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highlordofkrypton · 8 months ago

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Wildflowers, a Tamlin x Rhysand prequel fic

Chapter 7

It takes one year.

After eleven years of endless bloodshed, it takes one year after Tamlin’s participation in the Human Liberation War for the Courts of Prythian to call its first ceasefire in hopes of discussions for peace. If not for the sake of its people, then for the sake of their land.

Adriata is beautiful. A palace built atop a mountain, overlooking clear blue seas that wink with diamonds under the generous sunshine. The breeze is crisp and cool, even on the hottest of days. What he would give to be out there, playing in the water and letting it ease the ache in his muscles. Too much time has been wasted fighting, and he’s only done a year of it.

“Focus,” his brother, Enfys, jabs Tamlin in the side, his voice a barely-there hiss.

“It’s a good thing your youngest is a little dull, Celyddon, or I would have worried about your seat.”

Tamlin tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Beron Vanserra cast insults in his direction. The Autumn Court is their only ally within Prythian, but that means nothing in terms of kindness or respect. It only means that their goals are aligned. For the moment.

“I would worry about your spawn, Beron. I have made three warriors of mine. Perhaps you should put your cock away and focus on strategy.” Celyddon grins, amused by his own humour. With seven sons, the only thing Beron seems to be good at is conquering his wife.

All seven of the High Lords are in attendance, scattered around the room or seated at the circular dining table. Nostrus, High Lord of the Summer Court, had been kind enough to welcome them into his home. His territory along with Memrun’s Dawn Court are the only neutral locations left. Every other Court has pledged their forces to help the humans gain freedom.

“Now, now, it may come as a surprise to you both, honourable lords, but we did not gather here to hear you bicker like old hags.” Nostrus clasps his hands together with a pleasant smile, beckoning the attention back to him. Naturally, with far too many powerful High Fae in one place, the conversation tends to diverge. Repeatedly. It’s the third time he’s had to reign them back in, and hopefully, his charm will work in his favour to get somewhere more productive with this.

“Laugh all you want, Sieffre. I’ll make sure to string your half-breed son up along with his flying mutts.” Beron snarls at the High Lord of the Night Court, who only grins wider. The threat rolls off his shoulders, and he doesn’t bother to offer a counter-promise. At least, not with words. His violet eyes glow with tempered anger.

“Is that the limit of your creativity, Beron? You threaten us with a good time?” Sieffre could not sound more unimpressed.

Tamlin’s head throbs. The peace talks dwindle into background noise as he hones in on the song of the seabirds. As soon as the bickering picks up again, his headache intensifies. He has no choice but to excuse himself in the middle of High Lord Memrun’s appeal for Prythian to stand as one instead of tearing itself apart. The war has yet to resort to true violence, the kind that puts their territories and Courts in direct danger, but it is still young. There is time. Tamlin keeps his eyes downcast for the most part, a sign of submission he has ingrained in himself to make sure that no one ever misconstrues his presence or his powers as a challenge. At the threshold of the room, he catches the cold gaze of Nikitas, who simply offers him a single nod of respect—of disguised encouragement. It surprises Tamlin, who returns the gesture before finally escaping.

Once out, Tamlin can finally breathe .

He wants no part of this. No part of war or peace. None of it. He just wants to be left alone. Rhodri never taught him the patience needed for politics, only how to bide his time for the kill. He lacks the skill to be here, but if he understands correctly, his father only needs him here as a show of power. (But not too much. Never too much .)

Tamlin lets his impulsive thoughts lead him down the mountain, skipping down white stone steps into the town below. A handful of guards stop him, but he takes no offence at the necessary precautions. “I want to see the water,” is all he says. So, he will go see the water.

He looks nothing like the beastly son of the Spring Court, not in his fine dressing coats and even less once he sheds his clothes. He’s comfortable like this, tan skin drinking in the warmth of the sun and fearing no shame. He’s waged war with nothing but his ability to shapeshift; what embarrassment does he have now to go swimming completely bare? Tamlin dives into the water with grace and strength, his body making the perfect arc to mitigate unnecessary splashing. He can feel the weight of his golden hair clinging to his wet skin, but even that feels more liberating than whatever guise he’s meant to wear in the war room.

“They can see you, you know.” His attention settles on familiar violet eyes. Tamlin ignores him; for a moment, floating calmly on his back.

Rhysand crouches on the dock, his gaze sliding down Tamlin’s chest to settle on the scar there—the scar he gave him in a fit of childish rage. It’s his fault; he should have contained himself better, but lords of their stature do not apologize, no matter what they feel. He can’t help the way his curiosity leads his attention elsewhere, brows raising in surprise before he scrubs his face.

“I don’t care,” Tamlin says flatly, back paddling lazily. “They’ll see what they want to see.” A dull animal. Nothing more and nothing less. He sees no reason to stop himself from doing exactly what he wants. The High Lords have already decided who he is.

What happened to you, Rhysand wonders, but he already knows the answer. War happened. Being born in their vicious courts happened. He kicks off his shoes and rolls up the hem of his black pants. Sitting at the end of the dock, he dips his feet in the water, baring his teeth at the initial cold. “You’ve grown, Little Prince.”

“Like what you see?” Tamlin teases, a ghost of a smile dancing on his features.

Ah, there you are .

“I still see a boy who licks walls and, apparently, would rather go swimming naked instead of negotiating for Prythian’s salvation.”

“There are more than enough people in that room. They can figure it out.” His emerald eyes flutter shut. The beads of water on his belly begin to dry, so he makes sure to dive back under once more before returning to his star-fishing.

Rhysand huffs his laughter. It’s true. The High Lords are more than capable of making anything happen by virtue of their power, and the question is whether or not they want to.

The two of them exist in silence for a long moment, allowing the tension of battle to fade away for just a moment. Here, they are just precious sons. Not warriors. Not enemies. At the end of it all, the Courts will return to their status quo as if nothing happened. Grudges will be held, but for no real reason. Not in Tamlin’s eyes, at least. Politics flatter the ego; they don’t protect people. In a hundred years or two, none of this will matter. He doesn’t see why he should hate Rhysand for a job he didn’t even want. He would understand it if Rhysand wanted his head for killing people.

(There are days where he wishes the Fae would take it and spare him the meaningless violence. For what purpose does he even breathe ? He wishes that he was never b—)

“You fight sloppy, by the way. Against a more tactical legion, if they have a chance to focus on you, it’d be easy to pin you down,” Rhysand offers, suddenly. It makes Tamlin laugh because despite it all, they’re both still bitching about how the other fights.

“Good thing they’re busy with creatures like the Attor to focus on me. You fight too prettily. Or you’re holding back. I can’t decide.” It’s true. Rhysand enters the battlefield with such flair. Maybe it’s the nature of his powers, but Tamlin won’t know the full extent of Rhysand’s powers until he becomes High Lord of the Night Court. Rhysand is a skilled fighter; his style is sharp compared to Tamlin’s broad strokes.

“You think I’m pretty?” Rhysand bats his eyes, mocking.

A low rumble escapes Tamlin’s chest, a growl of annoyance, and he splashes the other young lord with water. Repeatedly. (Tamlin has never thought about it, but now that it’s brought to his attention… The splashing is a good distraction from the gentle flush on his cheeks.)

“Hey! Hey! Enough!”

Laughter feels like a miracle, and the sound of Rhysand’s as he tries to bat the water away makes Tamlin smile for the first time in a long time.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Tamlin says as he swims a bit closer. “Your wings are beautiful.” He must have found a way to summon them.

Rhysand’s mouth parts in surprise, and his expression is sincere. “You noticed,” is all he can manage despite the nagging feeling in his chest. Flattery? Appreciation? Their last real conversation feels like a distant memory, but Tamlin remembered. As much as he can, Rhysand hides his wings. They’re a necessity in battle, but they’re also an important part of him. A private part of him that he does not share with anyone outside his people, not even his father. “Can you make wings?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Why not?”

Tamlin shrugs and goes back to paddling around. When he started shapeshifting, he felt like a thief. He would wander into the woods and ask the animals he found there if it would be alright with them to use their powers—the very things that made them strong. Would they forgive him if he used it to cause pain to others? After all, it is not in nature’s way to kill for sport or morals; it is only a necessity. He would whisper to them his bargain that after all this, he would stay true to Spring and offer rebirth. How, he hasn’t quite figured out, but he’ll find a way, either by giving back or opening his mind to possibilities.

As for the wings, Tamlin always felt like that was someone else’s dream. Not something for him to take.

“Any plans for dinner tomorrow?”

Tamlin purses his lips thoughtfully, then shrugs. Nothing he can’t get out of as the spare in his family.

“Perfect, meet me in the east quarter. You owe me a drink.”

“For what ?” Tamlin squints.

“Splashing, stabbing, lots of clawing. Oh, and you bit me.”

Tamlin rolls his eyes. “I recall you stabbing me in the heart.”

“Not much worse than going for my carotid. Plus, it was just the tip. If it makes you feel better, I won’t judge you if you forgo the pants.” Rhysand teases, trying to rile Tamlin up and find that playfulness he once knew.

Tamlin grunts, unimpressed, but ultimately accepts the offer.

***

What are you doing, Rhysand? What in the name of the Cauldron are you doing?

The other High Lords may be able to share a drink with their enemies, but Rhysand’s cool and calm demeanour in the face of Tamlin was manufactured, at least in part. It felt like that old memory again, just him and a boy he’d felt pity for. The rest of it is his instinct to protect himself and his own. He’s the enemy and he was vulnerable. His father would have told him to slit his throat on sight, let the sea dilute the blood and swallow his bones. His father would also tell him to use tonight as a lure, then slit his throat. It would deal a considerable blow to loyalist forces. Tamlin was a thorn in all their sides. Even Azriel’s intelligence is unable to predict where they’d place him on the battlefield, much less offer a tactic other than primal rampage.

He holds up two different tops. One is a simple long-sleeved button-up shirt made of silk. It’s black, like most of Rhysand’s outfits. He thinks to pair it with a navy coat with black lapels and a fine embroidery of black whorls, mimicking smoke. With just enough magic, he can give the illusion that the smoke is alive within the fabric. The other outfit is a black suit with gold detailing.

“I’m busy!” Rhysand shouts at the intruder at his door. They seem to pay him no mind as they barge in rudely.

“Aren’t we all,” his cousin drawls, a low purr in the face of his annoyance. The Morrigan is a figure of legend in this war, a female warrior blessed by demons. (Not actual demons; she’s just flanked by Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel alternately, depending on her mission of the day.) Outside of her battle leathers, she finds comfort in crimson and red gowns—a different kind of armour. Her pale brows raise in surprise. “You’re putting an awful lot of effort into a dinner with the High Lords .”

“I’m not going to dinner with your highnesses ,” he clips. He holds the gold outfit up to his neck again. He should have brought more choices; he doesn’t think Tamlin would notice what outfit he’s wearing anyway, but he takes care to dress well. It matters to Rhys .

“Rhys,” Morrigan sighs. “Rhys, tell me you’re not going to dinner with Celyddon’s youngest.” The day before, she had spotted them on the dock but assumed Rhysand was up to his usual taunts. She didn’t stay long enough because she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“And what if I am?”

Her sigh evolves into a groan. Two manicured fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, trying to cleanse her mind of the headache that is her idiot cousin. “You’ve been spending too much time with Cassian. I swear, you are growing more stupid by the second. Why can’t you be like Azriel? He minds his own business.”

“I assure you, Mor, that is the exact opposite of what Azriel does.”

“When he isn’t ordered to,” she rolls her eyes. Leave it to Rhysand to find a loophole. Were it anyone else, she would have assumed that this was part of some greater strategy, but Rhysand’s father has made a point to exclude his son from all planning. He’s also made sure to leave Rhysand on the outskirts of the fighting with one small squadron to command as he pleases. Anything to keep Rhysand out of sight, out of mind and feeling helpless in the war effort. “Fine. I’m going to regret asking this, but why? ”

Why indeed , Rhysand muses to himself. He works through his different opinions, casting aside the obvious answer. Manipulation is his father’s game. Rhysand hasn’t decided who he wants to be yet. With a deep breath, he figures if he’s going to be honest with anyone, it might as well be with Morrigan.

“I want to know him.”

“You do know him. He’s a wild animal that’s been killing troops of humans who just want to be free. You know how the other side is; they would rather kill them than let them go free. It makes no sense!”

“He’s not an animal,” Rhys says seriously, his gaze piercing into the mirror’s reflection. It’s enough to stop Morrigan mid-rant. She tenses her jaw.

“Is it because of the incident at Hybern ten years ago? You’re still fixated on that?”

Rhys says nothing. His fingers grip the coats in his hand, rumpling the fabric.

“He’s not you, Rhys. He’s his own person, and he is no longer a child. He can take care of himself; we’ve seen that. He doesn’t need you.”

And she’s right. Rhysand knows in his heart of hearts that Tamlin is not reliving his own isolated childhood with a cold father. He knows that Tamlin is more than capable of holding his own in a fight. Fuck, Rhysand would bet good money that Tamlin could take his father’s seat in a few years, if his powers keep growing this way.

“I know,” he says softly, turning to face her. “No one needs me, but he might like someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”

Morrigan opens her mouth to say something, and the look she gives Rhysand is one of pity. He’s not talking about Tamlin. He’s the one who needs this. She sighs, the third time in a handful of minutes. She gets up and rifles through the closet with the clothes he’s brought for himself. One of his suits is black on black, a silky black thread weaved in a paisley pattern (truly, one of the more beautiful gifts from humans). She enchants the embroidery into a forest green, dark enough so Rhysand’s aesthetic remains, but there’s enough of the pattern for the colour to be obvious.

“I’m not sure if he’ll notice, but this is the colour of his mother’s dress on that night.” Morrigan fondly recalls the memory, finding it sweet how he pawed at it while she enjoyed Margret's company.

“You’re making this feel like a date.”

“Isn’t it?” Morrigan grins.

“It is not .” On this, Rhysand remains firm. At the end of these talks, they will become enemies again, standing on opposite sides of the war. They’d need a miracle to change that. Or a change in leadership, but those thoughts should never be spoken aloud.

***

The tavern is in the merchant’s quarter of Adriata. The establishments are a mix of modest elegance inspired by beautiful handmade crafts and the familiarity of the working class. Sons of High Lords are welcomed with reverence, but when the sun sets, it’s easy for them to blend in among the people, so long as the drinks are flowing and the bards sing their epic tales. It’s still too soon to hear of war exploits, and perhaps it’s for the better, considering that there are agents of many sides in the city for the next unknown number of days.

Tamlin feels out of place in the cramped tavern where everyone sits close enough for their shoulders to brush. Everything is loud, and there are so many people , both human and fae alike. The only piece of comfort is the wood used both in structure and furnishing. Even cut, Tamlin can still hear the faint whispers of all the stories they have to tell—the lives they lived before coming here and the things they have seen afterwards. He presses his palm against one of the supporting pillars, a gesture akin to greeting an old friend.

“Tamlin?”

His name makes him jump as if caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. The young lord turns slowly, only to be met with another High Fae. Lucien Vanserra is the youngest son of the Autumn Court. (The one who had caught stray insults despite having done nothing to deserve it.) Red-haired and always smiling, Tamlin rather liked Lucien. He is amiable to everyone around him, treating the people he speaks to like they’re the only ones in the room, all while making connections and building bridges for others to connect.

Tamlin smiles genuinely. “Lucien. Hello.” They haven’t seen each other since they were children, except for a handful of negligible occasions where the Autumn Court deigned the Spring Court worthy of their attention. Lucien was always, always kind.

“I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m glad. Truly.” The words are warm, and Lucien goes as far as taking Tamlin’s hand and shaking it, one palm over and under. He hadn’t liked it at first, but understands the meaning in it now. He offers a squeeze in return.

“Is this… a popular place?” Tamlin glances around. He’s not even sure how he’ll get a table, much less hold a conversation with anyone over the noise.

“Of course, isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No, ah, I was…” Tamlin pauses, humming as a time filler until he can come up with a reasonable excuse. Rhysand might not want anyone to know that they’re meeting; maybe that’s why he picked a place where they can get lost in the crowd. Even if he did not mind, Lucien is Beron’s son. Who knows what Beron would do with this information?

“He was meeting me.” Rhysand’s cool tone joins the conversation. He slips his arm across Tamlin’s shoulders in an attempt to lean on him casually. It doesn’t work as well as he hoped; Tamlin’s just that much taller for the gesture to be awkward. It’s only made worse by the way Tamlin shimmies out from under him to put distance between them.

“Rhys! It’s been a while!” Lucien’s smile grows wider, and the two Fae go as far as hugging one another with two pats on the back.

“Too long, might I say. I see you’ve already scouted out the best places to be on an evening like this.”

Tamlin watches the interaction curiously as they catch up. He even goes as far as looking at his hands, wondering if he could ever feel comfortable enough to hug an acquaintance as a pleasantry. He figures he could omit the two pats on the back for fear of smacking anyone too hard. He gets so caught up in his quiet little thoughts that he loses track of the conversation, and Lucien has to ask him a question twice.

“Hm?”

“I said, are you coming to Tarquin’s later? You know how he likes to party. There will be wine and dice, at the very least.” Lucien leaves his statement open for more. Tarquin’s parties are known throughout the realm to be otherworldly ; that’s how fun they are. He’s unsure how much to share, lest he scare Tamlin off.

“We might go. Depends who’s coming,” Rhysand interjects when Tamlin never answers the question.

“Most of the guests will be of the Summer Court. Eris will probably go and Tamlin’s brothers, too. I know I saw Kallias earlier, but Nikitas is very strict on partying during wartime.”

The mention of Eris and his brothers has Tamlin making a face. One of the shortcomings of his training is that he never learned to guard his emotions. Not in Court affairs, at least.

“We’ll think about it,” Rhysand laughs, catching the expression and gently patting Tamlin on the shoulder in reassurance. “It was nice seeing you, Luce. Have a drink on me while you’re here.”

And with that, he ushers Tamlin away to the first two free seats at a table that already seems like there are far too many people on it. At the very least, they are on the very edge of the wooden table. It’s a lot less cramped that way, for someone of Tamlin’s stature, at least. Rhysand manages just fine. Or he makes it look that way.

“We’re getting mead. One glass, you’ll be fine. The lamb here is to die for. It’s slow-roasted for hours, and you can taste every spice for… What’s wrong?”

“I…,” Tamlin starts but stops to glance around. No one’s listening to them. Even the people closest to them are immersed in their own personal nonsense. Here, they aren’t traitors to their Court or enemies. They are just two Fae, enjoying time spent together. He lowers his voice anyway, and his gaze drops with learned shame. “I don’t eat meat.”

Rhysand laughs until he realizes that Tamlin’s serious. “Wait, seriously? How does that make any sense?”

Anger snaps into place and darkens Tamlin’s golden features. “Yes, seriously. Why is that so unbelievable?” He’s suddenly that boy again, the one who would never allow anyone to laugh at the son of the High Lord of the Spring Court, except this anger is darker. Tinted with pain and… something else.

“Well,” Rhysand tries more gently now. “I just didn’t expect that since I’ve seen you take a bite out of people. Multiple times.”

“I don’t swallow.”

“So, you spit?”

The two men beside them stop to stare. Tamlin growls loud enough for them to get up and take their business elsewhere. Good, more space for them. “Yes, what’s so wrong with that?”

As much as Rhysand wants to be gentle, he can’t help but laugh again. He reaches out and touches the fist that Tamlin has balled on the table, coaxing him to relax . “There’s nothing wrong with that, I’m just surprised. Also, they looked at you because I was making an innuendo, which you confirmed. And!” He says, louder, in hopes of outracing Tamlin’s thoughts. “And it was not to make fun of you , the joke was obvious. I had to make it. Nothing to do with whether you do spit or swallow. That is dealer’s choice.”

Tamlin pulls his hand away. Otherwise, he seems mollified by the explanation. A small part of him is annoyed at himself for revealing himself to be as dull as the High Lords say, but it says a lot more about Rhysand who cares enough to speak to him patiently. Any other Lord would willingly coax his anger for the sake of meaningless, momentary victory.

When the barmaid asks for their order, Rhysand orders strictly vegetables (with the classic spices, of course).

“You don’t have to do that, Rhysand.”

“Do what? I’m not doing it for you . I’m just curious whether or not I could survive a meal without meat. You would allow me this experiment, won’t you?” He bats his violet eyes, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “Tell me, though. What difference does it make? The lamb is already slaughtered, whether you eat it or not.” Rhysand knows there’s more to his personal choice, but he questions his methods.

“Perhaps it won’t make a difference here, but in a much smaller setting, the ingredients are rationed towards the number of guests. At home, that means one less plate of meat, if not more, to be prepared by the cook.” It could even mean the salvation of one whole animal, but that’s not the whole reason. Tamlin respects the circle of life and his own necessity to eat other living things. “I’ve already spilled enough blood uselessly. This is my way of restoring the balance,” he shrugs. Rhysand probably thinks it’s silly, the same way his entire family, except his Iolin, had.

Rhysand takes what Tamlin’s saying to heart and raises his glass in the name of his new-old friend. “To restoring the natural balance.”

Tamlin stares. Processes. For once, he’s not being mocked. For the first time, outside of the context of killing, he’s being… celebrated?

“Oh, don’t give me that look and raise your damn glass.” Who would have thought? Tamlin, the ‘beast’ of the Spring Court, is thoughtful. Their glasses clink, a truce in disguise. “So… what do you do in the field? Most of the rations are meat, or the vegetables are stewed in broth.”

“I forage.”

“You forage ? In the middle of war ?” Rhysand’s brows shoot up. Were he anyone else, this information could be critical. Tamlin foraging alone sometime before or, even worse, after a battle, could make him easy prey for an assassin. Or a shadowsinger.

“I like the time alone.”

“You are something else, Lordling.”

Tamlin frowns, yet again, but he doesn’t seem as bothered this time. The food arrives, and even though it’s not what Rhysand came to sell him on, Tamlin’s happy. Each plate is treated with care, cooked individually rather than tossed together in a single marinate. He notes the char on some of them, just the right amount without burning but pulling out all the right flavours. If it wasn’t for his change in diet, he might not have noticed these little nuances, but it is a surprise how hard it is to feel satiated in a single meal with a variety of choices. (It’s been a year since he’s been home. Choice is a luxury someone of his stature does not deserve.)

“I’m glad to see you’re enjoying it.” Rhysand grins, half of an aubergine disc on his fork.

“How do you know I like it?”

“Because your eyes get wide like saucers, and you do a little happy bob with your head.” Rhysand does his best to mimic it.

“I do not.”

“Sure, you don’t.”

Dinner is easy. They don’t tread on heavy topics, just casually hopping from one mundane thing to another. Both of them carry enough weight on their shoulders. The ceasefire might very well be a vacation for them. Rhysand manages to ease Tamlin into their friendship, enough that they’re fighting over the last stuffed cucumber in a battle of forks. He lets Tamlin win. Or so he says.

“So, what now?” Tamlin asks.

Rhysand had expected him to retire after dinner, muttering some lame excuse about duty, but he sees his opportunity and takes it, grinning all the while. “Well, I'll settle the tab, and we’ll see what we feel like doing. Did you want to join Lucien at Tarquin’s?”

“I thought I owed you?”

“Consider it my thanks for the good company and your honesty.”

“Oh,” is all Tamlin can say. He hopes the dim lighting of the tavern hides the way his cheeks colour. He can’t help the way his heart latches onto the compliment. It’s one thing to be lauded for his physical prowess, another to be appreciated for his personality. He knows Rhysand must be flattering him because he really, really doesn’t bring much to the conversation.

He follows the other Fae to the bar, vaguely listening to Rhysand pay for Lucien’s drinks, too. Tamlin often gets lost in his thoughts and his surroundings, curious about everything and finds magic in the world around him. He’s attentive to what others might find mundane, noticing what often goes forgotten. His attention lingers on the pattern of Rhysand’s suit, fingers reaching out tentatively to trace them.

“Ready—” Rhysand turns to Tamlin, unable to finish the thought as they are shoved all too close to one another. People squeeze past them, coming in and out, and Rhysand finds himself pressed against Tamlin’s chest. He looks up, watching the High Fae curiously.

“Sorry,” Tamlin mumbles under his breath. Despite the proximity, he puts his hands on either side of Rhysand and onto the bar, making sure that Rhysand’s minimal personal space is protected. It’s a small gesture—meaningless because he can shove all the other patrons out of the way in one swipe—but he shields Rhysand anyway. “What?” He asks, noticing the way Rhysand is staring at him.

“Nothing,” Rhysand grins. “I think we’re good to go.” He nods in the direction of the group that’s just left, the last of them already out of the door.

Tamlin clears his throat and steps back, allowing Rhysand to lead the way. “Would you be interested in a walk? Down to the docks?”

“Are you trying to bait me into a nightly swim, Little Prince?”

“You don’t have to swim if you don’t want to.” Tamlin grins. He properly grins at Rhysand, and it may be one of the rarest beauties Rhysand has ever seen. (Does he covet it because it’s rare? Or because even the night skies yearn to see the sun?)

“Oh, I want to. Race you?”

Oh, Tamlin is like a child again. He lights up in a way that he hasn’t in over a decade as he nods and charges ahead without waiting for a countdown. He dashes through the crowd, smiling to himself and offering no apologies for those who have to jump out of his way. Even before he gets to the dock, he’s discarding his clothes and this time, he makes a splash as big as the ball of joy rooted inside his chest.

Rhysand comes to a slow at the dock, looking down at his friend with a smile and shaking his head. “I let you win,” he proclaims. It’s the cucumber all over again. He hesitates, worried about his clothes, but decides fuck it . He hasn’t felt this free in a long time. Layer by layer, he discards each item in a pile on the dock before standing there, proud and naked as the day he was born. Dark tattoos whorl around his arms and back, meeting at the chest. No one else has seen them, but Tamlin has shared some vulnerabilities. Rhysand can share this much in return.

“Coming in?” Tamlin asks as if he wasn’t just tracing the tattoos with his eyes. And there’s the scar of his teeth on his shoulder, properly healed but silvery against his pale skin. Tamlin notices that, too. He’s far too polite to stare, or to satiate any other possible curiosity, only diving beneath the waves and disappearing.

“Little Prince? Tam? Tamlin?” Rhysand expects there to be some fancy trick or fish-flopping that Tamlin wants to show off. Minutes tick by and Tamlin never resurfaces. Rhysand has heard of the creatures living beneath the water, prone to waking by the moonlight and slumbering by day. The son of a High Lord wouldn’t drown so easily, would he? He lets his doubts get the better of him and dives into the water, only to find a horde of bubbles blowing him back to the surface.

More splashes and laughter.

“Got you,” Tamlin snorts and back paddles away.

“No, you didn’t.” Rhysand challenges him, swimming after him and jumping onto his shoulders.

As far as anyone can see, there are no Lords here and no prodigal sons. Only two boys reclaiming the childhood they never had.

#i realized i never finished posting this fic #freakin cute chapter #my fics #acotar fanfiction #tamlin #pro tamlin #rhysand #tamsand #tamlin x rhysand #ao3feed #acotar #ao3 #a court of thorns and roses

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