#alfynn.2

[iskanderpryor]

@broughttoheal location: Valtolian Festival, Celebration of The Dove Concords notes: somewhere chill, private enough for a conversation away from all those pesky nobles etc

The festival raged on beyond the stone archways, a symphony of music and the ambient firelight flickered through the narrow alleyways, casting long, shifting shadows that danced along the worn cobblestones. Tucked away on the balcony of an old, near-forgotten watchtower, the noise was little more than a hum against the cool night breeze. The worn backing of a repurposed chaise was the rest stop beneath Iskander’s elbow as he leaned back against the lounger, one boot propped up against the low ledge of an adjacent balustrade that overlooked the revelry below, a half-empty cup of wine dangling lazily from his fingers.

The privacy was a welcome reprieve. No prying eyes, no desperate courtiers maneuvering for a moment of favor. Just the quiet company of Alfynn, who, for all his social upsets, was far more pleasurable to be around.

Iskander exhaled, tipping his head back as he swirled the wine in his cup. “I wasn't entirely honest when I saw you last in Bergia,” Iskander commented, "sex- the physical, the comfort. It's not just because I obviously enjoy it." He thought about Daven, about running from pleasure house to pleasure house and jumping from bed to bed. There was only one set of hands strong enough to hold him, but it was possible to allow himself to forget - even if only for a short while. "Have you ever been in love, Alfynn?"

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander felt the hesitation in Alfynn, the way his body tried to retreat even as his hands betrayed him, resting against bare hips, pulling - just enough. It was that hesitation that made Iskander smile against his lips, slow and knowing, distracted and pleasantly so. Daven might have behaved differently but there was, at times, an equal measure of uncertainty in the witcher. Iskander wasn’t deterred. No, he leaned in further, pressing his body flush against Alfynn’s, pressing the heat of his skin and the subtle tremble of pleasure still echoing through his limbs.

His lips dragged against Alfynn’s jaw, teasing, the ghost of a touch before his teeth followed, nipping at the delicate skin beneath his ear. “Don’t hold back,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, smooth as silk as he reached behind himself and took a firm grip on the spit-licked heft of Alfynn's cock, aligning it, bridging it, and maneuvering it against his hole. “I can take it.” A hand slid up Alfynn’s chest, nails just barely scraping over his skin, that weighty crown breaching only just as the familiar burn sent a ripple of something through Iskander's body - cock twitching, leaking, back arching. “All of it.”

He kissed Alfynn again, but this time he let it deepen, let it devour, rolling his hips as he did, encouraging the inevitable as he broke in an inch, then a second - a sigh following.

"oh."

the vision of iskander so debauched. ruined, in some ways, but not unrecoverable; no, almost more appreciable, in how temporary the state would be. splotched with red, streaked with what he assumed were the start of tears. was iskander in pain? and if so... why did he want to go through that a second time?

was this what iskander loved? was this what he got from the man he loved?

that curling thing low in the rear of alfynn's mind tried to perk up again, but alfynn slammed every door in its face that he could. he was a nyghtshade in name. he did not need to be a nyghtshade in actions or efforts. the feel of iskander's steady, if not slightly elevated pulse, did bring alfynn some sort of comfort. his shoulders beginning to sink down from his ears.

and that lasted all the way until iskander stripped off his clothes and all but climbed atop alfynn, who tried to start to lean away, but that kiss had him trapped rather easily. almost willingly. unsteady hands slowly coming to rest on now-bare hips, pulling just so, to get iskander off his feet. he could sit, if he liked.

even if the nearest seat was alfynn's own lap, looking about ready for a second round.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander’s breath came in ragged, shallow pulls, his chest rising and falling as he blinked up at Alfynn through a haze of heat and satisfaction. His lips were wet, swollen, his jaw ached, and his throat - wyla help him - his throat burned in a way that made his fingers twitch.

Iskander swallowed thickly, feeling the raw stretch of his throat as he did before he licked his lips, tasting the remnants of his own ruin on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, body still trembling in the aftershocks of pleasure, before tilting his head in something almost like amusement. His voice was hoarse, predictably, but there was laughter beneath the rasp - breathy, indulgent. "Like I want to do that again."

His fingers, still splayed over Alfynn’s thigh, flexed slightly, nails dragging against the skin before settling. He let his gaze flick over Alfynn’s face, taking in the cautious scrutiny there, the way his hands still hovered like he expected Iskander to crumble beneath him. It was sweet and unnecessary - but still sweet. Another reminder.

Iskander smirked, pushing up onto his elbows with a languid stretch, as if his own limbs weren’t still trembling slightly. His pulse was high but steady, his lips a little tinged, but not nearly enough to worry over. He was fine. Better than fine. His body was still thrumming with the ghost of it. "You worry too much," he murmured, reaching for Alfynn’s wrist and pressing two fingers against the inside of his own throat, guiding his hand to feel the steady beat beneath his skin.

"See? Alive. Well. Thrilled." He let his gaze half-lid, considerate, then he peeled off his jacket, the silk and stepped out of his trousers. Bare, raw, exposed, he leaned forward and caught Alfynn's lips again with his own - tongue rolling against tongue, breath mingling with breath. The escape was easy, good, earnest - pleasurable. It wasn't the same - could never be the same - but Iskander was enjoying the act of pretending.

feeling iskander's breath flapping, and failing, around himself still-buried, was impossible to describe. some unknown, untouched part of himself seemed to perk up, but alfynn shut the door so hard on that aspect that he jolted to awareness. terrifyingly sobered, even while smearing in the just-creamed throat he was fucking. iskander pushed, and strained, and tried to groan, but alfynn was likely too thick and lodged there to let the air release anything other than a buzz.

once iskander's apparent climax started to close, alfynn tried to -- carefully -- help lift his throat, and then his face, off of him. checking his pulse, his eyes, the color of lips, every and any indicator of health, for losing access to air for that long.

that some long-slumbering thing within him began to uncoil, at feeling a man lose his breath around him? alfynn was still trying to stuff that back into as many mental boxes as he could get his hands on.

"how do you.... feel?" cautiously, as he continued his examination, before declaring that he can't tell if anything was wrong with iskander. aside from the fact that choking on him apparently made him cum. which made alfynn shudder, a little.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander surrendered to the rhythm, let himself be moved - pushed down, pulled back, taken again. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked harder, wetter, the slick heat of it obscene as he worked his tongue along the underside, tracing every vein, every twitch of muscle. His throat stretched, swallowing, forcing himself down until his nose pressed against soft curls, breath coming in hot, staggered bursts through his nose.

He wanted more. Needed more. His fingers curled tighter where they clung to Alfynn’s thigh, nails pressing in, urging, demanding. The phantom weight of Daven’s hand burned at the back of his skull, imagined fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there - controlling him, keeping him exactly where he belonged. A shiver rippled down his spine, his own grip between his thighs faltering for just a moment before he tightened it again, stroking rougher, faster, chasing his own end as he let Alfynn use him.

His throat flexed, swallowing around the heat filling his mouth, sucking harder, dragging Alfynn in deeper, deeper, until the push and pull of it became frantic, desperate. His lips stretched wide, spit slicking his chin, and still he took it, moaning low, vibrating around the weight on his tongue, encouraging him without words - without needing them. Iskander's own release was coming sharp, a wrecked sound trapped behind his lips as he shuddered, pleasure rippling through him in waves as the burst prepared and coiled in his gut.

Iskander rutted into his own fist, desperate, frantic, every roll of his hips chasing something just out of reach. The Bergian was burning - his skin fevered, his breath hot through his nose as he sucked harder, faster, letting the stretch and slick weight on his tongue consume him. Still, Iskander imagined it was Daven’s hands bearing down on him - one gripping his hair, the other pressing between his shoulder blades, forcing him lower, pinning him in place. Iskander would drown in him if the witcher would permit.

A wrecked noise tore from deep in his chest, muffled around the length still fucking against the back of his throat as ripples of pleasure electrified Iskander's frame and rippled through him. Sudden, overwhelming, his body jerked, his spine arched, and he spilled messily over his fist. Thick and hot across the stone balcony, the mess pooling between Alfynn's legs.

so this was love.

untouched by its beguiling, befuddling kiss, at least in the purely romantic sense; alfynn loved plenty, but alfynn did not have empirical evidence to firmly state he haad been in love, nor did he have a hard definition or even a guideline or checklist to compare against and quantify the result.

but here, as a sort of...proxy, he could feel what love was driving iskander to do. iskander buried him in a velvet throat, repeatedly, in the name of what alfynn assumed was love. he held there, in the clutch of his neck, before pulling off. he kissed with full mouth, he spread himself, he swallowed, almost impossibly, in the name of that love.

to love, was to give, alfynn then concluded.

the alchemist was near to proffering the prince his own serum, by the time that request was made.

"oh, oh, dear, terra, I--" stammering, despite how hard he apparently was at the consideration, still held between practiced lips. "I can. try to, but I daren't harm you, lest... dungeon, for... fellatio..." his thoughts trailed off with the rest of his blood. who knew the body better? he was asked for a thing, and he could do the thing.

so, alfynn...clumsily, warily, did the thing. surprisingly strong arms pushing, as hands took hold of dark brown hair. and...pushing. pulling, then pushing. a rhythm. slow to start, steady, but unyielding. taking. fucking. feeling him, feeling it build, until he'd stammer out an-- "iskander, I--" as the only warning he'd manage before burying iskander's nose in his warm lap, and melting hotly into his neck.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander felt a quiet huff of laughter pass his lips and brush against the heat of Alfynn’s skin, lips parting just enough to exhale, teasing. His fingers flexed against the base, a slow squeeze, an easy drag along shaft to tip. Iskander liked the tension, the almost. The way Alfynn’s body warred with itself, half ready to give in, half uncertain - all nerves and scholarly curiosity. Iskander and Daven had only shared a night, one night, but there was a list of things the prince wished, wanted, and imagined. In some fantasies the witcher threw the prince of his shoulder and had him in every way imaginable, in others, they met in the quiet night, under covers and between waiting sheets-

Iskander let himself sink into Alfynn again, the heat, the weight, the sheer presence of it on his tongue. His lips stretched, plush and wet, breath heavy through his nose as he took Alfynn deeper, tasting the faint salt of his skin beneath the musk of want. He hummed low, the vibration spilling through him, dragging a stifled sound from Alfynn’s throat. His own thighs pressed together, the ache building slow, insistent. His free hand slid up and abandoned himself, palm skimming his own stomach, his ribs, before tweaking his chest under his shirt. He exhaled hard through his nose, hand moving down again as he fisted himself - the need coiling sharper as he rolled his hips into his own touch. Not enough. Never enough.

It was easy, so easy, to let his mind slip - to pretend it was him, the weight of Daven’s hand at the back of his skull, forcing him down, keeping him there. The phantom press of rough fingers along his jaw, thumb stroking where his throat bulged around him, testing. Iskander groaned, the sound swallowed around the heat of Alfynn’s cock, his own need thrumming sharp and heady in his veins. His fingers tightened where they gripped Alfynn’s thigh, nails pressing in just enough to leave marks, take it, take me, give me more.

His head bobbed, slow at first, savoring it, the stretch, the slick slide of it over his tongue. Then faster, taking him deeper, letting his lips kiss the base before pulling back again, letting the wet pop of release ring through the air before swallowing him down once more. His own hand worked between his legs now, rutting into it, lost in the rhythm, lost in the ghost of Daven’s hands on him, the phantom weight pressing him further, ruining him.

The question made his gut twist, not unpleasantly. It wasn’t Daven’s voice, but he could pretend. His lashes fluttered as he glanced up, eyes sharp despite the heat curling through him. “What wouldn't he do if I asked?” he murmured, dragging his tongue along the underside, slow and deliberate.

Iskander pulled back, just enough to smirk, breath warm, teasing. “I'd tell him he doesn't need to ask for permission, for one.” His grip tightened, rougher now, coaxing a reaction. “Not here, like this we're equals. Like this I'm his. Not prince and-” a pause, Iskander couldn't say more. He smirked instead. "Hold me down, use your hands - take my breath away."

iskander told him to relax. despite that being a direct order, from a prince as much as a friend, alfynn didn't quite have the capability to comply. rigid in every aspect, alfynn was a rather well-suited figure to mount and rut against. a facsimile of a man, propped up on elbows and anxiety, for one to use to sate themselves.

blinking rapidly, alfynn let his head fall back, before he could get too enraptured by watching iskander tease him, threatening to take him in. "if you... think that is a good idea..." he offered; he'd already thoroughly bred one prince of another kingdom. what if he'd gone and bruised the throat of another? did the princes talk about that kind of thing? not that alfynn had much time to think about it, before that hand's pace was steady enough to get alfynn out of his mind, just a bit. enough to start to settle, to melt onto where he's seated. still proud and hard against iskander's face, against his lips, which was quite the sight for him to look down to.

so, alfynn did eventually settle his hands. one on each of iskander's shoulders, to begin with. which were his anchor points to pull in as he arched forward, once efforts began in earnest; curling over iskander's head as he sighed his appreciation into the room. "what else did he, ah-- do for you?" that he might better help distract his friend, and maybe have something to focus on aside from oh god please don't choke him.

unless iskander asked to be choked. in that case, alfynn would probably half-bust far too early out of sheer unpreparedness and confusion.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander exhaled slowly, lips barely parted, breath featherlight against heated skin. His fingers curled at the base, firm but unhurried, savoring the weight of it in his palm. His pulse beat hot in his throat, slow and without deliberation, matching the anticipation that coiled low in his gut.

He tilted his head, letting his lips ghost over the flushed heat before him, the contrast between them stark - his mouth cool from the night air, the skin beneath him fever-warm, alive. The scent of him, something faintly spiced beneath the musk of want, filled Iskander’s lungs, and he let it settle there, heavy and grounding.

Iskander's tongue flicked out, tasting, testing, a teasing press of softness against rigid heat. The sound Alfynn made sent something sharp and electric down Iskander’s spine, a shiver that curled his toes against the smooth stone floor. He had not expected that reaction - not so soon, not so unguarded.

Breath hitched, the warmth of his own skin rising in response, his body tuned to every shift, every quiver. He felt it in the way his fingers tightened, in the way his own thighs pressed together, a slow heat blooming in his core. It was heady, intoxicating, this power, this control wrapped in intimacy, in trust. Were the man that Iskander was thinking of sat in Alfynn's current throne, the back of Iskander's throat would already be painted - bruised - and partially broken in.

He let his eyes flick upward, taking in the way Alfynn’s hands hovered - uncertain, wanting. Iskander’s smirk was lazy, slow, his lips brushing again, featherlight, just to watch him shudder. “Relax, scholar,” he murmured against sensitive skin, voice like dark honey, warm and smooth. “You won't break me- he's...” Inference clear. Iskander tilted his head hidly for a moment, hand moving over the spit-slicked base, "never held back." Help me remember.

physical sensation was just that -- physical sensation. skin, reacting, responding. aches and caresses, suction and blunt force, each a different kind of response the body would have, but that's all it was. all it had to be.

"...yes?" alfynn offered, in regard to his readiness. "loose pants help. that, and I enjoy my work. and a lot of the men I know are rather comely. and affectionate. my body responds. even when I don't plan to." practical. embarrassingly or painfully so, at times.

he held on to that practicality all the way until that soft tongue fell from iskander's lips, dragging against him. the lever was pulled. alfynn felt himself kick over from mind-driven, to lust-serving, as his hips knocked upwards to seek more of that pressure, that padded softness. to watch iskander's face behind the pillar of himself, and the unexpected eroticism of it. his friend, his dear friend, finding something at the more carnal side of him.

alfynn throbbed against iskander's tongue, gazing down, open-mouthed, brows high. could he...reach? could he touch? what was allowed, what wasn't, the alchemist didn't have a formula for this angle of interaction. he was not serving, or servicing, but merely offering of himself to a friend in seeming need, and finding himself rather enjoying the process. hands hovered, stop-starting, before curling to fists on his thighs. "I do hope this is up to your... oh, terra." nostrils flaring. "standards? seven take me-- please enjoy my cock, iskander."

[iskanderpryor]

Alfynn - nervous, fumbling, sincere - was looking at him like he saw something else. Something worth keeping. A breath, slow and measured. Then a smile, softer than his usual smirks, half-wistful, half-wary. “Viable,” he said, under his breath, "but I'd rather feel everything than nothing at all. Even if it hurts." The bigger wound would be to cut those threads completely, maybe if Iskander was a touch more his father's son, it'd be an easy choice. His love came with consequences, he accepted that.

He should leave it there. Should let the moment pass before it became something he couldn’t ignore. But then Alfynn went on, speaking of a future shaped by duty, of marriage as a quiet resignation, and something in Iskander clenched, sharp and knowing.

Iskander stilled. The jest balanced on the tip of his tongue dissolved before it could take shape, lost to the weight of something far more fragile. He could count on one hand the number of meaningful expressions people had given him since this Concord began. The world had never been kind enough to let him exist as he was. There was always some expectation, some demand, some unseen force pressing in from all sides, trying to mold him into something sharper, more useful, more palatable. His last name, the war, and everything that has come since. Iskander leaned forward, reached for the decanter of wine, and refilled his glass as a means of deflecting any attention from the way his breath - momentarily - caught in his throat.

“And when you do ascend,” he said, voice quieter now, “then I hope, truly, it is with someone who lets you keep yourself.” His gaze flickered, searching Alfynn’s face, his posture, his hands. “Not someone who tries to make you smaller.” The decanter looked about empty and Iskander could do with a distraction - a stronger one than a bare, faintly wine-stained chest. "I think we're at a crossroads now." Iskander commented, "I could go, get more wine, and otherwise find other means of entertaining myself... Or... you could take those trousers off and we fetch the wine when the sun comes up."

"hmm."

regarding the prince more intently. a physician's eye, or again a mere apothecary's, as he'd mentally measure humors and humorlessness, affectations and desired effects. "no wonder you were interested in a balm for an actual heartache." whoever had captured the young bear prince's heart, whatever cage it might have dangled in, the answer to his problems didn't likely reside within the realm of alchemy. "most often, the 'cure' for such arrangements, would be nearer to a poison. to eliminate the feeling. or to eliminiate those who stood in the way of pursuing said feeling." neither of which were options alfynn wanted to provide. foreign regicide wasn't exactly an appealing consideration. "--not that I'm offering!"

he absolutely had to clarify.

"while I would not choose to...hasten...my ascension to the position as lord of my house, I would welcome what freedom it might give without being forced to leave my home behind. but, if I were to be married away, I would hope it would be to someone as understanding and considerate as you."

that last kind smile was, hopefully, adding to the balm as much as he hoped the words would.

[iskanderpryor]

He let the words hang between them, watching for a reaction before adding, almost lazily, "A big stretch and a bigger hope to want for something that would just feel like a consolation prize. For me, and for him." Iskander thought they both deserved better, to choose - if it ever came to the incorporation of a third - rather than hope. "I appreciate the effort," Iskander commented, fully aware that Alfynn was grasping at straws in the hopes of potentially mending this barren hole in the Bergian's chest. "but this broken heart of mine and I are well acquainted."

There it was again though, that self-deprecation had its claws in Alfynn though Iskander could concede that the alchemist had a particular taste on the palette.

Iskander tilted his head, considering him, a slow smirk creeping back onto his lips. "Oh, so that’s all it takes?" He smiled, albeit curious now, "You can't do as you please already?" Iskander was surprised, but considering his own circumstances he supposed he shouldn't be. His voice was edged with amusement, but there was something sharper beneath it, something thoughtful. "I suppose it depends on who you end up with."

impressive form, insecure posture. yet another dichotomy alfynn had to wrestle with. (or perhaps, inflict upon others.) making iskander sound so sincere only doubled alfynn's utter lack of remaining poise. was it something more he said? something more he did? the distraction apparently wasn't working as well anymore, at least until the prince's gaze slid down to his pressed-together chest, his scrunched stomach, before returning to pin him in place.

"am I innocent?" the question coming with high brows. "I thought I had plenty of-- oh." not helping. "right, yes. well," half a smile, "if who you end up betrothed to likes the kind of men you like, then maybe your love wouldn't have to be a secret?" a rather desperate stretch of logic, and one likely out of his reach as well as beyond respect, but the thought had come to mind, and he couldn't help but offer it up.

then the thought of being married off himself, left him blinking. "I don't know anyone foolish enough to attempt that. or, I don't think I do." how would his father do it? a letter? messenger-bird? something with mages? he wouldn't put it past the man. alfynn already felt rather wrung-out, but there always seemed to be some new spring of capability, waiting to well up amidst the next squeeze. "maybe if I did get betrothed, I'd be able to pursue alchemy at my own direction."

now that was a pleasant thought.

[iskanderpryor]

For a moment, Iskander did not answer. He merely watched, gaze tracking the slow, contemplative motion of Alfynn’s thumb against his skin - the ruby stain smudging, then vanishing between his lips. A noble drinking his own spilled wine, as if such small indulgences could be savored, reclaimed, owned. Iskander's breath was measured, though his pulse was not.

"Do you douse yourself in wine for all your friends, or did you make an exception for me because I'm a prince?" Attempting to interpret the machinations of court was a failing of Alfynn, as he'd stated many times over and blundered - to quite hilarious ends - before Iskander's eye time and time over.

So instead, he exhaled, let his lips part into something almost resembling a smile.

“No, you needn’t apologize.” A pause laced with a grin. "I am enjoying the view, feels one sided but-" he waved a hand, "I won't be throwing wine on myself any time soon." Another pause, his grin relented into something softer this time, "You're certainly raising my spirits. Makes me wish this festival wouldn't end, my Mother told me last night I have a suitor waiting for me back home. A Bergian lord that he's certain I have a great deal in common with. Perhaps he also has a fondness for alchemists with impeccable physique."

'produce the heirs.'

smack.

twice, now, alfynn's gone a little glazed over, not that he could help it. his answering wince to iskander's pause would only melt into relief once the laughter started -- and wasn't as sharp as that of the other lords and royalty throughout the halls. if only every conversation could be halted by losing some piece of his outfit, much easier to show some skin than bear the scrutiny of so many sharpened intentions.

as he'd finished drinking the wine for real, that time, alfynn had his cheeks full as he looked down to see that bead running down, and he had to gulp as he tried to thumb the ruby drop off his skin. said thumb was pressed to his lips, as he settled back down. "--you were looking for a distraction. I thought you were..." he was thinking too hard, and he didn't have the reflexes for such angles. "it doesn't sound like I need to apologize, at least?" his voice a touch hopeful in that uptick at the end.

his voice softer, "are you feeling better, now, iskander?" as if something as meaningless as his bare torso would have that effect, but he had heard conjecture about the healing power of laughter. strange as it may have sounded.

[iskanderpryor]

Uncharacteristically silent, it wasn't as if a mistress was unheard of, but when the Bergian imagined tethering himself to someone, he only saw one face. "Is that your intention?" He asked instead of answering, "Marry out of obligation and produce the heirs that your station requires of you?" Iskander had expected a reaction. Maybe a smug look, a teasing remark - something calculated, something intentional. What he had not expected was for Alfynn to so intently misread the moment that he actually poured the wine down his own chest.

For a long second, he simply stared - and then he smiled, bright and warm.

Then, laughter burst from him, unrestrained and full-bodied, the kind of laughter that felt stolen, too rare to be anything but genuine. “Gods above, Alfynn,” he managed between sharp breaths.

The whole thing was so absurd that Iskander found himself grinning, elbow braced against the arm of his chair as he shook his head. “You - that wasn’t - ” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, amusement still lingering in his voice. “That wasn’t what I meant. But I do admire your, ah… commitment to the bit.” Leaning forward, he plucked the damp shirt from Alfynn’s grasp, inspecting it with a vaguely critical eye. “Tragic,” he mused. “It had such a good run. Fortunate you have a tincture for that, but I'll accept the garment's erm- retirement for the evening.”

His gaze flicked up, dragging in an entirely unapologetic once-over now that Alfynn was reclining in his chair, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’d just doused himself in wine and now sat bare-chested like some debauched festival deity. “…You missed a spot,” Iskander accused, lips twitching, watching a bead of spiced wine run a trail from the dip between Alfynn's breasts and down the ridges of the other's abdomen.

was he effectively putting himself on display for iskander? well, what would the harm be in doing so? he knew what he had, and what it could be capable of, what effects it might have on others. he knew what little-or-no effect it would have on himself. he figured, from what iskander had said in conversations before, that the prince took comfort and distraction in the form of attractive males. he was an attractive male. ergo...

"marry the one, love the other?" did 'marry' mean 'love' by definition? was it too simple, too boiled down a solution? "I don't know how princes are treated, at home; I only know how I was schooled on the rules of nobility. it was a lot of..." smack. his eyes lost their focus, just for a second. "repetition." blinking, he did look over at iskander again, and with more intent. "whoever this man is, is he...well? do you see him often? can you give him your love even if you can't marry him?" troubleshooting questions, probing and needling the problem, figuring out where in the process the issue occurred. or, too irritating a process for some to stomach.

at least his distraction seemed to be working. until that bottle was held out to him, and alfynn looked at it so intently that his eyes crossed, before he glanced back to iskander. "am I to...?" wine. shirt. body. distract. context. context. context. alfynn blinked, took the wine, poured it on his shirt, and jolted. "--oh, fuck." having legitimately startled himself, he pulled the shirt off with real concern, then held it out. "--I have what I need to remove the stain, but. I'll just have to wear the robe for the rest of the day?" with his only half-intentional display concluded, alfynn -- now topless -- settled back on the chair, and proceeded to chug some wine directly from the bottle.

that would help, right?

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander let out a quiet snort, amusement flickering at the corners of his lips as he watched Alfynn settle in, fully appreciating the display. Gods, he really was insufferable sometimes. Not that Iskander minded - it was endearing and blatantly intentional. Utterly unbothered by propriety, comfortable in his own skin in a way most noblemen would never dare to be. Though to Alfynn's credit the lord had been unaware of his formal title until he'd been reminded of it.

He took another slow sip of wine, letting Alfynn’s words roll over him, thoughtful. “Oh, I can feel things,” he mused, swirling the drink in his glass. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Princes aren’t supposed to. Not properly. We’re meant to be…” He waved a vague hand in the air, grasping for the right word. “Strategic. Controlled. Love is for people, not positions. We don't marry for our hearts we marry for our families - give our bodies and our futures to strangers with the hope that the alliance will be a beneficial one.” Iskander shook his head. "Carry their children, stand at their side." A beat, "That's not living."

His gaze drifted past Alfynn, to the distant hum of the festival, to the city that had never quite felt like his, not in the way it should have. "And even if I did feel something real," he continued, voice softer now, "he chose a different path - one that I can only observe him on, not walk alongside."

His eyes flicked back to Alfynn just in time to see the dramatic sweep of his hands down his torso, and whatever thread of melancholy had begun to take hold began to unravel. He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Gods" He reached for the bottle of wine, tilting it toward Alfynn in a silent offer. “Fine. You want complaints? Here’s one - I’m doomed to spend my evening with a man who thinks he’s laborious when he’s really just insufferably good looking and blissfully quite aware of this fact.” He smiled, “Truly, what a terrible fate.”

clearly, he was being examined. for what? alfynn wasn't certain or sure, but he certainly didn't mind it much. what harm was a gaze? he'd even lean back on his seat some, raise his hands behind his head, and huff a little as he settled on the seat. all to become more comfortable, and to better lay out the tableau of his figure for better observation.

"princes can't love?" he asked, brows starting to draw. "surely, your eventual marriage might be more...utilitarian, but you can still feel things, right? even if they're not for the man you're assigned to marry by either your royal parents or the high council of your kingdom?" there's that regurgitation of nobility-inflicted education, again.

his head tilted as he regarded his friend with more curiosity. "complain away," he offered, with a wave of a hand. "I won't complain about it." eyes to the side. "I need to say 'complain' a third time." much better. back to the topic at hand, "if I'm not laborious to deal with in conversations, then you're certainly allowed your fair share of...grexing." a fourth time would've felt even worse. "I'm all ears. pour your complaints down upon me." he even ran his hands down the sides of his torso, as if said complaints were a waterfall.

"--shit." four really did feel worse than three. but at least it was even.

[iskanderpryor]

Alfynn had already made a point of stating that he was proud of his anatomical endeavours, so doing anything less than letting his eyes wander across the stretches of exposed skin could only be taken as a slight. Iskander huffed a quiet laugh, low and breathy, as he let his head tip back against the chaise. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he mused, turning his glass with a simple but passive gesture, not entirely interested in its contents at the moment - especially given his experience when he'd first woken up this morning. "But princes falling in love instead of line sounds a bit too much like a fairy tale for my taste, stories are better reserved for people like Roderik." Naive, innocent, and still the optimist.

His gaze drifted to the flickering festival lights beyond the balcony, watching them blur into soft streaks of gold and crimson. Love. It was a word that had weight, one that lingered in the back of his throat, heavy and unspoken. He knew the answer - of course he knew the answer - but saying it aloud? That was another thing entirely.

He'd felt something like it, though Iskander wouldn't admit it. He'd felt it in the way a hand lingered for too long, in the press of a body that give everything it had to him - and more - proving that you could still pour from an empty amphora. He'd felt it in the way a person could feel like home, a person who'd sooner lay down his life for Iskander than genuinely be with him.

A sharp breath, then a sip of wine - stalling, stalling, stalling. His gaze flicked back to Alfynn, studying him over the rim of his cup. “Even if I was it wouldn't matter, I know, tragic." Woe was him, wealth of a nation behind him and all the statue to get away with just about whatever he actually wanted. Naturally, the only thing he wanted was beyond his reach. "I shouldn't complain." He tipped his glass toward Alfynn, "And you're not half as unlikable as you think you are."

being pulled aside by the word of a prince -- that he was friends with -- was a blessing in many layers. alfynn had quiet, and he could shed the robe to the shirt underneath without it being (too) scandalous, and he didn't have to subject himself to the whims of so many husband-desperate nobles.

of course, the conversation meandered around sex and the like, but that was almost akin to... a tax, regarding spending time with iskander. the topic tended to come up more often than not. like many things related to it. alfynn learned not to mind so much -- he didn't mind much in the first place, really, as much as he was caught off guard more from the source than the content.

"love?" alfynn asked, eyes wide. "I love...research, I love experimenting with different ingredients and methods of transformation, I love seeing the relief from symptoms that have plagued a person for far too long to remember." but none of these were an answer to iskander's question. "I do not think I have been in love, no." he's known the bite of it, in secret ways -- from new eyes, claimed to belong to another. "someone would have to enjoy dealing with me more than a few times a week for that to be possible." love would have to be...mutual. he would need to know he had it, before he would think to give it, if he even had it to give.

"does you asking, mean that you have?" brows higher. "you are?"