#ve. tes.

"Only if you want to get me in trouble." The words left Balfour's lips lightly. He knew Ásgeirr never would, that his words were spoken only in jest. There had never been a calm or average day at the Palace, at least not in Balfour's memory. Certainly not once Elisif began running the place - or, rather, before her court tried to rule through her instead. It was often exhausting. Balfour hated the vast majority of it, though he still wasn't fool enough to reject such a position of honour.

Some days also proved themselves ridiculous. The kind that he might laugh about afterwards, when he came home to Ásgeirr.

There are certain sacred things in the world that should simply not be disturbed. A well-deserved, restful morning, perhaps, chief among them. What a shame for Ásgeirr, then, that Balfour has no care for such things - at least, not on this morning, and not while Ásgeirr sleeps in his bed.

So there is no warning before Balfour throws himself atop his lover, all big grins as he straddles his back, hands steading himself against Ásgeirr's shoulders. Technically, yes, he is asking for a stabbing. Only an idiot pounces on an ex-assassin and doesn't expect to do himself an injury - but what can Balfour say? He's special. And a moment later, besides, he is leaning down to press a kiss to Ásgeirr's face, followed by another and another, and yet more at his neck, at his shoulders.

Balfour had always been a terrible person to tend to. Never willing to sit still long enough to be healed, never wanting to admit he was in as bad shape as he was - but he had always resented making any sounds of pain. Sitting here, white-knuckle grip on Ásgeirr's shoulder while the other man removed an arrowhead from Balfour's own, it was proving something of a challenge to keep silent.

Bastard Stormcloaks. It had been one swift ambush, that was for certain, and though Ásgeirr had made swift work of them, Balfour had been caught out before either of them had caught on. Now they sat in what hastily set up camp they had managed to make for themselves and cursed himself silently for his slowness of action. Some housecarl.

It was something of a growl that left him in the end, something deep in his throat as Ásgeirr finally removed the arrowhead and Balfour's grip on his shoulder somehow managed to tighten further. The moment it was gone, the hold he had on Ásgeirr's shirt slipped. His head was spinning, not entirely on his shoulders.

They stand in one of the quieter corridors in the Blue Palace; he cannot be too far from Elisif, these days, but Ásgeirr has seemed... concerned by something. A short while alone, while not ideal, is the best that they can perhaps ask for at such a time as this. Balfour reaches to touch Ásgeirr's arm, gentle as anything, face soft and open as his eyes travel over Ásgeirr's own.