The State of Us

[Finn]

Palatium Umbarum
54th of Ash, Year 123 of Steel

It had been a good day.

Finn had woken Arvaelyn up with kisses before leaving to train with Kherdroth. Luncheon with Vraedyn at the Templum Solis Radians. He checked in on his parents, then went to train with Vespera's legionnaires. It was late afternoon - as much as such things were reckoned below ground - and Finn was home again. He never knew whether Arvaelyn would have free time for him, but he knew the demands of princely blood were great and so he just tried to fill his hours and enjoy the time they did have together, whether alone or dancing some political waltz.

There was always something that needed attention, and the upcoming masquerade had most of the upper crust of Solunarium and those who supported them in a kerfuffle. At least his preparations were mostly complete. He would be wearing little, singing much, and mostly trying to beguile a certain prodigy into swearing fealty to him.

Arvaelyn was aware of his plans and his responsibilities. Some where coming closer to fruition, though, and he would need to discuss them once more.

"Mm," he murmured. In their private baths, he was not alone. The servi were bathing him, massaging sore muscles. With a thread of his power, he dulled their minds to lust. It wasn't so much that he assumed they would, but rather he feared the might. Finn didn't want any of them being sacrificed for doing their jobs.

In any case, he would bid them depart immediately if he were offered the hands of his amatus instead. But now he had to school his own reactions, lest he think too hard on the dragon prince's hands and his own body react in lust.

Another thread of his power went seeking, indolent as a stream of narcotic smoke, across the room and out the door, down the hall and questing for that symphony that completed his own. Come to me, it would demand, if the right man could hear it.

[Arvælyn]

As his half brother, The Princeps Draconum, read his memorandum, Phocion stood at a window at looked out at his city as he so often did, albeit from a different vantage. This one was higher... better. He could take in a broader scope of the Umbrium from here. He never tired of observing it: The people peppering the streets, the creatures soaring the cavern-covered skies. There was always something new, but not very, and that was soothing.

"Wait. You want to approve what I'm wearing to the bloody mascerata?" Arvælyn scoffed, and Phocion could almost smell the smoke churning from the younger man's nostrils, but he didn't turn round. His eyes remained fixed upon his city.

"On the contrary..." The paler, elder sibling replied, "Valæra wishes to approve what you're wearing to the bloody mascerata."

"It's a glorified costume party. What could it possibly matter? I should be able to wear a bathrobe and sleep mask if it pleases me and, beside all that, why should I be subject to Valæra's fashion sense? She doesn't even have eyes!"

This comment actually elicited a snort from Phocion, though he did have the self-control to keep it from turning into a chuckle.

"Prithee don't play dumb with me, O Exalted brother mine." Phocion peeled himself away from the window to look at Arvælyn incredulously, "It may serve you at times to assume this role and yea, you may strike me down with dragonfire or melt my mind with mickle masterful Mesmer for speaking candidly, but you know as well as I do that this is more than a masked ball. This is practically the anniversary of the Zalkyrian annexation of the Umbrium... the first major event that unites the realms split by that brazen act. Every stumble you take on the dancefloor will be analysed. Was it a slight against the other Crown? Are you unfit because you're too fond of drink? Perhaps you're craven— hiding away in fear and you sent a lowly servant to wear your skin to the ball? And that's just a stagger, your costume? It must be considered with the utmost care. It is a statement, næ! A proclamation!"

"They won't even know who I am!"

"They will at the terminus, and then they will head to their respective after-parties to dissect you in absentia where we're ill-equipped to control the narrative. His Starlit Highness didn't send you a perfumed invitation, he threw down a gauntlet and everyone wants to see how you will respond. So yes. I'm afraid the wisest course of action is to be costumed by Consilium. You may, of course, choose to overrule us... Only His Exalted Majesty stands above you in the eye of the law, and I hardly think he gives a damn about your fashion choices. So, what will it be?"

There was a lengthy pause, and finally with a smoky sigh the Crown Prince nodded once.

"Good." He turned back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. "Now did you have any thoughts about the ecological-...?" He heard a chair sliding back, and departing steps.

"We shall resume this on the morrow. You are dismissed."

"Oh might I stay and enjoy the view a bit longer?"

"Have at!"

Phocion sighed contentedly and perched himself on the broad marble windowsill.

* * *

"Don't you look relaxed?" He grinned, extending his arms to either side as he compelled the nearest servi to help him out of his clothes, even as he unlaced and loosened his boots with his Kinetics.

"Was it a good day?" He would fold his wings and wave the slaves away, once they'd collected his clothes. "No matter. It will perforce be a good night..." He said with a wry grin, padding toward the steps leading down into the warm water. To a human it was quite warm, but he reacted with a chill.

[Finn]

Finn felt his invitation received, and felt his lover's approach. He hadn't endarted his mind too far into Arvælyn's symphony in seeking it out. They were generally laid bare to each other, but Finn didn't seek out state secrets; they were generally shared with him if he needed to know. He knew, at least, that they had been discussing the masquerade. His smile was smug as he watched his prince approach, slowly released from his clothes.

"A good day," he corrected, "and a better night."

Finn rose up to meet Arvælyn and at least set fire to his blood with kisses. Soon enough, he had him in the water and was bathing him with his own loving hands.

"You can heat up the water, love. I just might eventually fall dumb with relaxation." He laughed, strong, callused hands running over golden skin and scales. "And for what it's worth, I would let the costume designers worry about your costume so you can focus on your performance. As on the boards, so on the dance floor. So long as this is your costume once the parties are over and we return to our bed."

His lips fell to golden hair and he tried to decide whether he wanted to talk through things first or let lust pass over them and through them, and when the lust was gone, there would be nothing. Only they would remain. Certainly, they would no longer be distracted. Finn enjoyed distraction with Arvælyn, but also knew how much work was constantly waiting for them.

In the end, he deferred to Arvælyn. Often, he demanded precedence in private things to maintain some sort of equilibrium and equality within the purview of their relationship, but they were both creative fellows and he enjoyed sometimes playing the part of supplicant.

"How may I please my prince?"

[Arvælyn]

“I’d not boil you like a lobster in hopes of recreating the comfort you enjoy in a warm bath.” Arvælyn demurred with a sigh, though his mind drifted to a potential gift idea. Perhaps a cuff or collar of heat resistance to mimic that of his own Draconic nature. That way the could bathe as Finn did with company other than his aunts and uncles in the thermæ of the Thalamum Draconum.

“Although I would not grudge a lobster dinner later, if you’re amenable?” He grinned against the touch, though it fell a bit as Finn’s fingers grazed his wings. He wasn’t often touched there and he remained sensitive about his newer bits. On an human or elf, scaly skin was undesirable… a symptom of an affliction often met with revulsion. They were a normal trait upon reptiles, but Finn had fallen for a mammal. The sensation itself was also strange, duller than a touch to his soft skin. Whatever the case, he didn’t read away even if he tensed somewhat.

“The costume is part of the performance… always one of my favourites, which is why I didn’t object to living in a costume closet for a year.” The smell had been worth the access, and it taught him to launder quite thoroughly even after those tasked with the job had done their middling work and left his prominent nose to deal with the wages of their negligence.

Finn was already situated in a way that made it simple to straddle him, and so that was where he began as he leaned down to kiss his favourite human… the one who’d forced him to object to the Solunarian hierarchy, even when he might have been a wholesale supporter of elven supremacy had he come here a single man or one bound to another or a lesser love.

He broke the kiss as he sensed Finn’s ambivalence, tilting his head.

“Your thoughts are divided, love. Are you troubled?” He sat back on Finn’s thighs and his own haunches.

[Finn]

Finn began to consider a bracelet that would protect him from heats far greater before realizing it was spilling over from Arvaelyn's mind. He hoped for such a thing; while he didn't want to rise above his station in a way that would reflect poorly upon his love or himself, he did want to go wherever Arvaelyn went.

"Mm, lobster," he agreed, hands running over his amatus. His hands focused on skin, sensing discomfort and working around it. While it had been strange at first, it hadn't disgusted him and now it was a part of the man he loved, and so it was beautiful, even desirable for him, though he wasn't sure he would think it so on someone else.

"Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm," was his choral response as Arvaelyn spoke and he kissed. He imagined coupling in a crowded closet with him, or upon the dance floor of the upcoming masquerade with none the wiser, protected from scandal by Sentinels in numbers he wouldn't ken.

When Arvaelyn sat back on his thighs, his hands moved down to support him, one at the small of his back, the other with a handful of golden backside. He smiled.

"Not troubled, no. Excited to perform at the masquerade, but of course, there are always nerves. I know one of the others who will be performing with me, the first musician I heard here in Solunarium. Her name is Lystreia and... I believe Avaerys will approve if I take her into thralldom... the first of my Singers. But I would like your opinion on the matter," he said, being diplomatic. It wasn't that he didn't want Arvaelyn's opinion, but he knew these things could be volatile. Khyan had seemed to react almost to Avaerys rather than Finn himself, swearing fealty when he had spoke partly in jest.

"And then... Your brother Raithen and I had agreed to swap runes. My reaving has settled against my soul, and so the might might as well be nigh. I could as easily ask you to initiate me, or even Phocion - I imagine he will oversee my training at the Citadel. I don't want Raithen to feel as though he owes me something, though, should you prefer he not initiate me. But also... I paid heed to your father's advice: I must be useful. Our Mesmer was matched long ago, though I don't know that I will ever reach your native power in it." He smiled, not bothered by that; at least, he would like to match Arvaelyn, but he had less power in so many ways, he could hardly cry about it. "With Traversion, I can be your personal taxi service. Take you out of danger immediately, or bring you whatever or whoever you need. With Reaving, I am always a breath away from being armed to defend you by more mundane means. But I am not married to Kinetics, and you already have access to that Rune on your own power. If you think another Rune might serve you better, I would make that case. Unless... Please don't make me learn to hex and curse."

He wrinkled his nose. He also gave Arvaelyn's royal rump a possessive squeeze, then leaned in to give him a few quick kisses before leaning back a bit to watch his face.

[Arvælyn]

With his Cardinal Rune of Mesmer already well engaged in Finn's Symphony, it was an errant thing for Arvælyn to send the notion of lobster off toward a servus situated to conjure their whims into a reality. And thus, elsewhere in the palace, a slave delivered the unspoken memorandum to the kitchens.

He pursed his lips as Finn demurred from the designation of 'troubled' he'd applied.

"I... can't say I'm familiar with this Lystreia, and so it wouldn't be an informed opinion were I to give one." Perhaps he was getting better at politics and diplomacy, to have acquired an aversion to such. At the mention of Raithen and their arranged Rune exchange, Arvælyn dismounted Finn's lap, turning his face away for a moment as he took a seat beside, instead of atop, his amatus. When he turned his visage back Finnward, the princeps wore a faint smile not unlike the sort he donned for courtly functions.

"If Kinetics is a Rune you wish to wield, then you should have it. Practically, Phocion is the obvious choice to confer the mark of his grandmastery. Is it solely out of concern for Raithen's potential feelings of indebtedness to you that you wish for him to be the one to mark you? I do hope your friendship is not so transactional as all that..." He offered with a coy downward cast of his fiery eyes.

"But if you think there is another mark that may serve you better, I wouldn't argue the contrary. We already have one Rune in common, and there is something to be said for diversification of Craft if we are to become a power couple worthy of Their confidence." He smiled at the squeeze, but it was a softer expression than the lustful one he'd worn before the talk turned less, yet somehow more, intimate.

[Finn]

Though the water was hardly tepid, his lap felt cold without Arvælyn in it. He didn't like it when it seemed as though the prince was giving him politic answers, or showing him his diplomatic mask. Solunarium was a court of smoke and mirrors, and he wanted more than anything for everything between them to be plain and clear.

Lystreia, at least, could become his thrall without causing trouble, he hoped. Once it was done - if not before - he would introduce them. As for the rest, it was clearly still an issue.

"I do not know that it is transactional," he admitted. "It was, I suppose, a loose promise. I don't think it would offend him if I received the Rune elsewhere." He considered; the Avialae dux was facile and friendly, and Finn wasn't certain what would trip a switch for all that he had been a resident of Solunarium for over a year now. His eyes widened slightly as he thought about that, about how much had changed, both for him and for Arvælyn, and for the both of them as one.

"I think..." Blue eyes rose to capture gold if they could. "I think that if I were to take Kinetics, I would rather you be the one to initiate me. Certainly, Phocion would have a hand in my training given our shared work, and I could train with Raithen. I have shown him how I worked Traversion into my blade work." He reached out to take Arvælyn's hand.

"Pyromancy so I can follow you into the volcano?" he asked with a whimsical smile. "Masquerade to further gild the lily? Semblance seems more important here than anywhere else we have been. I don't suppose the Umbrian crown or the Vigilia Magna are hiding more esoteric powers... there are tales of people walking through dreams, toying with time, and such."

Even if Finn hadn't taken Traversion, Arvælyn would never want for transportation. Now he merely wondered how best to be useful as the person who walked the miles at his side.

[Arvælyn]

Arvælyn smirked slightly at the elaboration, straightened his back and proclaimed:

“By the authority of the Coronam Draconis, we do hereby release you from your oath to our father’s vassal.” With that snidely said, his sneer softened to a smile and he nodded.

“If that is your wish, it would be my pleasure to confer it. Thanks to those early, difficult days of my flying lessons, I’ve grown quite adept at the Craft of Kinetics…” It had saved his neck on more than one occasion to be sure.

“I have Masquerade, to my mother’s vexation and Elementalism is obligatory for my position… have you considered Negation? Summoning? Perhaps one of the World Magicks would serve us well to have close at hand…” He trailed off as he pondered the possibilities but, as he did, he sidled closer to Finn once more as he seemed assuaged of what mild perturbation he permitted to reveal itself to his amatus.

“As for the arcane arts that have been lost to time, I wouldn’t doubt the Sentinels harbour some knowledge. Phocion is surely keyed into all that in his current capacity.” And given Finn’s position beneath his more somber sibling in the Custodes Deorum, he was well poised to take advantage of such things.

His hand found its way to Finn’s neck and began to knead there.

“Does my sweet, sensitive septentrionalem puerum harbour further concerns about my callous disregard for the feelings of my relations, or may we resume our prior path to pleasure?” The hand at the nape of his neck to a slithering path down his spine to find a palmful of his taut rear to squeeze. This was accompanied by a hot kiss to his pale shoulder.

[Finn]

Finn rolled his eyes at the formal royal decree; he was probably one of the few men who could get away with that without having his eyes removed.

"I humbly thank you, Your Exalted Highness," he drawled. But as other matters were taken more seriously, "Negation makes sense, I suppose. Although... sometimes I wonder if I'm not being foolish... wanting to protect you when the Umbrium itself, dragons and Sentinels, all protect you. Summoning... I... don't know about that. I might be superstitious, but it seems... hm..." He was, after all, the grandson of the village witch. "I suppose I should ask Phocion before I decide. There might be one Craft or another that would best suit a Sentinel, an Empyreal Lord, and the royal brat's amatus better than the others..."

Finn smirked, but his thick shoulders dropped as he forced his muscles to relax into Arvælyn's hand. If he had been in his lover's sandals, he would have wanted to bond with his siblings, but he reminded himself that their upbringings had been quite different, as were their stations now. He would try to be a bridge to those siblings as he would try to be a bridge to the Luxium.

Damn if Arvælyn didn't know where all his spots were. He grabbed him under the knee and at the small of his back and pulled him back into his lap.

"...I believe this was where we left off." He nipped at his lover's chest, and up toward his neck.

Thank the Gods the servi cleaned their quarters so thoroughly. Sometimes it was like they were teenagers. For a moment, he wondered what Aværys would say if he actually did thank Him for that. He almost laughed, but it was a mere rumble in his chest.

"Gods, you're beautiful, princeps meus," he murmured against that selfsame prince.

[Arvælyn]

"Nothing to thank, but do take care with the pacts into which you enter. It's just sound policy and not a bad primer if you ever do end up learning the draconic tongue..." Arvælyn trailed off,

"Is it not a natural thing to want to protect that which is dear to us? I exhibit the same impulse to your frequent vexation, it seems. We are just sensitive to different sorts of threats, I think, but the aim comes from a similar place. No matter how entwined our Symphonies may grow, I think there are still alien motifs that will never quite translate from one to the next. We both had separate lives during formative years that made us the creatures that we are and canted different songs into our souls before they ever interwove." There was much to be mined that was translatable, but even with all the might of Mesmer, one could never truly understand another spirit as one understood oneself. Though, if pressed, Arvælyn would have been quick to admit that in other ways Finn knew him better than he knew himself and, he suspected, vice versa.

"Royal brat! And what do you suppose that makes you, my bawdy bard?" The bum squeeze became a sharp pinch of retaliation, but soon he was being drawn back onto Finn's lap and folding his wings to ease that transition.

"Ah yes, I do believe you're right..." He conceded as his loins, too, returned to their previous state as the ministrations of the minstrel's mouth graced and grazed his now goose-pimpled flesh.

"And how you rouse me, musicus meus... You truly play me like a lute." He offered, with a faint chuckle, as he dipped low to taste more of him.