne stiffens, frowning. "He hit you?"

"That would've been kind of him," Ormund retreats, letting his hand drift down the expanse of Gwayne's shoulder blades, all the way to the small of his back. "Don't tell Alicent I said this."

"I won't, I promise."

Ormund smiles down at him. "Good boy."

For the rest of the afternoon Gwayne keeps to himself, for the most part. Some people approach him now and then to wish their condolences as they learn he's Otto's son, but he's mostly left alone, watching as Ormund talks to people and perfects the art of pretending to care about the stories these folks have about the man he seems to have despised so much.

Otto is no exemplary parent but he has never hit either of them. His indifference towards Gwayne and crystal clear preference for Alicent has always been obvious, so much so that Gwayne knew at an early age that he needed to just step out of the way and be whoever he wished to be, because it wouldn't matter anyway. The bare minimum is performed, though. Gwayne gets fed, housed and clothed. His education is paid for and he'll be sent to a good university when the time comes. Otto's emotional negligence is something he got used to long ago, a bother that simmers beneath the surface but not as hot it did as years ago.

The burial is a quiet, private affair, too. The bishop from the previous day is there to say a few words as Hobert's lowered into the ground forever. Otto's eyes get misty at some point, even.

Gwayne's gaze keeps glazing over to Ormund, who's standing with his hands held at his front and his jaw slack, pulled taut. His eyes are boring into his father's coffin, as if he could revive him and say all these things he seems to have been storing inside him. A sense of mutual understanding flows between the two, then, because Ormund might have noticed Otto's willful ignorance to his son's existence. Or maybe it's that sense of male camaraderie one's supposed to feel as they grow older, Gwayne's unsure. There is a deep, shadowed gratefulness to having never been close to Hobert now, one that he should feel ashamed of but doesn't. Gwayne has about enough with Otto already.

"Here, uncle," Ormund hands over the keys to his car as they make their way out of the cemetery. "I'd like to stay at the cathedral for a while."

Gwayne jumps in, rather quickly. "I'll stay behind with Ormund, father."

Otto assesses the two of them with a look, seeming rather surprised. "Very well," He says, taking the keys and re-directing a still weeping Alicent to the car. "I'll see you two back at the house, then. Call me if you need to be picked up."

The two of them watch the older man pull away and drive off, Ormund grabs him by the elbow then, guiding him away. "Come, kid," He nudges. "I'll show you something."

Instead of making their way back to the church, Ormund walks him to a path that goes behind it and into a thicket of greenery. Gwayne keeps his hands held at his sides, sweating through his clothes and feeling himself turning pink under the sun. He's impressed that Ormund seems so fresh and put-together, although he guesses it's how he has trained himself to be.

There is a rigidness to Ormund's shoulders that makes Gwayne feel like he's inside a cage with a dog—a hound, even. An angry, secluded beast that feigns goodness so that one may try to slip their fingers through the cracks of said cage and get themselves bitten. Ormund isn't mean, or hasn't been mean so far, but he seems to be a man with a short patience and a terrible temper. He takes early breakfasts by himself, spends most of his waking hours locked away inside his study or reading outside, sat underneath the shade of the lemon trees. He's lonely by choice, Gwayne realizes, and he doesn't seem to be bothered by that.

It's a curious thing, really. Gwayne finds himself fascinated by his cousin despite the man's less than pleasant snark and up-tightness.

They come to a stop in the middle of the greenery. There are a few of stone benches placed around a circle but what Gwayne notices first are the carved statues standing as tall as Ormund lined up at the sides, all seven of them. They are a fine beauty, aged yet retaining their holy grace, with spots of green here and there, vines wrapped around chipped marble limbs. It's a prayer circle of sorts, he notices, probably has been around since the town was founded or before, even.

"A pity you didn't bring your camera." Ormund quips, turning to face him.

"To a funeral?" Gwayne chuckles. "My father would've killed me."

Ormund laughs, lowly. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He asks, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. "I used to come here when I was your age after school, I'd sit for hours just so I'd have an excuse to not go home. If my father asked I'd just say I was at the church, which wasn't a lie."

"Wow, these are ancient," Gwayne mocks. "Which one was your bench?"

"That one," Ormund points to the one that's right nearby the statue of the Mother. "Nowadays this beautiful, sacred space is desecrated by brats your age who come here and blow their toxic waste into the statues. I have warned the bishop but nothing has been done."

"You have one-sided beef with teenagers who vape?"

Ormund's head tilts. "Your vocabulary lack decorum and grace, Gwayne."

"What're you going to do about it?" Gwayne tilts his chin up. "Punish me?"

Ormund comes to stand in front of him, shadowing him from the sun with his bulk. Gwayne's eyes trail down to his cousin's crotch, momentarily, because it's right there.

"Maybe that's what you need," Ormund's voice drops to a lower register. "A firm hand to guide you, hm, cousin? I should convince Otto to let you be under my wing."

"You can't just do that," Gwayne snarls. "I can't leave Alicent."

"The beautiful pull of twin biology. Were you feeling it too as I had my arm around her waist the other day? Were you upset, aching to be in her place? Otto told me what you are, Gwayne."

Gwayne swallows, harshly. "What am I, cousin?"

"A sinner," Ormund leans down, to the point where his face is so close, too close. His breath smells like mint and coffee, his cologne like cedarwood and rum. His words slip out of him like poison out of a serpent's mouth, his teeth lodged into Gwayne's veins. "Who clings to sodomy as a comfort. The time spent on your knees has nothing to do with the gods. You're a mistake."

That sense of closeness cracks at the edges, splintering like a piece of wood. Ormund's no different than Hobert and Otto, then—Gwayne doesn't know why but this realization, alongside his vile words, just hurt like nothing has hurt before.

It's no surprise a man as devout as Ormund feels this way about Gwayne being queer, but to voice it with such conviction and vitriol is a different thing. One would expect their family to keep it low, at least. But Ormund's not his family. He brought him here to humiliate him in front of the gods, he might have even been plotting it since he closed up on Alicent and him at the ceremony, leading Gwayne in with a false sense of brotherhood only to topple his defenses down and have him as vulnerable as possible to hurt him as much as he could.

His eyes drop, filling up with unshed crystalline tears. It's not like he's never experienced this before but Ormund makes it particularly suffocating, as if he had his hands around his throat.

"I want to go," Gwayne sniffles, glancing away. "Can we go home?"

"You won't bother your grieving father with this, right? Have some compassion."

"I won't. I just—I wanna go lie down, Ormund. I'll walk on my own if you wanna stay."

Ormund doesn't buy a sliver of his words, yet he pulls back, nodding. "Let's go, then."

During dinner time he eats very little, says even less. Otto and Ormund find themselves engaged in a deep conversation about some cases they've worked, anyway, neither are paying much attention to the twins. Ormund's words swirl around Gwayne's brain like tar in the water, turning everything black and opaque, almost.

Alicent notices his mood, of course. Her brows are furrowed deeply across the table and she's asking without having to use words just what's happening, but Gwayne shakes his head, brushing her concern off. To tell her would be to ruin her moods and perception of Ormund, who so far has been nothing but kind to her, and Gwayne has never liked to hurt her as such unless it was totally necessary. She would insist he tell Otto, too, or she would try to give Ormund a taste of his own medicine and Gwayne suspects—based on the man's comments about girls being naturally soft-hearted—that he wouldn't hold back on her either.

That night, when he goes to sleep, he spots a copy of the faith's scriptures on his pillow but not on Alicent's, and prayer beads wrapped around the bed-post.

He tosses the book aside when Alicent returns from her shower, shoving the beads under his pillow and feigning exhaustion as he slips under the covers and stifles his sobs against the pillows.

"We're staying."

Otto announces this over breakfast a few days after the funeral.

"What?" Alicent scoffs. "You have work, dad."

"I talked to Viserys," Otto holds up a hand, calming his daughter down. "If he needs me, he'll summon me back, but for now I've the rest of the summer freed up."

Gwayne's stomach sinks, suddenly the toast he's been eating doesn't taste as good. Alicent seems surprised but not displeased, which he cannot be mad at her for—Still, his resentment towards the general indifference that's directed at him grows teeth inside his chest.

He's laying on his stomach in the bed a few hours later, lazying about and scrolling on his phone, admiring as his friends have a sweet, awesome summer back home while he's rotting in this damned house. The few pictures he posted of the cathedral, alongside the one of Ormund and Alicent, make him feel uncomfortable now. He ponders on deleting them but Alicent would ask why he did such a thing, before he can make his decision the door swings open, revealing a swimming-suit wearing Alicent with bright red cheeks.

"Quick, quick!" She rushes, dragging him by the calves. "To the pool, I say!"

"When did you change?" He asks, but he's already getting up. "I don't even know where my swimming shorts are."

"I've had this on since breakfast," Alicent snorts. "I think they're in your red bag."

She's right, Gwayne plucks his duck-patterned swimming shorts and shushes his sister out of the room so he may change. He ditches his shirt, too, and grabs his towel before following Alicent out into the back patio where Ormund's big, blue-tiled swimming pool lies amidst an array of pool-side chairs and greenery.

Alicent is a talented swimmer, she used to be in the swimming team before she hit puberty and deemed it lame. Gwayne, however, has never been to fond of bodies of water, even if they're controlled and safe like backyard pools. His churning stomach is made worse as he notices Ormund lounging in one of the chairs under a big umbrella, shadowed by the shade, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and tiny, green swimming shorts that cling to him like a second skin. The man's an Adonis, that much is true, and his gut swirls with bitterness at the sight of him, envying his perfection and his nonchalance.

Gwayne thinks his existence to be a greater obscenity than gay sex, but he digresses.

"Stop thinking about it," Alicent scolds from the other end of the pool, watching as Gwayne struggles to convince himself to get into the water. "Just jump!"

"Wait!" Gwayne yelps. "I'm counting to ten."

Alicent rolls her eyes. "One, two, three, four, five—,"

Before they even get to six, Gwayne feels two massive arms wrap around his torso from behind, the wind is knocked out of him as Ormund topples him to the water without a warning.

He hadn't even heard him get up, which he blames on the soft grass and the man's tendency for predatory quietness. Ormund's hardened abdomen and chest pressed to Gwayne's back make his mind fog momentarily, he forgets the man's vitriol and his ugly attitude as his clothed bulge presses against Gwayne's lower back. The water is cold, as expected, but Ormund's bulk helps him remain warm. They surge up, Gwayne clinging to the air that enters his lungs as he bats away at his cousin, who has a huge grin on his face, all the while Alicent's laugh echoes across the acres before she jumps in, too.

Ormund acting like nothing transpired between them makes Gwayne hyper-aware of his actions, to the point where he keeps to the edge of the pool while staring at Ormund and Alicent engage in a playful, clumsy game of pool volleyball.

It's all worsened by the fact that Ormund looks like he's slipped out of a magazine or an expensive perfume commercial. His brown, curled hair is in perfect disarray and the water drips down his muscles like someone sprayed him strategically—He's sun-kissed, his gold chain clings to his neck and glints against the sunlight, Gwayne's eyes dropping to it and then looking away as shame fills his throat. Ormund is his cousin—his homophobic, piece of shit cousin, at that—and yet he can't help but feel breathless as the man's blue eyes lock on him.

"Pee break!" Alicent announces, slipping out of the pool. "Don't have fun without me."

Ormund swims over to him, pressing himself against the cold tiled wall of the pool, nudging him with his shoulder. Gwayne tries to relax, to make it seem like he's unaffected by the proximity, but then Ormund's fingers wrap around the wet locks of hair at his nape.

"You didn't tell Otto," Ormund murmurs. "You're a very good boy, Gwayne."

"Fuck off," Gwayne recoils, weakly. "I could still tell him, you know?"

"You could, but it would make for a long, painful summer for you."

"We would go back home, and I'd never have to see you again."

"Funny," Ormund's hand trails down, just as it had done during the funeral, but this time the touch is immediate—Those tender, soft fingers tracing the line of his spine, his thumbs pressing down on the dimples of it and then going lower, all the way to his clothed ass. "I don't think daddy cares that much about you, Gwayne."

Gwayne tenses as Ormund grabs a handful of his ass-cheek, eliciting a soft moan out of him unprompted. "Stop," His voice comes out soft, thin. "Why're you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Ormund teases, his hand wraps around Gwayne's lower body until he's cupping the boy's crotch wholly, eliciting more sounds out of him, more so pained moans. "We're just swimming Gwayne, hm? That is all."

Ormund begins rubbing the heel of his palm against Gwayne's small, hardened cock, which has begun to stir in interest, already leaking due to the natural sensitivity of his age. Gwayne, ashamed and wishing to be drowned, burns hot and bothered under the blazing sun despite the respite the cold water provides him. His chest fills with both dread and pleasure, feelings that mix into a cocktail that's akin to rat poison, almost.

Ultimately, it's not right for a plethora of reasons; they share blood, there is a direct wiring between their veins that flows similarly, in tandem. Ormund is older, far older than he is, there's a power dynamic that goes unmatched between the two. Gwayne is sixteen, barely entering maturity and far too boyish for his age, or so Otto has said in the past. The man's a lawyer, so he must be aware that this is statutory rape, and wrong from all angles from which one chooses to see it—Still, that doesn't seem to be a problem for Ormund, which… doesn't really come off as a surprise.

There was a time a while back in which Gwayne kept going out with an older boy—albeit he was nineteen, which is far away from thirty-eight—and he was a douche, kind of. Alicent found out about this boyfriend of his and called him a sad victim of a slut. Shortly after, the boy dropped him altogether, which Gwayne guessed was Alicent's doing as well.

Yes, she had made all those jokes about their cousin, but Alicent's quite peculiar with her humor. She hadn't meant for him to take his attraction seriously… Or, well, Gwayne didn't think she did. She would definitely be against it if she knew of Ormund's words, the ones he spoke so proudly back at the seven's circle and that now feel like utter hypocrisy given what he's doing, how he's acting with who he deemed as sick and a mistake.

Just as Gwayne's hips begin bucking, desperately trying to drink in all the pleasure provided by such dull, careless contact, Alicent's voice can be heard behind them. Ormund doesn't pull away, though, not until she's rushing back to them, and even then Gwayne has to revive some of his lost pride to not swim back to his cousin and seek his climax.

She notes Gwayne's flushed, breathless state immediately. Alicent sits on the border of the pool next to him, bringing her palm to his sweaty, flushed temple. "Do you have sun-fever?"

"Maybe," Gwayne murmurs. "I'm no good with heat, Ali."

"I know, you're such a baby," She coos, pouting as she lowers herself to the water again and lies her warm, soft cheek against his shoulder. Her eyes momentarily drift to Ormund, who's taken a spot by the stairs and seems to be basking in the sun. "At least the view's nice."

Gwayne's eyes flutter towards the sky, he hums. "Yeah," A dry rasp has him clearing his throat, his cock softens in his shorts and he presses against Alicent. "I guess so."

The afternoon bleeds into the early evening, coating the sky in pinks and oranges. After their little pool fun, Ormund retreated back into the house without a word and locked himself in his study. Gwayne didn't think much of it, he tried to forget everything that had happened under the water and instead decided to snap a few pictures of the skyline and the endless acres.

Alicent poses for him, too. Her pink sundress matches the shade of the clouds above and makes her fiery hair stand out, which is tied in neat, tiny braids. He's in the room after they're done, loading the pictures onto his laptop to send them to his sister while Alicent reads a book in the bed. It's one she borrowed from Ormund, given the title and the topic—He wonders, momentarily, if she's been inside his study with him and a sense of nerves grow within him. Who says Ormund's stopping at Gwayne? With his views it's clear he beds women, even for the pretense of it, even if his hunger is directed elsewhere.

Otto appears on the doorway, looking quite elegant. Their father's always been a well put together man, never letting himself go despite the hard times they've been through. He paints a dapper, gentlemanly picture, though, and Alicent whistles.

"Looking good, daddy," She smiles, brightly. "What's the occasion?"

"Ormund's invited me to dine with some of his colleagues," Otto says, holding his hands behind his back as he walks into the room with that air of surveillance to him, as if suspecting they're up to something. "You two will be left alone, I must plead with you both… Behave."

"When do we not?" Alicent scoffs. "We'll just grab a bite or two and then sleep, most likely."

Otto hums, unconvinced. His eyes are set on Gwayne, then. "Take care of your sister," He commands. "And do try to not defile anything of Ormund's if you wish to live to see next week."

"Yes, father. Nothing will happen."

Otto leaves at last, and shortly after there's the sound of low murmuring and then a car screeching out of the house. The maid has long gone away and the night grows darker as they climb down the stairs, Alicent strutting towards the kitchen to raid Ormund's cabinets.

The house is rather scary when there's such loneliness, Gwayne realizes. He hops onto the counter and sits stiffly, watching as his sister regards everything inside the cupboards with a frown and a scowl. If they were home they'd already be housing a family-sized pizza between the two, drinking themselves into a sugary-led stupor and going to bed with tummy aches.

"Gods," Alicent sighs, shutting down the last cupboard. "I don't want oatmeal for dinner."

Gwayne offers an apologetic smile. "I could make you something, Ali."

"No offense, brother, but last time you cooked for me I missed school for two weeks."

"I didn't know that tuna had gone bad!"

"It was black, Gwayne. Black. Tuna is pink."

He'd felt so much regret over having almost poisoned his sister that he had been his slave for the remaining of that year. Alicent had forgiven him immediately, but she liked bossing him around—It's in the past now, and Gwayne could cook something for her, but he guesses Ormund's ingredients are not fitting for Alicent's taste, either.

Alicent feigns pondering, her eyes blinking with faux innocence. "Well… We could always make a quick escapade to the town. You know how to drive, don't you?"

"I'm a student driver, Alicent," Gwayne says, severely. "And whose car would I drive?"

"The one we rented! It would be so quick, Gwayne, pick up some food then we return!"

"Ali," Gwayne sighs. "We can't."

Alicent mimics his sigh, slumping defeated against the marble counter. "We haven't done a thing we like! It's summer, Gwayne, we're not statues—We're young and free! They cannot chain us to this big, stupidly luxurious house."

"Okay, Marx, stop. We won't even get away with it, there's cameras everywhere."

"Ormund might only check them once we're far gone," Alicent insists, wrapping her slender fingers around Gwayne's wrist. "Please, Gwayne. It'll be fun."

Fun until Otto finds out, for sure. Those bright, brown eyes that are more like a fawn's have always been one of his greatest weakness, though. Alicent's eyes glimmer under the lights and he's coming undone. "Fine," He says, defeated. "Whose money are we even using?"

Alicent beams, jumping up and down excitedly. "Remember when I babysat for the Tully's?"

Gwayne's a slow, careful driver, which earns him a couple of honks and insults here and there as he drives through the roads of Oldtown. Alicent finds it hilarious, sticking her head out and shouting back at the upset drivers that pass them by with disapproving looks painted all over their faces.

"Do we know which restaurant they're at?" Gwayne asks, eyes kept forward.

"How would I know?" Alicent frowns. "Some overpriced scam, probably. One of those places with the Michelin stars and the tiny portions."

"Isn't Ormund vegan?"

"That would explain why he's so grumpy all the time. He misses cheeseburgers."

Their banter comes easy, as always. Their conversation flows so smoothly that they can jump from one topic to another with seamless transitions and non-sense segues, even. Mocking Ormund and Otto is what they get up to as they drive into town and check for whatever makes their stomach growl the loudest.

A Yi-Ti'sh spot is what catches their eyes. Alicent goes to buy their food while Gwayne waits in the car, checking his phone in case Otto has realized they've fled and is now blood-thirsty.

Success tastes sweet in their mouths as Alicent returns with their boxes of food and their drinks, which they gulp down halfway through the drive. It's almost a full on victory, and Gwayne can't believe he was denying Alicent this tiny luxury for the sake of fear—That is, of course, until there's blue and red lights blinking in the background and a cop car signaling them for them to pull over. Gwayne's heart jumps to his throat. He doesn't have a license, not here, not back home, either. Alicent's eyes widen, she turns ghostly pale.

The cop that walks up to the car is an older man, middle-aged and rugged. He has a scowl painted across his face and it only worsens as he notices the two teens.

"License and registration, please."

Gwayne licks his lips nervously. "Sir… I have neither of those. We're not from here."

"You do realize that's a felony, correct?" The cop asks, dryly. "How old are you, boy?"

"Sixteen—We both are, sir."

"Minors. Right. Well, whoever raised you both can answer for you at the station. Come on now, out the car and into the back of mine."

Alicent interjects. "We can't go to jail, we're underage."

"You're not getting locked up, kid, but I can't let you go on, can I?"

The twins shamefully get into the back of the cop car, Alicent gets the boxes taken away, adding salt to the wound—No doubt, the dickhead's going to eat their food. Their rented, expensive car gets towed and Gwayne starts to feel that choking dread fill up his chest once again.

Alicent's soft sniffling stirs the need to reach out and comfort her, but at the same time he's resentful, as he has felt since the moment he stepped into this town. Had it not been for her tantrums always being paid attention to, he wouldn't be in this spot. Yes, he's guilty of spoiling her, too—but at the end of the day it's Otto's favoritism that's been tearing a crack among the seams of their connections, only growing wider as they grow older. Even their university plans are different, and Gwayne hasn't had the courage to be honest about what he wishes to do with his life to save his sister from heartbreak. How could he ever leave her, anyway? He's not even sure if he could ever go on living without his other half.

That, naturally, makes him upset as well. Alicent doesn't seem to ponder this as harshly as him, and that wounds him.

They get shoved into an empty interrogation room after the officer collects Otto's information from them. A quiet, shy officer, much younger than the other one, brings them sodas and offers them an apologetic smile, as if they were playing asshole cop, good cop.

"Gwayne."

"Leave it alone, Alicent."

Tears begin welling up in his sister's eyes. Outside there's a flurry of voices, some that they recognize—Ormund came along, then, which makes the shame burn hotter.

Otto struts in first, leaving Ormund behind, who seems to be having a lively chat with the officers. His father's eyes are set on a deep, dark expression, one that he's only seen a handful of times before but never directed at him. Immediately, Gwayne attempts to make himself smaller, to shy away from the darkness and go somewhere else.

Ormund walks in, those icy blues of his rake over Gwayne, there's an air of triumph to him that he can't quite understand. Alicent's grabbed by her elbow by their cousin, and though she tries to be left behind Otto regards her with a look that makes her shiver. "Wait," She attempts, but she's sooner out the door with Ormund taking her away.

"Stand up," Otto commands. "Eyes on me."

Gwayne does as he's told, of course. His back aches to hunch, his heart drums inside his chest as if it were announcing war, and he watches Otto prepare the backhand before he feels it—The sting is familiar, a sensation that he's felt before but forgets from season to season. His whole face turns, as if possessed, and his cheek will surely bruise where his father's rings hit and split skin. There's another that follows the first one, then one more, for good measure.

The last one is across the mouth, which makes him spit bright, vibrant red onto the sticky floor.

"Out," Otto barks. "And don't you dare open your mouth, Gwayne."

Ormund and Alicent have already gone away by the time he's back outside, the rented car has been returned, too, which is what Otto drives back home in.

At last, he returns to that wretched house, where Hobert Hightower once ruled with as much cruelty as the rest of his line—Gwayne ponders if being soft-hearted has cost him the respect and love of his father for a moment, but then he sees the man embracing Alicent as if Gwayne had tossed her into the battlefield with a toy gun and prayers, noting that despite it being Alicent's idea he's the one receiving punishment and being demonized for merely following the pattern Otto has lived by his whole life; to always say yes to her every whim.

Alicent's eyes are watery and bright as they land on him, on his bruises. Gwayne regards her with a scowl, an ugly expression he can't fight back, and sighs. "May I be dismissed?"

"Get out of my sight," Otto scorns, bitterly. "Tomorrow morning you shall join your cousin for mass. Ormund's dutiful, devout presence will serve you for good. Oh, and forget about theater group next year."

"But," Gwayne's voice quivers as his heart seizes. "That's not fair."

"I'll show you unfair, Gwayne. Don't force my hand."

As if I'd need to, he thinks. Gwayne can't help the tears that begin welling up behind his eyes as he brusquely brushed past his sister on his way upstairs.

Humiliated and heartbroken, he keeps his head low, failing to see his cousin standing right at the doorway of his room. Gwayne collides with Ormund's steady chest head-first, tilting his face upwards and gasping as those soft fingers wrap around his jaw to bring his injuries to the light. Strangely, Ormund gives a hum of disapproval as he examines the young boy, as if he was personally offended by the beating Gwayne took back at the station.

"Such injustice," Ormund murmurs, tentatively. "I wouldn't do this to you."

Gwayne laughs wetly. "I have a hard time believing that, Ormund."

"Oh, the beating? Yes, I would backhand you if needed, I didn't mean that—I was talking about setting you aside, sweetling. I would make a treasure out of you, my boy. My little treasure."

"Can I go?" Gwayne asks, uncomfortably shifting on his feet.

Ormund releases him, then. "I will wake you for mass," He says as he sweeps on by, eyes momentarily drifting to Gwayne's lips. "Goodnight, sweetling."

A woman from a few pews over keeps glancing over at him, puzzled by his bruising.

Gwayne side-eyes her, nastily. Ormund's attention is fully on the sermon, given by that annoying bishop and accompanied by a child much younger than Gwayne who looks like he's about to burst into tears as he walks through the rows with the offering's basket. Surprisingly, Ormund takes out his wallet and leaves a hefty amount on the thing, all big bills wrapped with an elastic band that he doesn't give much thought towards.

"Now, kneel," The bishop beckons. "And let us pray."

Ormund's hand on his shoulder is a force of nature, Gwayne is lowered to his knees on the polished, hard-wood floor with a soft grunt. He mimics everyone else, keeping his head bowed, his hands joined and his eyes closed—He does not know any of the prayers at all, but that's no bother, Ormund recites them enough for the two of them.

His cousin engages in lively, insistent chatter with the bishop as Gwayne rests under the shade of the church. Ormund looks almost… kind, almost. His smile seems to be sincere as he exchanges pleasantries between the bishop and a nun, they must have known him since he was a child given their ages. Gwayne wonders what Ormund was like back then, all perfect-faced and hardened by his father's treatment, for sure. He wonders what Ormund meant by how he was rebellious once, too, given that he's hinted that Hobert would've had his head had he dared not heed his every command.

Gwayne can't imagine Ormund smoking his first cigarette, or drinking his first feer. He can't picture the man having sex at a party or smoking his first joint in the parking lot of a Tesco.

He amuses himself by thinking of Ormund as the kind of child who'd wear vests and finely pressed button-ups, who thought himself an adult despite the high pitch to his voice and read books that his inexperienced brain couldn't wholly comprehend. Then, said amusement turns sour as he thinks of Hobert dimming Ormund's light with his abuse.

The man might be an asshole, but all of that is taught, suckled through one's environment. Gwayne thinks of himself as the first Hightower man to escape the family curse of being an insufferable cunt, but that is thanks to the influence of Alicent's company in his life, for the most part. He can't think what he would've been like had it just been Otto and him. Ormund spoke of Hobert taking his mother, which is never easy on anyone, but less so when a boy's so young and needs a soft yet guiding hand to push them forward. Gwayne had Alicent. Ormund had no one but his monstrous father and a house that was swallowing him down.

He's just as lonely now. Ormund might deem his solitary confinement as peace but Gwayne sees right through the walls he's built. It is a defense mechanism, one that says; if I shut myself in, then no one can get to me and hurt me.

"Have you put any thought to my offer, Gwayne?"

Gwayne's eyes track the town as the car rolls back towards the estate. He sits comfortably in the passenger seat, distracted. "No," He admits. "And I won't, cousin. I wish to go back home."

"To what, exactly?" Ormund's eyes track him for a second. "Your father's barred you from going back to your activities on the stage, you'll most likely be put on a military man's schedule, all the while Alicent is free to bitch around as much as she wishes."

"Don't talk about my sister like that," Gwayne straightens. "It's not helping your cause."

"Am I wrong? She is your father's dearest princess, you are the burden he's stuck with because you came along as a two-for-one deal out of your mother's womb. I would not lie to you, as that is a sin," Honesty drips out of Ormund's voice, and Gwayne hates that he can't recognize if it's true or faked. "You would not be miserable here with me."

Gwayne blinks, slowly. "But I would not be happy."

"You're unhappy now, anyways. Happiness is the sentiment of fools."

It brings him great pain that, despite it all, he begins to consider it. Ormund's right—He is unhappy back home, too. Oldtown doesn't seem so bad, and the local university has a theater program—he had researched every university in the continent when he became fixated—that seems decent enough, some renowned names have made it out of here, even.

Mass wasn't all that bad, either. He could get used to going and spending time on his prayers each morning and every night before bed, because clinging to faith seems to be the thing lost people do and he finds that the path ahead has become overrun by dark, thick weeds he can't push away. Nothing about him has to change. Living in pretense has been something he's been doing since the moment Otto's eyes hardened as they landed over his crib when he'd been just born. Ormund, for all his flaws, seems like the kind of man who would despite to make his living situation a hellish escape for the sake of a child, so living with him would be quiet and boring but mostly uneventful.

He grabs the book of scriptures from the bedside drawer and takes to reading it out in the sun once they've gotten home. Every other passage feels like reading some sort of gory tale full of fear mongering and outdated values, but Gwayne soaks them in, even lets himself relate to some of the shepherds the seven saw fit enough to carry out the mission of bringing forth their message towards the human race. The Stranger's passages scare him a little, but the mundanity of death also brings a weird sort of comfort to his heart.

Alicent casts a shadow over his pages, looking down at him through sorry eyes. "You've converted?" She asks, an attempt at playfulness. "Color me surprised, brother."

Ormund's words come back to him like bile rising up his throat. Alicent comes to him easily, unscathed, offering her sweet smiles as an olive branch, while he's forced to rot in his own misery. "Excuse me," Gwayne stands, abruptly. "I… I need to see Ormund."

"What? Why?" Alicent frowns, suddenly weirded out. "Gwayne… Is he hurting you?"

"Is that how you think of me?" Gwayne snaps. "You think I'd throw myself at our cousin."

"No, fuck—Those were jokes, Gwayne. I don't think of you as promiscuous."

Gwayne knows that that's not true, he exhales, pained. "Jokes are supposed to be funny."

He flees, slipping through the intricate corridors of the home until he's in front of Ormund's study. His knuckles are soft against the aged wood, almost inaudible, but Ormund's commanding voice comes through anyhow—Come in, he says, smoothly.

The study is a testament to Ormund's years of study, to his brilliance. His degrees are lined up on the wall, framed behind delicate glass alongside local articles of won cases and the notable things he's done for the community. Rows of bookshelves cover the walls, too, filled to the brim with colorful hard-covers, all ranging from topics and genres. There's not a speck of dust, not even in the emerald carpets or the pristine coffee table. The scent of sharp lemons and palo santo clings to every corner in here as well.

Childhood trophies sit lined behind a glass case in a corner. Ormund must have been a fine chess player—there's even a board in the spot by the glass panels—and an even better debate club leader, there are some for archery and horse-riding competitions, too.

Ormund sits behind his mahogany desk, which is neatly littered by papers and files, with his hands folded and his laptop pressed shut. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, and it's not warm, but Gwayne steps forward. "Gwayne, I wasn't expecting it to be you."

"I ran away," He confesses. "From Alicent."

"Hm, and you're panicking," Ormund observes, his eyes trail lower and then land on the book Gwayne's holding. "Oh, my boy, you've been doing your reading."

"Yes, it has been… insightful. I have been enjoying it, even, though that sounds grim."

"Grim? No, no. That's good, Gwayne," Ormund's eyes are glimmering, shining with a profound sense of relief and pride, almost. The praise dances through Gwayne's psyche, making his spine tingle. "Come forward, sweetling. Tell me what you've enjoyed the most."

Gwayne goes, and Gwayne speaks, because he's heard—Ormund pays undivided attention to his every word, nodding along in agreement as he expresses his great interest in the philosophy behind the Stranger's reception to death as something so natural. There's a glint of disapproval when he mentions how outdated the Mother's teachings are, which he corrects immediately by insisting that he does not deny them as true, but that they could be applied under different lights and be less oppressive. It goes against his every moral to say such a thing, because he does not think of women as walking wombs, but Ormund's attention feels like sweet wine down his throat, like drinking ice water during a summer Dornish day.

Then, Ormund beckons him closer, suggesting he sit upon the desk as he shoves files and papers aside to make room. Gwayne's stomach swirls in slight discomfort but he does as he's told, his feet swinging as they don't reach the floor, and he goes on talking.

Ormund's hands are on his knees, cutting off his train of thought momentarily. Gwayne tenses under the contact but draws in a sharp breath, moving onto the next topic—However, Ormund's hands do not remain stationary; they begin tracing up his thighs, rubbing circles and tracing patterns across the pale, freckled skin. His cheeks turn a soft pink, which he cannot blame on the searing heat as the study is kept eerily cool by the blaring AC unit.

"I've not finished," Gwayne says, at last, feeling his tongue thick and heavy inside his mouth. "But I'm excited to do so, cousin."

"You paint the prettiest picture whilst talking with such passion about our faith," Ormund purrs. "I could devour you whole, Gwayne, but we are damned by the unnecessary company of your brute, ambitious father and whiny sister—We must keep up the pretense."

Gwayne swallows roughly. "How do you mean, cousin?"

"Behave as if our conversation is flowing smoothly," Ormund drags his chair backwards, spreading his legs further as he caresses his hardened crotch. "While you pleasure me."

He should leave. He should run and lock himself inside the room and wait for Otto to drag him back to King's Landing by the collar when the summer comes to an end. He should go back to that police station and inform them that the benevolent, devout man they were so friendly with likes to get his hands on children. But he doesn't do any of this, no.

Instead, he licks over his dry lips, flushing crimson. "I've never—I've never done that, cousin."

"Is that so?" Ormund quirks a brow, surprised. "Your mouth remains unsullied?"

"All of me, cousin. I've never… done anything besides touching someone below their clothes."

He doesn't know why he's saying this. It's as if he'd been tossed to the confessional, forced to speak nothing but the truth in the eyes of Gods he swore weren't even real just last week—Ormund's eyes darken, black taking over the blue, as he drinks the words in. "You're a virgin," He says, more to himself than to discuss. "It's as if the Gods had made you for me, treasure."

Gwayne exhales. "I thought you saw me as a sinner, cousin. You called me a mistake."

"I gave it some thought," Ormund confesses, honestly. "Rolled the dice around in my head and I kept landing on the same conclusion—Had the Gods wished for this to be different, they would've made it so. What you did with others is a sin, but what we do together doesn't have to be, Gwayne. You were made for me… They were just waiting to deliver you."

The words should be ugly, nefarious. Gwayne should think highly of himself and accept this as honey-soaked pleasantries made by a man whose innate thirst for power makes it so that he thinks himself entitled to people's bodies, to their autonomy and identity. But for once in his miserable life he's seen, not merely observed, and Ormund's eyes make him feel funny all over, make him feel like he's running on high adrenaline and inhaling more of it as their gazes lock.

They're pretty, it is a nice concept; to think he's spent all these years under the dim lights of his sister's existence and his father's negligence only to be rewarded with genuine love.

Foolish, childish thoughts plague his head. He used to read fantasy novels and picture himself in the place of the helpless maidens who always had knights coming to their rescue—Strong, capable knights, with hearts of gold and honor made out of steel. Perhaps Ormund is right, and Gwayne's fantasies have decided to come true and he will be delivered from sadness onto the warm light holiness and his cousin's company can only provide.

He sinks to his knees on the soft, fuzzy rug. His hands are laid over Ormund's thighs as he nuzzles his face against the clothed muscle there, looking up at his cousin.

"The Mother took her sweet time molding you, my boy," Ormund murmurs as he reaches for the laces of his shorts, pulling them loose. He's going commando under them, so his hard, thick, big cock springs out freely easily. "And the Warrior forged your heart, I'm sure."

It's bigger than Gwayne would've guessed—uncut, too. The head is thick but the rest is long, slightly chubbed and with heavy balls. Ormund's hairless all over, even down there. Gwayne ponders on sizing it next to his forearm but that would scare him even more than he is.

"Will it," He chokes out. "Will it fit inside my mouth?"

"If you let me guide you, it shall. Relax and heed my command, sweetling."

Gwayne nods, softly. He reaches out to wrap a curious hand around the hot, heavy length, giving a surprised gasp as he feels it throb against his palm. Ormund chuckles, amused, and reaches out to grasp Gwayne by the auburn locks, not quite pulling but keeping him tight.

"Kiss it."

Ormund's voice has dropped a few decibels, it sends a shiver down Gwayne's spine as he leans forward and presses wet, kitten-ish kisses to his cousin's cock. The taste is… nothing notable—Just skin and cleanliness, some summer-induced musk that's not bothersome at all, just normal. Gwayne didn't know what he expected, but in porn they make it seem like cocks taste specially good, like candy made flesh. It's not a bad taste, though.

He licks it, too. Ormund's letting out these noises that make Gwayne's stomach flip, all groans and low moans that carry a sense of honesty, of desperation, he hasn't heard before.

Despite it not being an encyclopedia, he thinks back at what he's seen in porn; Gwayne leans even closer, wrapping his chapped lips around the head of that big cock, tasting a certain saltiness that wasn't there moments ago. Ormund's chest vibrates as he hums his approval, and he thinks the man should maybe be selling more that they're just having a conversation inside the study but he can't think too much about it. Gwayne finds his limit quite quickly, gagging around the girth as he pushes himself too hard, earning a sigh from his cousin.

"Easy," Ormund half-whispers, tugging him back up. "Watch your teeth. Go slow."

Gwayne nods, gasping. "Sorry, cousin."

"I don't want apologies, I want improvement."

Gwayne dives back down, taking him in again. This time he breathes through his nose as he works his throat into relaxation—Ormund's approval is quietly given, by a slight tug to his hair and a kick of his hips. This time he makes it a few inches in before having to pull back again.

Realistically, he won't make it all fit inside his mouth. Gwayne goes as far as he can, though, with his eyes stinging and his oxygen running low but craving to please Ormund.

He's a flushed, wet mess, with drool dripping down his chin and swollen, red-tinted lips to match his fiery hair. His nails dig into the meat of Ormund's thighs as he sits back with his cousin's cock inside his mouth and swallows around it. Ormund isn't unaffected, the man's breathing has become labored and a pretty flush coats his chest, his eyes are heavy-lidded and his mouth is parted open, he looks entirely reverent.

Gwayne knows what's next; he begins bobbing his head up and down, cringing at the lewd sounds his overly wet mouth is making. His rhythm is flawed and clumsy at first, but that's quickly fixed by Ormund's guiding hand in his hair, who begins setting a steady pace and starts thrusting into his mouth as if it were a woman's cunt. His hips are moving, the muscles in his thighs are straining and the chair is making creaking noises that don't sound like the kind it should make during innocent situations. Both are beyond the point of caring, though, and the study is secluded enough that they'd hear if anyone was coming.

His own cock stirs in interest beneath his swimming shorts. Gwayne feels himself leaking, aching as his cousin takes great pleasure in manhandling his mouth with such ease. The lack of oxygen and override of hormonal desperation make his mind fog—Ormund pulls him back slightly, momentarily, and instead of even thinking about recovering Gwayne dives back in, nuzzling his cheek against his cousin's wet cock before diving lower to take one of his balls into his mouth. "Such a good boy," Ormund muses, voice wrung dry and chalky. "Pretty little thing, slobbering all over your cousin's cock."

Gwayne whines, high pitched and needy, as he takes Ormund's feverish length back into his mouth, desperate to taste the pre-come combined with his spit. The praise strikes him harder than Otto's hand, better than any lazy, half-assed make out session with a boy his age.

"That's it," Ormund hums, groaning. "This is where you belong, treasure. Right here, with me."

"With you," Gwayne agrees, his voice all broken and raspy as he pulls back. "Please, cousin."

Ormund's pace grows harsher, sloppier. Gwayne feels the assault to his mouth as something he's been missing all his life. The back of his throat is hit, bruised, repeatedly and mercilessly—Ormund's losing his decorum, his control, as he gets closer to his climax.

And it's quite a beautiful sight, to watch his put-together, calm cousin come apart so easily. After all, as much as he clings to holiness, he's just a man, with carnal needs and a feeble spine, like all the others. His flesh and blood cling to the desire that burns hot within his veins, he surrenders to his need, to his want, like a man possessed. The world has narrowed down to Gwayne on his knees, to Gwayne's feverish, silken mouth and the pull tightening inside his stomach.

Ormund's orgasm is wrung out of the man with an animalistic groan, his stomach caving in as he doubles over, fingers pulling at Gwayne's hair and making his eyes sting due to the pressure in his scalp. The taste is odd, new, slightly tangy and salty but not unpleasant, which is a testament to how Ormund treats his body. Gwayne swallows it all down without being told to, his chest burns as he feels his own cock tug pitifully inside his shorts, his own orgasm provided by merely having pleased his cousin. When he pulls back it's with a string of spit still connecting him to Ormund and his eyes glazed over, hazy.

A handkerchief, embroidered prettily, is used to wipe his mouth and eyes. Gwayne's knees wobble as he goes to stand, Ormund's hands on his hips steady him, a low, fond chuckle escapes the man as he watches Gwayne struggle to come back to.

"You did well," Ormund praises, his soft cock still exposed and looking glossy with Gwayne's spit and his own come. "You best wash up and rest, my boy."

Gwayne nods, sweetly. "Thank you, cousin."

Ormund's eyes follow him as he leaves, making him feel like a weak, newborn fawn. Otto and Alicent are discussing something in the kitchen as he sneaks past them, and once back in the room he brushes his teeth until his gums bleed and slips under the safety of the sheets, his shame and anguish coming back to haunt him as he's unable to wash the taste of Ormund from his mouth.

"I was planning on driving up to the beacon," Ormund says over breakfast the next morning, cutting into his protein pancakes as he speaks. "There is a church there, one my father frequented when he was in good health, I'd like to pray there for his soul one last time."

Otto hums, nodding. "That's a bit far, isn't it? I promised Alicent I'd take her to the Museum of the Mother, so we'll have to pass."

"Can I join you?" Gwayne asks, suddenly. "It'd make for good pictures, I think."

"But it's a day's drive away," Alicent interjects, frowning. "You don't even care about the church, Gwayne—Dad, tell him he can't go."

"Gwayne has been most studious about our religion, Alicent, he's been reading the scriptures and learning his prayers," Ormund shoots him a warm smile from across the table, one that makes Gwayne's stomach flip. "His sudden curiosity is no vengeance, child."

Alicent's gaze locks onto his, she seems bewildered by this, looking at him as if he were a stranger and not her twin brother. "You're full of shit, Gwayne." She spews before abandoning the table in a haste, tossing her napkin and storming off the dining room all upset.

Before, he would've gone after her and apologized, but now Ormund's eyes are boring into him as if gluing him to his chair with a mere look. Gwayne turns back to stirring his oat meal around and forces his shoulders forward, shadowing his face, making himself smaller.

"Take him with you," Otto sighs. "He's caused enough trouble, I think."

Ormund's smile is a show of triumph, of genuine bliss.

Gwayne packs his bag with a few necessities and his cameras, extra film and SD cards, the maintenance trinkets and his book of the faith, too. Alicent's moved to a room down the hall by the time he's done, with the door locked and her humor ruined, so he doesn't try and approach her to say bye before he's hauled into Ormund's car later that afternoon.

Ormund talks about the beacon and its history—Apparently it's a family relic of sorts, given that their great-grandparents were involved in the building of it and the process of inauguration as well as keeping it lit and alive. The church was built nearby during Ormund's childhood, with Hobert funding it and being one of its most frequent visitors. Gwayne has heard the tales of the beacon that shines brighter than the sun but has never seen it with his two eyes, something that he'll rectify tomorrow evening, or so his cousin says.

All throughout the ride Ormund keeps one hand on the wheel and the other placed in Gwayne's exposed thigh, a possessive, firm hold that grounds him in the seat. Sometimes he caresses him but for most of the time he's still, silent, as he keeps his eyes on the road and the windows low to let the fresh summer breeze leak into the stuffy car. He doesn't feel the need to shy away from the touch anymore, not after having the man's cock inside his mouth, but it does bring a funny, familiar warmth to his tummy that he tries to quench down by drinking cold water or counting to a million.

As the sun begins lowering and the road stretches further Ormund's body seems to become crowded by exhaustion. They stop at a roadside hotel, where humidity has made a home out of the walls and the reception smells like cigarettes and wetness.

The clerk gives them a funny look, she's a middle-aged woman with wild hair and baggy eyes, "No noises," She points a finger, warningly. "And don't drink the tap water."

Ormund levels her with a look, offended. "Thank you, goodnight."

"Right," She snarls, Gwayne sweeps in to steal the room's keys when her eyes become focused on him. "Kid, you're too pretty to be roaming around with older men."

Gwayne's eyes snap back to Ormund, whose jaw is clenched down to the point where one can hear his teeth grinding together. He's bound to snap, which is why he gives a small, weak chuckle and drapes himself across his cousin's side, "I just look young," He says. "My husband and I are renewing our vows nearby, that's all."

Both the woman behind the counter and Ormund are equally shocked at that. Ormund, however, gives a half-assed grin and grabs Gwayne by the elbow, hauling him out of the reception and dragging him towards their assigned room. A quiet, mischievous glee fills Gwayne's chest at having been the one to make things uncomfortable for once.

Ormund's nose scrunches as they cross the threshold of the room, his neck cricks, his shoulders go stiff. What once was white, flower patterned wallpaper has turned yellow due to years of people smoking indoors, possibly, and the carpet sticks to the soles of their shoes. Everything smells aged and humid. Once he's relatively calmed down, Ormund locks the door behind them and pushes him towards the center of the room, scowling.

"You can't say those things," He barks, angrily. "People know me here. That woman—that wretched, disgusting cur—will remember my face. I paid with my card."

"So?" Gwayne exhales, bored. "A bad joke, that's all."

Ormund laughs, darkly. He steps forward into the room, sizing Gwayne up, pushing him backwards. "A joke?" He scoffs, reaching out to grab at Gwayne's wrists. "No, I don't think so."

Gwayne glances down at Ormund's hand engulfing both his wrists, squeezing the lithe, delicate bones there, making the skin turn flushed. "Ormund," He calls, warily. "Let go."

"I don't want to, beloved," Ormund's voice turns saccharine sweet, dripping with false kindness. "You deemed me your husband, didn't you? I'm entitled to this and more."

He's turned around quickly, the air kicked out of his lungs by the momentum and Ormund's hands all over him, slipping beneath his shirt and ridding him of his shorts. Gwayne thrashes in the hold, complaining and whining but it all falls on deaf ears as Ormund focuses on groping him and undressing him quickly, with expert hands and a practiced precision.

"Under the eyes of the seven, this is what I'm owed," Ormund shoves him into the wrung, caved-in mattress face-first. "As your devoted husband, I shall take it."

Gwayne glares over his shoulder, though his body decides to betray him by reacting funnily at Ormund discarding his dress shirt and tossing it aside as if the floor wasn't made of rot. "Bastard," He chews out, flushing down to his neck. "I'm not your wife, Ormund."

"You're prettier than any wife I could have been given, Gwayne. Prettier than any woman."

He has heard it before, through the disgusted voices of his classmates and his father's colleagues who visit their home once in a blue moon to gawk at his underage sister and insult Gwayne with thinly veiled homophobic japes. Now, however, he finds that Ormund's voice carries a tone of honesty that makes him ache all over.

It's not a compliment, nor is it a nice thing to say. Gwayne spent a good chunk of his life wishing to have been born a girl so that his nature, the things he enjoys and the people he loves, would be seen as just another set of normal behaviors. He knows the boys he's been with in the past have wishes for similar things—There was Criston a few years back, who'd fallen madly in love with Alicent and settled on Gwayne when she had finally come clean about being a lesbian. You look enough like her, he'd said in between kisses once, and Gwayne hadn't been able to come out of his for weeks.

Bitterness swells within him as Ormund undresses behind him. His stomach churns and his cock hardens at the same time, his mind unsure as to which emotions to put first.

He is sixteen, lodged in a motel room that's seen better years, with his cousin starkly naked behind him and about to lose his virginity to him. Maybe Otto has been right this whole time to doubt his capacity to make good decisions and be a good boy—There's a ring of truth to everything, after all, and Otto might be cruel but he has never been untrue.

Instead of fighting it, he remains. Defeat tastes like tar inside his mouth as Ormund moves away to pluck something from one of the bags he'd packed. "Be honest with me, sweetling—And I won't be mad if you tell me the truth. Have you ever been fucked?"

Gwayne honestly doubts Ormund would be calm if he were to confess that he's been fucked and taken already, but that's a whole other can of worms. "No," He admits. "Never, cousin."

"Wonderful, you've been saving yourself," Ormund leans down, pressing warm, heated kisses against Gwayne's freckled shoulders. "For me. For our wedding night, hm?"

His belly flips, warmly, hotly. There's a leakage inside him that's dripping droplets of magma down his intestines, forcing them into a feverish stupor as he pictures himself placed in the alter before Ormund, both decked in greens and whites swearing their undying love to one another as if it were the most natural, common thing ever. It's a poisonous thought, for sure, because not only could it never happen but it makes him feel like prey.

Like prey with metal teeth dug into the meat of his foot, that is. His cage might be decorated, lit up prettily, but it is still made of iron bars and locked from the outside.

He's flipped onto his back, auburn head pressed against scratchy pillows with darkened cases, as Ormund looms above him like an omen made flesh. When Gwayne used to picture his first time, he would picture something foolishly romantic, something closer to the moments lived in the movies—He would picture himself pampered beforehand, touched and adored until he ached for it, begging his lover to take his fill at last and let them both sink into the throes of pleasure.

This is nothing like what he'd dreamed of, but Ormund's watchful gaze collapses over him as he lowers himself down the mattress with his plump, swollen mouth pressed to the chilled skin. There's reverence and disgust mixed behind those pale eyes, like Ormund's somehow enjoying and punishing himself at the same time. It is not the gaze of a lover but of someone who deems the mere act of loving as a crime, yet can't help but indulge, like any man who's victim to greed does—A deadly sin, one so tempting and manifesting so beautifully that Ormund's renouncing his prayer beads in favor of holding Gwayne's calves instead.

Ormund inhales a gulp of his youthful musk mixed with Alicent's perfume he'd snuck a spray off after grabbing it from one of her bags that remained in their shared room. The same perfume Ormund had complimented, had become awed by, now worn by him.

"Remember to breathe through it," Ormund commands as he uncaps the newly bought, unused bottle of lubricant, coating his fingers in the sticky substance. "And remember it will hurt, so do not fight or struggle—there'll be no point in doing that."

The initial stretch of a foreign, thick finger breaching past his rim makes his body writhe, his veins flaring up with renewed anger as the pain turns to a searing burn. Ormund's hands are big, too big, and Gwayne's never gone beyond rubbing his hole or brushing his taint while pitifully tugging at his cock. The idea of fingering himself open always scared him, but now he sees that as a negative thing, learning he should've started with his own touch first.

A realization blooms in the back of his mind; if Ormund's so knowledgeable, then that must mean he's done this, and maybe he was a fool for not realizing it before but he was too lost inside his own mind to even consider the possibility of Ormund laying with other men. Those fingers have been inside someone else before, maybe someone as young as Gwayne or someone of proper age, and Ormund's brought someone to their wits end by shoving his cock into their mouths before, too. Gwayne knows—he'd be a fool not to—that Ormund beds women, he's heard quiet chatter of an ex-girlfriend and seen glimpses of a life lived as someone's partner in Ormund's old Facebook posts, but that's somehow less bothersome.

Women are what he expects. Pretty girls with big eyes and broad chests, with their strawberry blonde hair swimming in the wind and their laughs that sound like angels' callings.

But when it comes to men, Gwayne ponders if any of them looked like him, if they were muscular and tough or sweet and delicate. He ponders if any of them cared as much about pleasing Ormund, if they felt that pain between their ribs whenever they saw Ormund around the town hand-in-hand with a pretty woman from church, knowing he'd turn up to their doorsteps at night and ask them to leave their self-respect behind for his sake.

Why must he give up his firsts to Ormund? He feels played, betrayed, even. He reaches out to reason with the Mother but her responses are reserved for pure-hearted boys, not filth.

He's sobbing lightly as Ormund inserts a second finger, stretching him further, filling him even more. His cousin, unaware of the mental anguish, kisses Gwayne's thighs and ruts against the mattress like a dog, having forgotten the dishonorable state of the room around them in favor of letting himself sink into his wants. More lube is dripped directly onto his puffy rim, making for a squelching, smoother slide of those digits, dripping down onto the mattress.

The burning sensation begins to fade as Ormund's fingers find Gwayne's pressure point—His prostate is bumped into a few times, causing the ache inside him to melt into boiling need. Gwayne cries out, slapping his own hand over his mouth, as the prodding does not stop and Ormund seems to have no intentions to do so. The fingers inside him crook, reaching further, spearing him and gaping him, forcing his quiet whimpers to turn into wanton moans. His system, which is a hormonal mess, can't keep up with it, so Gwayne comes undone with just two fingers and some applied pressure to where he's the most sensitive. His come spurts all over his lower stomach, painting it clear-white, and his legs shake insistently.

Ormund's assault does not stop, though. A third finger joins the two already inside him, then a fourth—Gwayne's putty and limp under his cousin's ministrations, and he knows fighting won't end well for him, so he cries through the overwhelming pressure and takes it.

"That should be enough, hm?" Ormund smirks. "Can you talk, dearest?"

Gwayne gives a non-committal hum, which he takes back immediately. "I can."

"Good, we can't have you dropping so fast," Ormund moves back up, dripping more of the cold lube unto his fingers and coating the expanse of his thick cock with it. Right. Gwayne's mind had fogged so badly that he'd sort of forgotten this was the main course. "If you scream, cry or bitch, I'll hit you, alright? Use your words, doll."

"Okay," Gwayne's fingers tighten on the worn sheets, knuckles turning ivory. "I won't."

"That's a good boy," Ormund kisses the crown of his head, a gesture so paternal it makes Gwayne's heart squeeze inside his chest. "Breathe, remember? You were born for this."

Immediately, the push of Ormund's thick head against his rim makes him go taut like a drawn bow. It becomes crystal clear that that's the wrong reaction to have as his body immediately feels like it's on fire as Ormund begins sheathing himself inside. A cry dies out in his throat, he doesn't want to be hit, not again, and he white-knuckles the sheets while he takes on the pain.

Ormund goes slow, and Gwayne suspects it's done on purpose but he can't find it in him to complain. Everything begins and ends with Ormund, Gwayne can't breathe anymore.

Each inch feels like a blow, worse than, even. Ormund's stupidly big cock seems endless as he pushes in, Gwayne hates him for it, hates that he craves more even though he's hurting like never before and wishing he was never born. He hates that his mind blurs all the wrongness out of this and instead makes him think about being someone's beloved, someone's wife—He's so pathetic that even inside his own fantasies he gives into someone else's whims. He pictures himself in white, in a gown, in a marriage bed large enough to hold the size of his aching and being loved by the one man who will never want him in the same way.

At last, Ormund bottoms out inside him, fully sheathed and groaning throatily as his hips become flush with Gwayne's backside, muscle rippling the plump skin.

"Please," He whimpers out, quietly. He doesn't even know what he's pleading for. "Husband."

"Again," Ormund says hoarsely, as he lifts one of Gwayne's legs up and folding it forward, angling himself deeper somehow. "Call me that again, treasure."

"Husband," Gwayne parrots, feeling the fight melt out of him alongside his sense of wariness—His nails rake down Ormund's tanned back, leaving red welts on their path, where there was pain now there's only the ease of mind-melding pleasure making him feel like he's drowning with his own breaths. "Move, please."

"Fuck, you're the sweetest thing the Gods have graced me with—my tiny wife, my treasure."

Ormund pulls back, drinking in Gwayne's whining hiccups before slamming back into him.

The pain flares across his spine once again, forcing a yelp out of him that goes muffled thanks to Ormund's palm settling over his open mouth at the right time. Each thrust makes his legs shake and his eyes water, although his sobs and sounds of pain are muffled he can still hear himself making them, he can feel them trapped inside his throat.

He wonders if he should've felt similarly when he was baptized, made anew, pulled back together by invisible strings and an unstoppable force. The delirious voice in the back of his head convinces him that that must mean Ormund's attention must have been derived to him from the gods themselves, then—He is cleansed by the pain, pampered by its never-ending fire, and shoved into a state of complete bliss as it subsides to nothing but the warm, leftover flame of a sparkling campfire.

The bed creaks under their joint weight, the headboard tapping against the wall insistently as Ormund's hips work smoothly, his thrusts keeping a steady, sharp rhythm.

It hurts and it doesn't, it shifts from mind-numbingly good to hellish in intervals. Gwayne doesn't know why or who trained this response from him, but that makes it even better. His eyes roll to the back of his skull as the pleasure spikes alongside the pain, forcing moans and cries out of him that he can't even think about controlling in the first place. Ormund's so deep inside him that there's a light swell to his lower stomach where his cock is buried, bulging with every thrust, Gwayne places his hand there, feeling his own dry seed and the movement, his toes curl and his throat feels dry, parched.

"Ormund," Gwayne calls, wrapping his fingers on the sweaty mess of hair at Ormund's nape to pull him closer. "I want—I… I want a kiss."

"Yeah?" Ormund laughs, dryly, as he licks over Gwayne's parted lips to tease him. "A kiss?"

"Just one," Gwayne nods, hearing himself breathless and desperate but being far beyond from caring at all. "Please? I'll do anything—I'll be good, I'll be good. I'll be your wife."

Ormund slows his movements, rolling his hips instead which makes it feel like he can taste Ormund's cock inside his throat, almost. "Promise me," He leans down, lips grazing Gwayne's, breath hot and minty. "That you'll stay with me."

A wrecked sob pushes its way past Gwayne's lips as he nods. "I promise, Ormund. I'll stay."

The kiss that ensues between them feels like sealing a pact, like slitting one's palm with a sharp dagger to bleed into someone else's wound, like kneeling before a statue. Ormund's a fantastic kisser, with a warm tongue and possessive temper to his technique. He conquers Gwayne's mouth, seizing his thoughts, and begins thrusting into the boy's body again.

Label him a pitiful romantic, or a desperate slut, but Gwayne's body spasms as a second orgasm is wrung out of him. It's quite the intense sensation after already having come once, pins and needles prick at his lower back, his cock spurts weakly and becomes flushed violet as Ormund totally ignores this and continues on abusing his prostate with his cock. Gwayne's view blackens at the edges, his throat can no longer work to speak proper words and Ormund's teeth are on his neck, claiming, devouring—Lamb and wolf, god and devotee.

Life passes by in blinks, he clings to consciousness and breathes through his clogged throat as best as he can but he keeps on slipping under, again and again.

One moment he's on his back, the next he's on his stomach, forced to breathe in the leftover dust clinging to the duvet and damp up the sheets with his wet breath. Ormund is mounting him, which is the only way he finds to describe what the man's doing to him although it sounds animalistic and unnatural. One of the man's muscled legs is tossed over his body and there are hands at his nape keeping him low while his ass is up in the air, arched just for his cousin's pleasure. His cock tugs painfully, still leaking and attempting to harden once again.

He desperately wants another kiss.

Ormund's weight leans down on him the next time he wakes, the man's draped across him like he's Gwayne's cross to bear, and his thrusts have become erratic and less precise. Ormund's pleasure spikes, their sweat mingles and his rhythm falters as a rough, throaty groan escapes the man and his seed floods Gwayne's insides. It's plentiful, warm, thick, overbearing like everything about his cousin, and it's simultaneously the best thing Gwayne's ever felt. Ormund's orgasm rolls off him like it pains him, like he's aching, and he doesn't stop moving until he's spilled every last drop inside his boy-wife.

The world turns to black for the last time. Gwayne wonders if Ormund's lips on his temple were a hallucination of his or if they were real as he slips back under.

"There's a game," Ormund crosses his arms as they stand before the beacon. "To run the tower, it's called. It used to be quite popular when I was a boy."

Gwayne, who's sporting Ormund's sunglasses to hide the bags beneath his eyes and keeps rubbing at the bruises on his neck, tilts his head. "I'm too sore to run. How about walking?"

Ormund laughs lightly, nodding along as they begin their ascend up the stairs.

It's the crack of dawn, the sky is blue and bathed in gray, still. Gwayne watches his every step, wincing at the pull of aching muscle as he stretches his legs across the stone, with Ormund following quietly behind him and making sure he does not drop back. Apparently, it's the right time to come, because when the sun rises the tower of the beacon becomes bathed in its warmth and light, making for a tremendous sight.

With his camera at the ready, Gwayne braces himself and rests against the stone window while catching his breath. Ormund stands a hair away, patient, quiet.

The sun rises and its orange hue spreads like wings across the sky, and it turns out to be true; the view from up here has no comparison to be drawn. It is beautiful, something beyond words and explanation, Gwayne gulps a bated breath and takes a picture, he then turns to Ormund, who's watching him instead of the scenery he has in front of him and snaps another—He's then crowded against the window and has his mouth devoured by his cousin, who reverently takes him in front of the setting sun and swears loyalty once more with the use of his hands.

Having nowhere to go back to used to wound him, but that was before he had a place to stay in.