#but like. before they were calsir

[curiosity-killed]

at the beginning

[ALT ID: A digital illustration of a pink hallway with blue tile and many large plants. In the midground, two men are hiding just out of the light coming through a sunlight; one of them is grinning while the other looks startled. Far down the corridor, someone carrying a basket of laundry can be seen paused and looking down the hallway as if they heard something.]

[curiosity-killed]

12 may 2020 free-write

just lazy bb!calsir sketch

Word count: 1954

“Falling in love with him is a fool’s quest,” Jemma says. “Princes don’t marry weavers’ sons.”

Sirion scoffs, recoiling a little. “I am not in love with him,” he retorts. “We’re just — friendly.” He corrects himself at the last minute. Given Jemma’s mood, he has a feeling she’d only tell him princes don’t become friends with weavers’ sons either. She still shoots him a narrow-eyed look, her face stony and shut down in a way he rarely sees anymore. He stops, canting his head. “Commander, what is this about?” he asks. “Have I behaved in some way incompatible with the Legion’s creed?”

Her lips twitch, a pinch to the left. Crossing her arms, she looks away first — across the gardens, toward the palace walls.

“No,” she admits. “You have always comported yourself with dignity. I only—” Breaking off, she releases a deep sigh and closes her eyes briefly before turning back to him. Her arms drop from their crossed position at last.

“I do not wish to see either of you caught up in something that could be avoided,” she says. A grin slips over Sirion’s lips, and he suppresses it as best he can while giving a salute and bow. “I promise not to accidentally fall in love with the imperator princep, Commander,” he vows. From Jemma’s expression, she’d like him to take it a little more seriously, but she only rolls her eyes and starts walking again. It’s ridiculous, anyway. Sirion jogs to catch up with her and settles in at her side. Sure, he likes Callebero well enough, and he does, privately, count him among his friends, but Sirion has more sense than that. He’s not even interested in love right now; there’s too much to do before he can think about settling down. They cross into the Quarter to find company already waiting. The prince perches on the top rail of the fence, one knee drawn up and the other leg dangling down with the red skirt of his robes. His face is tilted toward the sun, but he still laughs and replies to Hayalen without shifting. Beside him, she leans against the fence with arms crossed and shakes her head. A smile plays at her lips. Two staves already lean against the fence. “Good morning,” Jemma greets, dipping in a bow. The prince’s lips spread in a grin as he turns to them and lifts his hand in a wave. Sirion folds over in a bow, but he returns the wave as he straightens. He can feel Jemma’s gaze on the side of his face and resolutely ignores it. They’re friendly. “I was not expecting to see you on the training grounds this morning, Your Eminence,” Jemma remarks. “There was a recess,” Callebero says, reaching both arms overhead to stretch. His shoulders crackle and he drops his arms. “And I was going to lose my mind if I sat in the council room without any fresh air for another minute.” Sirion bites his lip to stifle a snort of laughter. Callebero grins and lifts his chin slightly. “So, you going to spar or just stand around?” he asks. He doesn’t need to look to guess at Jemma’s exasperation, but she waves him on and walks over to join her wife. They clamber over the fence, and Sirion pauses. “Are you sure it is a good idea to spar in full skirts?” he asks, gesturing toward the long madu and faro hanging over Callebero’s legs. Even with the madu’s side slits and faro’s open front, it’s a lot of fabric that could tangle up and trip him. After years of sparring with Callebero, Sirion’s grown used to his tendency to go all in, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for the prince breaking his nose in the middle of the most political week in the capital. “Trying to get me undressed, are you?” Callebero teases, leaning on his staff. He laughs when Sirion rolls his eyes. “Undoing and redoing all this would take the rest of the day. Anyway, this way it’s practice in case something happens when I’m not in armor.” It doesn’t take knowing Callebero very well to see through that bullshit. Callebero slants his gaze over to him, one corner of his lips curling up in a grin, and Sirion has no option but do duck his head to hide his smile. “Then it is my duty to ensure you are prepared,” he replies. It’s not the most thrilling match they’ve ever had; despite Callebero’s words, Sirion does do his best not to trash the prince’s fine robes, and for once, Callebero lets him. It’s more of a dance, a conversation, than an actual fight. Callebero grins through most of it, the smile turning sharp at times when Sirion tests his focus. Sirion can’t help but grin back, that thrum of delight trilling in his veins. “You went easy on me today,” Callebero remarks after, knocking their shoulders together. Sirion breathes out a laugh and sets his cup down by his hip. “Well, what would all the noble families think if you returned with your back covered in dust?” he rejoins. Wrinkling his nose, Callebero takes a long drink of water. Turned to the front as he is, he gives Sirion full view of his profile, of the sharp lines from brow-nose-chin and the way the sun turns his dark eyes pale. “I’d rather stay out here all day than rejoin them,” he admits, turning his cup in his hands. Looking up, he flashes Sirion a too-bright grin. “I know, we can swap places for the day and you can handle them. You have a noble enough bearing for it.” He grins and bumps their elbows together as if hopeful. “Are they really so unbearable?” Sirion asks. “Some at least are of an age to you.” “Ah.” Callebero’s smile wanes into something tight and thin as his gaze falls back to his cup. “I prefer their elders,” he admits. Sirion bristles at the wryness of the statement, the suggestion that it isn’t that their elders are so much better but that the younger ones so intolerable, and Callebero straightens, laughing. “Peace, Sirion — no one is attacking me, and I can fight my own battles.” He takes the teasing admonishment and settles back, but it doesn’t wholly ease his raised hackles. “It is the duty of the Legion to protect House Soko from all threats,” he points out, raising an eyebrow. As hoped, the corners of Callebero’s lips curl up in amusement, and he shoots Sirion a sidelong look.

“Are you suggesting we attack anyone who makes a lewd comment about me?” he asks, teasing.

If anything, that has Sirion’s consternation doubling, and his brows pinch together. He isn’t sure what he expected the young nobles’ offenses to be, but he certainly didn’t expect lewdness. His arms cross without thought, lips pressed together in a seam. Catching his expression, a slow smile starts over Callebero’s lips. His gaze flicks over Sirion before he affects a pout, pressing his lips out even as his eyes are narrowed with amusement. “Aw, are you going to defend my honor?” he teases. “I thought all this practice was supposed to prepare you to do that,” Sirion retorts. Callebero hums and leans back on his palms, tilting his head to one side. The sunlight gleams against the black of his robes so that they almost turn white. “True,” he says, though he doesn’t quite sound like he believes it. “If I can’t defend myself from them, I really shouldn’t be prince.” Despite his words, his tone isn’t genuine. Sirion frowns, tapping the fingertips of his right hand against his left thumb. He’s used to Callebero’s moods fluctuating between solemn and bright, but he hasn’t seen this before: irritation and self-deprecation and disappointment all bundled together. “Is it anything—” he starts and then pauses, fingers half-curled on their way to an undecided sign. Callebero’s expression softens, a more genuine smile slipping over his lips. “Don’t worry about it, Sirion,” he signs, bumping their shoulders together. “People just like to gossip. And Jemma did warn me — repeatedly — this would happen.” He wrinkles his nose as he signs, the childish annoyance at odds with the graceful movements of his hands. A smile quirks Sirion’s lips, but understanding sinks lower. “They’re about you and Jisel?” he guesses. He still doesn’t know the whole story of how Jisel came to Arradine, but he knows Callebero well enough by now to know all the rumors are nonsense. Once, before he knew Callebero, before he understood the unswerving devotion he garners among the Legion, he might have thought the rumors carried some truth. Now, he is appalled that anyone could believe Callebero would abscond with a young princess and not have the face to be honest about it. Now, Callebero huffs out a breath, hands stilling briefly. When they first met, Sirion thought those slender hands were another sign of the prince’s spoiled upbringing, all delicate and limp. He’s well-acquainted with the error of that thinking by now. He’s learned the strength of them, the rough ridges of callouses on his palms and fingers from hours and hours of training. “I don’t get why they can’t just leave her out of it,” Callebero says. “I know they’re going to gossip about me — they always have — but Jisel doesn’t deserve it. She’s already been through enough.” Pausing, Sirion tilts his head in consideration. He doesn’t know all that Jisel has been through, but he thinks, to a certain extent, it doesn’t matter. Callebero would say that of any of the people he calls his own if it would protect them. His own position is, naturally, outside such mercy. He doesn’t know how to say that, though. It’s not as if he can tell the imperator princep to be kinder to himself. Part of him feels like he’s making it a bigger issue than it is to Callebero anyway: aside from the brief displeasure Callebero shows at having to mingle with nobility instead of soldiers and his close companions, he rarely seems to dwell on slights against him. Maybe he really does shed it like so much water off a duck’s wing. “At least we would make a handsome couple,” Callebero says, contemplative in a way that’s clearly a joke. Sirion snorts, but there’s a twist of displeasure in his chest. He likes Jisel, of course. If she and Callebero were at all inclined toward romance, he wouldn’t object. Not that he has a right to in the first place — but anyway, the point is that he doesn’t like the way Callebero seems to accept all this as inevitable and he doesn’t know how to fix that. “She’s too smart for you,” he says instead. “Hey!” Callebero bursts out, but he’s grinning. There’s delight in the surprised widening of his eyes, the laughter in his voice. Sirion grins, unrepentant, and Callebero shoves him in the shoulder. “I know that,” he laughs, “but you’re not supposed to say it.” Satisfaction and a quiet, smug hum, fill Sirion. The somber mood broken, he gathers their staves with a small smile as Hayalen and Jemma return. He doesn’t need to look to know Jemma is making a face as Callebero knocks their elbows together, a laugh in every absent motion. Callebero throws a last grin over his shoulder as Hayalen finally herds him back toward the palace, and Sirion gives a little wave after, his lips still curled up on one side. “Lieutenant,” Jemma says, looking like she’s about two breaths away from burying her face in her hands. He stifles his smile as he falls back in step, but there’s a lightness to his gait that carries him through the rest of the day.