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sapphireblueandfire · 2 years

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Luke’s throat works, he inhales, deep. His heart’s beating fast, thundering against his lungs but. His mother, he reminds himself, didn’t raise him to be a coward.

“Tell me why, then”

Aemond’s hand pauses, pale, delicate as it traces the fine grains furrowing along the wood in rivers of ancient history. From the high vaulted windows, the light’s seeping through in long streams of blue that the moon’s stealing from the stained glass, and music floods the space with the roar of a tide. Loud resound the voices, the shouts of joy, the laughers. Outside, his grandfather’s people celebrate with that fierce recklessness of theirs and Luke’s always known that he ain’t inherited it through blood but, he can feel it even so, resonating in the deep cavity of his ribcage, rushing through the undercurrents of his veins. Wild. Unpredictable.

It’s that same recklessness that just drove him to ask, ‘Would you dance with me?’ throwing him into the rocks when Aemond answered ‘No’ and simply that No, his gaze cutting away, elusive, his open hands retreating into fists over that same table, moonlight painting his silver-blonde hair in delicate chiaroscuro, his dark silhouette blurred against the even darker shadows of the room.

Beautiful, so devastatingly beautiful that―

That recklessness. Sometimes, Luke just can’t control it: the scraping of his chair reverberates in the wide emptiness of the room, so do his hasty steps as he strides to the opposite side of that wooden table that’s keeping them apart like cursed castaways, forever doomed to never meet. His left hand lands on the chisel carved name of some distant southern land. Close, very close to Aemond's and―

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

The fingers on Aemond’s right hand spread out, caressing the base of his gold cup.

“Why should I?”

The movement’s slow, moon-like pale on fire-molded golden. There’s nothing slow or calm or contained about Aemond. Not really. But sometimes― sometimes are precisely those ways of his, so pretendedly restrained, that speak loudly of the unbridled tides lurking within.

“And why not?”

Luke knows that, when Aemond smiles, when that knifecut edges at the corners of his mouth tense upward, it's another one of those things he can't contain. And Luke wants to reach out and delve into that curve with his fingertips, caress that softness he knows its form hides. He wants to undress Aemond of all that composure and touch him, really touch him and―

He can’t help it. To insist. To pressure forward. This mouth he’s got, this fucking impulsivity always breaking Aemond's fragile stability down into shattered glass because,

“C’mon” He lowers his voice, dares his fingers closer to the still clenched fist of Aemond’s left hand "What it is? Not gonna tell me you're embarrassed, uh?"

Aemond's smile contorts and twists. It rots into something bitter and terrible. And Luke wonders if it's possible for his heart to beat hard enough to break bone and make it pierce through, just as easily as he knows he’s just stabbed Aemond’s.

“Fuck. Aemond. I’m sorry I. I didn’t mean to―”

“I am” it’s a quick thing, his answer, words muttered. And he ain’t still looking at him and. Pain, cuts like a double-edged blade. Because that stark sincerity. That raw feeling of helplessness. They hurt Luke, too. But Aemond―it's the same kind of restrained movement, wrapped in cautiousness with which Luke always reaches for him: Aemond lays out the fingers of his left hand, a white flag spread out on the table, a tentative gesture of peace and,"I can't" Aemond breathes in deep, the movement heaving his chest up under his clothes, tension coiling around his collarbones "No. I can but. It’s just that. Can’t like I should and―"

His fingertips brush lightly along the delicate shapes carved into the wood and Luke knows what they’re offering, knows what Aemond’s expecting but. Luke just can’t because―

Aemond won’t say it. But, it’s easy enough to understand.

“It’s because of what I did to you”

And gods. It’s never gonna be easy. But sometimes Luke thinks it would, if when Aemond looks at him now he didn’t do it like this. Light-blue as boundless as the sky. Sapphire-blue like the sea at tempest. Because Aemond never covers his left eye anymore: wine and sharp words and a knife in Luke's hand and hot drops of his own blood and nothing but a thin, almost invisible scar furrowing his right cheek because Aemond wouldn't let him do it. So he doesn't cover it anymore, since that night. Doesn't cover his left eye, but doesn't cover his right eye either. And there’s a tragic kind of tenderness, in the light fall of his eyelids, in that way he looks at Luke as if he can no longer find a way to protect a single centimeter of his skin from hurting and―

Luke wishes the damage wasn't already done.

Aemond does not answer. All that needs to be said, his eyes tell him.

Outside, on the other side of the ocean-blue depths of the stained glass windows. Voices are still singing. Tempests. Shipwrecks. Forbidden loves. The heartbreaking song of the sirens. And there’s this recklessness inside him, yes, but it wouldn't matter if it wasn't because,

At the end, when it comes to Aemond, Luke’s never really going to be able to make himself stop.

He stretches out his fingers. Close. Their tips brush and. Soft. Aemond’s skin is so soft, the wildest in all the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. Luke caresses his knuckles and thinks how unprotected his own skin’s now, too. That he would let Aemond hurt him all he wanted. Because they are this now. After months and months and months of hiding from each other on this dank, dark island. Of finding each other in the green of the cliffs, in the salty wind and in the shelled gold of the sand and the beauty of the mist. Months since they were bound together for the sake of convenience, since they began to realize that, in the end, they have been bound together for much, much longer.

Since they began to. Do this. Reach for each other. Touch. Need each other and―

Luke’s never, never going to be able to make himself stop.

“Aemond, let me―” fix this. Make it up to you. Keep on touching you “Aemond” He curves his fingers down, presses his fingertips into the lines of Aemond’s hand "Please. Dance with me"

And Aemond breathes in and,

"Only because you ask me like that, my Lord of the Tides"

Luke's heart’s flooded by the entire ocean. Aemond holds his hand, tight, keeps his head above water.

"And because you're fucking insistent"

And it’s― seven steps to the center of the room. Their hands dancing on their own in a long caress, letting go only to twine again back together again. Aemond’s arm wrapping around his shoulders. Luke pulling him in by the waist. It's―that way Aemond sighs, when their cheeks almost brush, sapphire against skin, Aemond breathing wildfire into undercurrent of his pulse and―

Aemond holds on to him real, real tight.

"You're gonna have to guide me, Lucerys" he whispers, and Luke feels as if the air’s refusing to stay inside his lungs.

He says what he thinks Aemond needs to hear. What he realizes he needs to tell him.

"Whenever you want."

So they dance. They dance real, real slow.

Aemond's fingers tickling his hairline, Luke's losing their course in the long curve of his waist. They dance so slow it's almost drift. The night still. The winds tame. And Aemond clings to him like to an anchor, their intertwined hands a lifeline. They dance and Aemond's breath catches. His footsteps quiet. His chest rising, rising, falling. The contrast makes Luke's skin goosebumps where he feels his lips so close, the contact light right under his ear. And Luke― Luke can't remember the last time he did something so carefully. He guides Aemond over the dark tiles with his own breath winded, measuring each step. He makes them swirl in between swaths of light like ocean currents, Aemond's temple warm when it brushes his, Aemond's breath regaining a slower, steadier rhythm, until―

"Fuckfuckfuck!”

Their feet bump. Aemond's nails dig into his skin. Luke's grip the only reason he doesn't completely loses his balance and―

"Hey. Hey. Are you―"

And he stalls, because he's about to ask 'okay?' but Aemond's breathing a whirlwind, his whole body tense, rigid and,

"No," he answers even though Luke doesn't ask and sounds frustrated, sounds almost angry as he adds, "I can't. I don't―" and,

"Aemond"

"It's like. My head gets. Clouded and. It’s too hard. And then I stumble and―" he sighs and he sounds so sad and irritated and defeated all at once "I do, Luke. I feel so fucking embarrassed”

Luke doesn't ask but Aemond answers. Tells him, close to his ear, about the kind of things no one would tell someone who’s done the kind of damage Luke’s done to him "Everyone laughed at me whenever it happened and― sometimes that was the worst of it. What they all saw, when they looked at me" and Luke feels his heart break from part to part.

Because it's his fault. It's only his fault that,

"Gods, Aemond, I'm sorry I’m―"

"No," Aemond hushes him, and when their cheeks touch, Luke feels the warm texture of his scar and his stomach shrinks, "I don't want you to apologize anymore. That's not why I'm telling you"

But Luke’s barely listening. He knows too well that it's way more than an eye, what he took from him that day. He knows the only way with Aemond is to be very, very careful. He knows but― it's that damned recklessness of his. As always, Luke should have known when to stop. Should’ve listened.

"We don't have to. I shouldn't have―" he starts to pull away, to let him go "We can―" but,

Aemond won’t let him. Lips against his ear. His breath ruffling his skin. The contact so intimate, so impossibly soft that his whole body sighs. Aemond doesn't let him go and Luke lets him drag him back instead and, it feels like a plea, the way Aemond pulls him close, as if he's asking him to sink with him under the waters.

"I don't want to stop, Luke. I want to dance with you" And gods. Gods. Aemond's voice feels like a caress, it tickles under his skin, teases him with the warmest laugh "I'm only telling you so you know what to expect. If I get angry or. Frustrated and―" he grips his hand so hard it almost hurts. A soothing kind of pain, so real and tangible that it's more like relief "And because truth is, I already feel like that all the time, when I'm with you."

"Aemond―"

"Like I lose footing and need you to―"

Luke inhales. There are a thousand lost treasures, underneath the clear waters of his skin. Luke wants to catch his breath and dive in, ask Aemond to let him find them. Him. And only him.

"To―?"

And― it's the tiniest kind of intimacy, just Aemond's cheek minimally brushing his. Because they are this, now. Seeking each other. Touching. Needing each other. And Luke wants more. Always more. He feels himself drowning when Aemond whispers,

"You said always, didn't you? That you would guide me, always"

And it's a castaway's instinct. Luke gathers momentum. He swims up to the surface. His hands find their lost course and wrap again around Aemond’s waist, drawing him in until their chests are touching, inches and inches of skin separated only by a few millimeters of clothing. And Luke is able to feel it like this, how his heart’s beating wild too, breaking like waves against his and,

"Always"

He untangles their fingers. Grabs gently at his wrist and. Guides him, until they are fully embraced. Aemond's arms curled around his neck. Luke’s wrapped fast around his waist. They are almost one and the same like this. Their heartbeats blurred, no way to tell where one begins and the other ends.

And Luke guides his steps. Guides his body. Tells a silly joke that makes Aemond laugh when they stumble. He makes them sway and twirl. And they dance, as if underwater. Together. Cautious steps that risk just a little in the sharp curve at every turn, in the way his hands want to wreck in that long line of Aemond’s waist. Luke asks "Is this better?” And Aemond draws the blurred outline of a kiss against the starving skin of his neck, answers "So much better, my Lord of the Tides" and―

They keep on dancing. Like taking a deep breath and looking up at the blue sky from under the liquid rippling of the waters. And maybe he should. Maybe he should but. As far as Aemond is concerned, gods forgive him, Luke’s never going to be able to make himself stop.

Because you have to go slow, with Aemond. You have to know how to wait, patient, until he finally decides, one day, to let you hold his hand, to dance in your arms. And Luke knows that, but―

On the outside, the islanders are singing of star-studded nights, of fair winds, of sailors who find their way even in the roughest of tempests but. Here. On the inside. Luke can't help but get swept up by this thing that shouldn't be in his blood. This blind recklessness that keeps driving him into the very heart of the storm so,

He tells him what he doesn't know if Aemond would ever want to hear. What he should never have the folly to say to him.

"I want to be everything I took from you, Aemond" and Aemond―

Aemond stops. Breaks away from him. Stands so very still. He looks at him and. For an everlasting second, they are calm and storm and they are that instant in between them. Aemond stares at him, sapphire-blue and that crystal-clear color of the sky when it's all over, and the whole world inhales deep to try and catch its breath and,

"Everything?"

"Everything"

And. Aemond inches back closer. Blue and moonlight and the impossible feeling of finding warmth down the cold vastness of the ocean and, this time,

This time, he makes them both lose their balance.

"Guide me, then"

Luke's heart rears up, breaks into foam against his fingertips.

And it's so easy, and it scares the hell out of him, too. To come closer. To entangle himself back into him. To entangle Aemond back around his own body. As if they were dancing again except, this time, neither of them’s moving. This time, it's Luke's fingers running down his cheek, guiding him, parting his lips with his fingertips. This time, it's that raging, deafening recklessness of Luke dragging him against the rocks again and. When they kiss, it's just Aemond's warm lips soft against his, the sweet drag of his tongue, the immense heat of his mouth as he's the one who finds his course and kisses Luke long and deep and devastating while, all around them, the whole world’s falling silent and,

They’re dancing. Luke moving them carefully until they are dancing to caresses and unbridled breaths, until they are dancing to slow, ragged kisses. And this time Aemond laughs against his mouth, when they inevitably stumble, the most beautiful natural disaster in all the lands of the Seven Kingdoms and―

"I guess I'm not very good at this, either" Luke laughs too, cheeks aflaming, lips burning as Aemond leans in to bite them so very tenderly, to breathe that laughter against his mouth in the form of another kiss,

"Maybe not. But still, I’ll always go wherever you take me, my Lord of the Tides."

for @molieski ❤❤

#lucemond

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