#charlespierre

Charles knows this marriage is not what either of them wanted, but he expected to at least be treated cordially. His family and the Gaslys have been close for generations. When they were children, he and Pierre used to play together, which was a great deal of the reason the match should have been ideal. His family’s money saved Gasly’s estate, while Gasly’s reputation saved Charles’s face after one too many scandals abroad.

Sighing, Charles gets out of bed and grabs his dressing gown off the chair. If he’s not going to sleep, at least he can find himself some milk in the kitchen. He pads out into the hallway, tiptoeing over creaky floorboards.

He’s passing by the drawing room when he sees the door is cracked, the orange glow of a fire beyond. Quietly as he can, he moves closer, peeks in, and sees Pierre sitting in front of the fireplace, chin resting on his hand, staring into the flames. A book is open on his lap, but Charles can tell he hasn’t been reading it, not really.

He doesn’t know what makes him push the door open wider and knock on the doorframe. Pierre—Mr. Gasly—Pierre looks up, eyes round in surprise, but when he sees Charles standing there, he sighs and relaxes again, looking away. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

“The wind,” Charles says. “I was going to see what I could find in the kitchen.”

“You should have rung for Mrs. Bonham. That is her job,” Pierre says. “You are also a master of this house now, you know.”

Charles nods. It isn’t as though he’s unaccustomed to servants; his own parents have triple the number that Gasly has, and double the number of houses to run. But he doesn’t feel welcome here. He doesn’t feels as though it’s his home. So what is he to do?

“I apologize,” he says. “I’ll return to bed and leave you be.”

“Wait.” Pierre closes the book in his lap, sets it aside, and gets to his feet. As he comes closer, Charles must resist the urge to shrink away, to turn and run. They haven’t been this close since they stood at the alter. Pierre has no jacket, and his shirt is unlaced at the top, a dark thatch of hair showing through the open collar. Charles can’t seem to look away from it. Not until Pierre’s fingers come to rest on his chin.

“Mrs. Bonham is incorrigible when it comes to Christmas,” Pierre says, then nudges Charles chin until he’s looking up. Above the door—as at the windows and over the fireplace—is a garland of evergreen and holly. But this particularly garland has another feature, and Charles stomach flips when he sees it. A cluster of white berries.

“Mistletoe,” he says, feeling his cheeks flush.

They haven’t kissed each other since they stood at the altar either, and then it was perfunctory, almost chaste, Pierre pulling away from him before Charles could even taste him.

This time is nothing like that. Pierre’s arms are around him suddenly, like bands of iron at his waist, and Charles melts into Pierre’s chest just as Pierre claims his mouth. Charles clings to Pierre’s shirt, then spreads his fingers out to touch the hair he was so fascinated with before, the softness of it under his fingers making his blood sing. Pierre’s tongue delves past Charles’s lips, and he feeds a groan into his mouth, undone in a way Charles has never seen him, a way Charles would never have guessed he could be. All these weeks of Pierre avoiding him. All this time, and they could have been…they could have…

When Pierre finally breaks away, he’s breathing hard, two spots of color high on his cheeks. He brings his hands up to Charles’s face and stares hard at him, his eyes black in the dim light.

“Go to bed,” he says, though Charles wishes he would take him to bed instead.

“But—”

“We will be busy tomorrow,” Pierre says. He sweeps his thumbs across Charles’s cheekbones and then steps back, the stoic facade he’s worn these past few weeks suddenly back in place. “Get some rest.”

Charles can’t—he won’t. If the wind wasn’t bad enough, now his heart is pounding, and his thoughts are confused. But Pierre turns away and goes back to his chair. What choice does Charles have?

Quietly, not wishing to anger him, Charles says, “Merry Christmas, Pierre.” Then, he backs out of the room drawing the door shut behind him.

That night, Pierre decides to steal into Charles's room, just like he always did back home so they could sneak out to stargaze. This time, he does it so he can say, "I'm sorry, little one."

"Not so little anymore," Charles says, his perfect mouth turned up where he sits on the windowsill of stone, one leg hugged to his chest and the other dangling from the ledge. But Pierre knows you can never watch Charles' mouth if you want to know him. His eyes are sad.

"You always will be little to me," Pierre says and leans on the windowsill to pull Charles to him, to ruffle his hair and dig his knuckles into his scalp until Charles laughs and squirms in his arms. 

"Let me show you a place," Charles says and slides off the windowsill. "I always wanted to, before."

It's a big before. Before they were knighted, before Charles became Lord, before the border conflict between their families was fanned to life in front of Pierre's eyes. Pierre follows Charles to the stables, helps him saddle their horses. Pierre rides a white mare, Charles a red gelding, and the guards at the gate let them go: they know their new lord, and they know his friend too.

"Charles," Pierre says, perhaps admonishing. He doesn't want to admit that he's unused to following Charles, instead of the other way around. "It's pitch black out here."

But Charles's teeth glimmer in an answering grin, illuminated by the big, round moon and the myriad stars spread across the velvet night sky. Pierre's horse follows Charles' horse, who seems to know the way.

"Here," Charles says when the horses come to a halt on the edge of the water. 

Pierre watches the moonlight that cleaves and fractures the waves of the sea, painting a shimmering white stripe across the living darkness. "It's beautiful," he admits.

"When I was little I used to imagine that I could ride across the moon's reflection in the water," Charles says, voice warm. "Like it was a road."

"And where would that road lead?" Pierre says and nudges his horse into Charles' side. He wants to ease the heavy mood that's settled over them.

But Charles doesn't want to make it easy. "Away, I think," he says, with a sigh. "From everything. No clans, no one asking me to do things in the name of saints."

"Charles," Pierre says. The wind is cold against his face, tacky with salt spray. "I'm not here to fight with you about the clan border."

"No, but your father is," Charles says at once, sharply.

"Little one," Pierre says, hurt. They are friends first, neighbors second. Clan allegiance comes last. Charles sighs.