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The air is crisp and bright. The slightly sweet, slightly citrus, scent of cultivated wyvern tail wafts through the imperial gardens on the breeze. This summer has been unseasonably cool and dry. Perfect weather for early morning hunts.
Five-and-three-quarters-year old Terence would love nothing more than to investigate the shaded woods just outside his family’s estate this morning. In fact, he has a standing appointment for such an event with his uncle and eldest sister. However, all of that came apart quite swiftly earlier in the week when it was announced throughout the Empire that today would be the introduction of the Prince-Dominant.
Terence is old enough that he knows he is not to throw a fit regarding the sudden change in plans. Only babies lose their composure like that. Knowing this does not change the fact he would very much like to have that tantrum. Thank you very much.
He may know how to act in polite society, but what Terence does not understand is how there was no Prince last week and now there is a Prince. He also does not comprehend why he should care. Positions in Imperial society are not so hard to parse that a child cannot understand. Terence knows that there are a great many nobles more important than his family and a great deal of commoners who are less important. Even lower than that are the Bearers. Commoners and Bearers both work in his family’s household, which he will never inherit ahead of four older siblings. All of that is just fine. He just wants to go hunting.
The courtyard below the grand balcony of the imperial palace is packed thick with the lesser nobility. None but the Emperor's immediate family have been allowed inside for the occasion. Talk among the nobles is quick and direct, with only a slight veneer of decorum. Some of the whispers say “bastard” and others say “Bahamut.” Terence knows what both words mean but his parents do not know that he knows.
If not for the breeze, Terence would be stifled by the closeness of everyone pressed in around him. As it is, he doesn’t care for the chatter. He is not an uncheerful child, though happier in quiet settings.
“Can you see, love?” His mother is pretty. She is his father’s second wife, some fifteen years his junior. But the marriage was not scandalous because she was already well into her twenties when they were wed. There was little expectation of another child.
In truth, he cannot see with the taller bodies dressed in fluffed up finery all around him. Small mercy that at least his parents had the sense to dress their darling little boy in something suitable to the weather. Despite the fact he can see little other than the trousers of the man in front of him, Terence nods resolutely that he can see just fine. Besides, he’s too old now to be held aloft.
The gathered crowd goes silent as the Emperor steps across the threshold of the balcony and into the open air, the Prince a half step behind him. Terence of course can see nothing of the Imperial family, but when he looks up he watches keenly as his mother puts one hand over her painted mouth. Swiftly she drops to her knees again and bundles Terence close to her chest. Her skin smells of oranges and cooking oil. This morning she was in the kitchen with the servants as they prepared breakfast.
“My lucky little one,” she mumbles into Terence’s dark hair.
Terence does not understand until he is somewhat older why his mother wept for joy that morning. By the following week, Terence returns to the palace with one attending servant and two weeks worth of clothing. Before he leaves the family home, his father tells him to be the upstanding credit to his name they all know that he can be, and to not enjoy himself too much in the Prince’s presence.
—
“Ugh, I can’t believe that you basically picked me out of a line-up. Like speed-courting for friends,” Terence turns fourteen. In another seven months, Dion will follow him. Despite what it might feel like, they have not been conjoined at the hip the entirety of the intervening decade. They would have long ago driven each other mad if that were the case.
The start to their arranged friendship, for lack of a better term, was a rocky one. Dion’s attendants tried to sway the Prince toward some of the boys of higher standing as he selected his playmates. And sweet Dion, of course, did as he was told. It was probably an accident that Terence ended up in the final mix at all. Oh, Terence’s breeding was alright, as were his manners and decorum. Everything was perfectly fine with the boy. But “fine” typically isn’t good enough for a boy a half-step from godhood such as Dion.
“Who said I picked you at all?” Dion bumps his shoulder against Terence’s as they continue down the forest path. The chocobos have been left behind, lest they alert their intended prey. Another fifteen minutes down the path and the two boys will need to be quiet themselves. “Besides, you weren’t exactly refusing the offer.” He reaches up to tug at Terence’s ear.
Batting the Prince’s hand away, Terence lets himself recall what those first few years were like. He and Dion fought, for certain, the way that boys do. They conspired together as well, dreaming up adventures to be had within the confines of the palace grounds: investigations of the pantry, excavations in the storage rooms; stalking invisible enemies through the well-manicured gardens.
Only since turning thirteen has Dion been allowed on hunting trips with Terence. They are sent with two imperial guards of course. But the men in the Emperor's employ have strict instructions to only come within a quarter-mile if they suspect the Prince to be in danger.
It’s a funny thing, Terence thinks, that Dion could ever be in danger. What, with the Eikon within him. Terence has never seen Dion-as-Bahamut. But he is meant to be a brilliant, inconceivable force.
Both boys fall silent as they leave the marked trail behind. Terence has moved along this particular route some uncountable dozens of times before. Yet his heart races inside the confines of his chest to know that for the first time Dion follows him with silent, unwavering trust.
—
Dion sprawls himself over the decorative pillows thrown haphazardly across his bedroom floor. Since turning fifteen the Prince has begun to trend toward tidiness, rather than the material chaos that oftentimes accompanies youth. He understands now, or maybe is only just facing the reality of, his position in life. One day he will be Emperor, but no one but himself will ever recall his mother’s name. He is the Dominant of Bahamut, the Warden of Light, but cannot yet control the massive power that dwells inside him. The expectation hangs heavy on his head that he will be the fiercest dragoon of his generation, but in weekly evaluations, Terence is still that little bit better.
Terence is under no delusions that will last.
“I realize she is under no obligation to like me,” Dion muses, “and I realize that she has lost her children…but…” He conjures a small, glowing ball of light in one hand, letting it dance between his moving fingertips. As his control over his powers grow, he spends more time practicing his dexterity with magic.
Terence knows that he must say nothing about the Empress. Dion knows too that he might only speak like this about her when they are well and truly alone. After a moment's silence, Dion must appraise that his bedroom is no longer safe enough, because he says nothing more on the topic of the woman. He lets the light in his and go out.
Laying comfortably beside his now-certainly-dearest friend in their makeshift fort, Terence does wonder if they’ll grow out of this type of intimacy. Dion is the crown Prince, afterall. One of the most recent demands of the newest Empress is that Dion’s tutors be sent away. With unease seeping through the realm and the Dominant of Fire now dead, it is all the more important that Dion master his martial and magical abilities.
Of course, neither boy can comment on the simple fact that if it were not for the Empress’ machinations, her sons would still live, and the unease that troubles her might not be so close to the tipping point.
“My parents have decided I should continue with my schooling,” Terence changes the subject, though his choice is far from a pleasant one. He stares up at the ceiling, ornate and gilded by an Emperor long-dead. He doubts very much that Dion cares about his accommodations beyond the privacy his rooms afford him. “We will of course not expect your father to continue to incur the expense of my education…it’s just…”
Dion turns in the fortress of the bedding around them until he can prop his hand on his wrist, arm bent at the elbow. He stares back at Terence with a fierce sort of intensity, though his voice remains soft, “Um, of course. It was not my father’s intention to put you out, though. And we would never expect…I would never expect you to follow me, forever, I will speak to him.”
Terence stays silent, thinking on the prospects of his own future. Providing he does grow into a suitable dragoon, his path in life is clear. He will continue to follow Dion, of course. But if he is judged lacking, it is likely that he will need to find employment, the same as any commoner. As the youngest child, there is little in the way of inheritance in his future. Besides, he will need a distraction if he fails.
“Don’t, please. It will be fine. I will continue dragoon training with you, of course. But it isn’t…appropriate,” he winces at his own choice of words. “There will be a time when I must rely on myself.”
Dion frowns deeply. “If you think so. But I hope it is not for many, many years yet. I will be careful, you do know that, right?”
Terence cannot turn away from the intensity in Dion’s amber eyes. The blue flame that always sits behind his irises flashes dully for less than a second before it fades.
“I will not let the curse take me. And we will be together,” he ends his statement with firm finality before dropping his head back against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling. The whole exchange leaves Terence speechless.
—
Terence knows what he feels with abject certainty. And all the more, he knows that he must never say a word aloud.
He will never be an appropriate match for the Crown Prince. No matter his skill with the lance, no matter his devotion to the man, no matter his accomplishments with a quill or ledger. Dion will always be something so blindingly important to Sanbreque that Terence cannot compare.
The glass of wine in his hand has gone warm while Terence watches in silence as noble ladies of the empire ask Dion for each subsequent dance. Dion is eighteen now and imminently marriageable. Tonight’s party is not explicitly for the function of introducing Dion to ladies of suitable families, but the implication is hard to ignore.
Dion greets each prospect with a polite smile, his eyes tense in appraisal. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. Terence is well versed in his friend’s particular tics and wishes nothing more than to save dear Dion from his obligations. But that wouldn’t be appropriate.
Dressed in brilliant white, Dion looks every bit the Dominant of Light that he should. His back is straight, posture perfect, and not a hair out of place. He has grown into a handsome man. That much is obvious.
Terence has never met Dion’s mother, of course. And Dion speaks very little about her now. Even so, in appraising Dion’s fine, fluid features, Terence believes he might be able to piece together how lovely she must have been.
This is something he cannot dwell on. This is something he is not allowed.
Dion does not look at him as he takes the hand of another woman. She is tall and slim, with shiny hair and a pleasant face. Terence is too far away to hear the words exchanged between them. The happiness on her face at being selected is evident enough across the distance.
Such is the case with everything he has ever attempted, Dion dances well. His lessons in courtly decorum continued, even when those in history and botany and mathematics ceased. Dion is a voracious learner, though. And over the last three years he has never failed to interrogate Terence regarding his continued studies.
The couple glides across the dance floor. Threats of war have only somewhat dampened the mood at court. Since the incident at Phoenix Gate, there has been little in the way of open conflict. It is unwise to invite hostilities when a nation’s Dominant is still a child.
Perhaps that is the real cause for tonight’s celebration.
In one fell gulp Terence finishes his glass of wine as he spots a Bearer approaching with another round of drink. His stomach drops as he realizes that the young woman, barely more than a girl, seeps frost from her fingertips to keep the tray cold.
Like many children of the Empire, he thought very little about the status of Bearers growing up. As Dion’s friend, he has thought a great deal about the Curse recently. Their stations in society might be quite different indeed, but Dominants and Bearers share so many things.
“I’d say to stop scowling, you’re sure to scare off the ladies.” The man who has taken the open space beside Terence is familiar. Killian, one of the other dragoons. He is some six or seven years older than Terence, so their training rarely overlapped. Only in the months since turning eighteen has Terence devoted himself full-time to his role and begun to learn the ins-and-outs of the company. “But I rather think that’s your intention.” Killian winks in Terence’s direction.
Terence looks away, keeping careful control over his facial expressions and slowing his breathing so as to not blush at the suggestion. Killian isn’t wrong. The older dragoon isn’t unattractive, with a sturdy build, reddish-brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. On the battlefield they are meant to be clean-shaven. Otherwise, dragoons may adorn themselves as they choose. His eyes are an unusual icy-blue, almost clear when the light shines through the iris.
“There’s no point to it,” Terence gently corrects. “I am devoted to serve the Crown Prince, the same as you.”
Rolling his eyes, Killian corrects, “Do you really think the Prince is the sort of man who would not want you to find joy in this life?”
This time Terence does blush, “Of course not. He has always shown great concern for the well-being of those under his command.”
“So then,” Killian plucks the now-empty second glass of wine from between Terence’s fingers. “Do you feel like being-well tonight?”
Terence cannot help but look in Dion’s direction one more time. The dance is ending and his partner steps away with a gracious curtsy. Another lady lines up to take the former’s place, demurely offering her hand to Dion. He accepts it with grace befitting his station.
“Alright,” Terence concedes.
—
After that, Terence resolves that it is not a very good idea at all to bed other dragoons. Not because the night with Killian was unsatisfactory in some way. The other man was tight and hot around him, moaning in the most delicious of ways as Terence took what he wanted and gave what was desired. Only, after the fact Terence found himself worrying dreadfully that Dion might somehow know.
Nothing that transpired was shameful. Terence already has half a dozen nieces and nephews and there is no expectation placed upon him to either marry or father children. Thus, by common convention, who he goes to bed with is of no concern to anyone but himself. Still, he does not wish for Dion to know. Something akin to guilt sits sourly in his stomach.
The company is still stationed at Oriflamme. Most of the men sleep in their own beds every night. While they are sometimes called away to dispatch particularly stubborn monsters, the Emperor continues to be measured in their deployments and the overal visibility of the Dominant.
Dion has called Terence into his palace offices quite suddenly. It is already dark outside, the moon a brilliant white in the deep purple of the sky.
“I wish to name you my second-in-command,” Dion does not even bother with a greeting. Though, on his desk there is a second glass, already filled with wine set aside for Terence.
“They will call it favoritism,” Terence pinches the bridge of his nose. They are both only twenty. Dion will be difficult to dissuade. “I have not trained as long as the others.”
Dion frowns, before reaching forward, and in a gesture that betrays too much intimacy, holds both of Terence’s hands in his. “That does not matter and you know it. I’ve seen your tactical drawings. The others have seen them as well. I trust your judgment above all else. You are a good man of sound mind. The position is yours.” Dion’s hands are unnaturally cold in his.
“Thank you, my Prince,” Terence drops his head in deference. Dion is not entirely wrong in his assessment. His men put the utmost faith in the Prince. They will trust in his decision too.
Terence expects Dion to pull away, now that the matter is settled. They will drink their wine and discuss banal matters related to the Dragoons. Terence will ask how Dion is feeling; Dion will lie and still say that he experiences no adverse effects from his magic.
Instead, Dion runs the pad of his thumb across the back of Terence’s hand. Small circles give way to a single, longer stroke before Dion finally stills. Terence has been too enraptured in watching the pattern of Dion’s touches to pay much attention at all to the Prince’s face. When he dares to look up and meet Dion’s eyes, he finds them perfectly amber and lovely.
“Sorry,” Dion draws his hands away, letting his arms hang limply at his sides.
“My mistake,” Terence corrects, reaching swiftly for the wine. It’s white and sweet, like he prefers.
—
Dion’s mouth tastes of iron, blood, light. There is a heat to his lips and tongue that is absent from the rest of his unblemished skin. He kisses with a ferocity so unlike the calm, measured man he has become.
Terence pushes him away, both hands pressed firmly against Dion’s chest.
“Why?” Dion asks. There is water at the corners of his eyes, worry etched at his mouth. Dressed in soft sleeping clothes, his shirt falls open at the neckline. His flaxen hair touches against the youthful plumpness still present in his cheeks, yet already receded from the rest of his body through years of training. Terence is still in his armor. He did not know why Dion asked him to come after his final round of drills concluded. The door to Dion’s suite is just ajar behind his back.
“Why…” Terence does not mean to mock Dion, though he must take it as such.
Swiftly, Dion turns away, grabbing at the front of his shirt to draw it closed against the chill in the night air. Only half the lights that are typical in Dion’s room are lit. His shadow is long and thin as he walks away.
Terence’s armor clangs together as he rushes forward, reaching presumptuously for Dion’s wrist before falling to his knees. With his head bowed, he begs first in silent forgiveness, unsure if he can trust his mouth after what it has already done. Where it has been.
“I did not wish for you to know,” Terence keeps his head bowed. He should let go of Dion. He should not have touched the Prince in the first place. Yet now his anguish is so palpable that it drowns out all rational thought between his ears. “You were not meant to know.”
The sound of fabric folding is quiet in the stillness of the room. Dion kneels himself on the carpeted floor. “Know what, Terence?” They whisper to one another now, though they are utterly alone.
Terence cannot help but laugh at that, his childhood cruelty bubbling inside him in the scant seconds he allows himself to feel the pressure of this moment. “What do you think, my prince?” He keeps his gaze downward, hoping that the darkness conceals his tears.
Dion’s fingers brush against his cheek. They come away wet. “I think you’ve been a fool, for one…How could I not want you?”
“Because,” Terence finds it difficult now to control his tongue, “I am meant to ease your burdens, not add to them. I swore that to you.”
Dion sits back. With both hands now free, he wraps his arms around his bent legs. His attention is rapt upon Terence, though they no longer touch. This is better, safer. “Before you took any oaths at all, you were my friend, were you not?”
Terence tenses, “of course.” Denying their lives together up until this point would be needlessly cruel. Of course they have been friends. Terence has simply accepted that they cannot be more than that.
“Is it wrong of me, then,” Dion muses, “to want more than your friendship? Am I selfish?”
There is only so much strength that one man can possess. And on the other side of the knife’s edge of despair lies a sort of blinding elation. Perhaps what Terence does next is enough to have him hanged.
Dion bends beautifully, untangling himself so that he might push his back comfortably into the carpet beneath him. Terence’s armor clatters as he moves to cover Dion’s body with his own. Lips meeting again, this time Terence ignores the dread, pushing past the walls he’s carefully erected and into the truth behind them. Dion arches, pressing their chests and groins together despite the fabric and steel still between them.
“Terence, Terence, Terence,” Dion beats his name like a prayer. Both hands come up to cup Terence’s cheeks, anchoring them both so neither can look away. “Show me how to please you.”
Terence groans, his eyes fluttering closed. If only Terence wasn’t in his armor, Dion would feel what those words do to him. “It…pleases me to know your pleasure.” After some skilled maneuvering, Terence at least manages to get his gauntlets off. He cannot resist slipping his hand beneath the soft folds of Dion’s sleep shirt. Dion’s skin feels warmer than it has in years against the calloused skin of Terence’s palm.
Dion is anything but flawless, his body already painted by nicks and cuts and scars accumulated through years of training. Terence finds that he remembers precious few of them. It has been some time since he allowed himself to properly look at his friend, too afraid that he might give away his fledgling feelings.
“You’re a bit overdressed, are you not?” Dion teases. He knows of course how complicated it will be to get Terence out of his armor now.
Terence smiles in return, he feels too wonderful right now to do anything else. “My Prince called for me. There was no time to change.”
“Well,” Dion huffs, “I’ve waited this long already. What’s a few minutes more?”
They both know it will take more than a few minutes to get Terence properly undressed. However, they have little other choice.
Terence finds his feet, offering one bare hand to Dion to help him up off the floor. As romantic the notion might be to give into their passions without interruption, their options are limited without getting Terence out of his armor.
Dion helps him, in the way a squire might normally devote himself to the task. Terence flushes with the sudden guilt that overtakes him. It is utterly inappropriate to allow the Prince to tend to him in such a way. But trying to remove his chest plate without assistance would take far longer than simply conceding to the help. And Dion is familiar enough with every hinge and lace.
“I cannot believe this is really happening,” there is a precious sort of awe in Dion’s voice as he finally runs his hands down the naked expanse of Terence’s back. “I’ve thought of this, more than I care to admit.”
Terence turns, wrapping his arms around Dion’s body and drawing him close. Now it is Dion who is overdressed in his sleepshirt, while Terence is otherwise bare to the night. He presses his lips first to the shell of Dion’s ear, then lower to the line of his neck, just where his hair pulls away in a gentle curl he cannot tame. While they are of similar builds, Dion is slightly slimmer through his shoulders and waist and hips. Terence won’t speak aloud of the thrill he inevitably feels because of the differences in their bodies.
“You really will need to show me, you realize?” There is a new hesitance in Dion’s voice. “My education in such matters was limited to what I would need to produce an heir.”
Terence does not want to feel jealousy, truly. He cannot afford such petty concerns to cloud what pleasure he and Dion might find in each other’s company. The concrete knowledge that he will never have Dion to himself must be stamped down. Terence refuses to ruin what they can have by thinking about what they cannot.
“It’s not so very different, I don’t think,” Terence has only experienced men in his bed.
“It is though, isn’t it?” Dion falls into bed, dragging Terence with him until they’re both pillowed in the sheets. Terence has slept in this bed before, when they were children, and the hour grew so late that he dozed off without realizing his mistake.
Dion smiles back up at Terence, his amber eyes bright and beautiful and full with hope. Terence cannot help but reach out and run the tip of his finger underneath each eye, as if it will help him commit this moment to memory.
“You said that you would most enjoy what gives me pleasure,” Dion continues. Only then does Terence realize that he has remained silent. “I cannot say with certainty what that would be. But…I can tell you what I have imagined?”
Terence swallows hard. Still supporting himself on both arms as to not put his weight onto Dion, he feels his strength start to falter, if only from surprise at the clarity with which Dion expresses himself. “You have not?”
“No,” Dion falls quiet, “there was no one else I wanted.”
Groaning, Terence drops his gaze.
“So you will have to show me, Terence, love.” The word passes so easily between Dion’s lips. Like it is nothing and everything and it fits so neatly into the lives they’ve built together and alongside one another. “I want you to take me, if that is alright with you. I want to know what it feels like to be that close with you.”
Terence exhales loudly through his nostrils. It is as if those raucous dreams he has been suppressing for years now have come bubbling to the surface. “If you are sure.”
“Of course I am,” Dion tilts his head against the pillow. “Now, come on, kiss me again.”
Terence does as he’s told, letting his hand slip back into the smooth caress of Dion’s hair. They grind together in the luxury of Dion’s bed until both their arousals are unmistakable. Terence thinks he wouldn’t mind driving both of them to madness this way, rutting together until they’re frantic. Another time. He knows Dion well enough to be certain that if they lay together now, it is the Prince’s intention that they become lovers. Dion commits to everything.
“A moment, my Prince,” Terence forces himself to pull away so that he can rifle through Dion’s bedside table. There’s more than one bottle of oil in the drawer. He’s too worked up to try and determine which one is already open, instead just settling on the first one he manages to grab.
Dion tosses aside his remaining clothing and spreads his legs in preparation, allowing his knees to fall apart and giving Terence a view that he’s imagined one too many times before. If Terence were a touch more romantic, he might say that it is better than his imagination could conjure. But, truthfully, he has known Dion’s body well for years, his long legs, his small waist, the flare of his shoulders. What is better about being here now is that he can touch.
Once the oil is warm on his fingers, he leans over Dion once again, using his clean hand to support his weight as he brings the slick one against between Dion’s spread thighs. Involuntarily, Dion tenses, his skin drawing tight at the first touch. With measured kisses, Terence offers a distraction as he starts to circle Dion’s rim.
“You do this to yourself, do you not?” Terence asks as the first finger slides inside. Dion is tight and warm around him, with just enough give that there is little worry that he’s in any sort of discomfort.
Dion’s eyes are open, his expression fond, “I think of you when I do so.”
The admission is enough to make Terence falter. He feels his face flushing in a sort of unwarranted pride that he’s done absolutely nothing to earn.
He’s able to slip a second finger into Dion’s pliant body not long after, and then a third. Dion’s breathing hitches, but his expression is as relaxed as ever. He looks at peace, happy, as if the stressors of his overly complicated life have been set aside for the time being.
“Come now, Terence, am I ready yet?” The fond affection on his face is unmistakable.
What Terence truly wants is for Dion to ride him. The prince will look beautiful in the dim light, the angles and sinew of his form bathed in shadow. Next time, Terence tucks the idea away. Tonight he resolved to himself to serve Dion as he deserves.
He slicks his cock and breathes deeply before trying to slip in. For the first time Dion closes his eyes and exhales loudly. On the second push Terence feels himself bottom out and their bodies press flush together. A wave of care pulses through him at the realization they are well and truly joined. He is with Dion in a way that he never thought possible. Leaning over, he kisses at the corners of Dion’s eyes until they open again. When they do, Dion is smiling.
Their bodies rock together and it takes Terence’s breath away. He is less hurried in his thrusts than he has been in all his previous encounters. Every moment of this should last. While he is certain that he and Dion will have each other again, this is their only first time. Perhaps he’s more romantic than he once thought.
Dion wraps his arms around Terence’s neck, keeping them close together, sharing air and space and sound. While part of Terence wants to make Dion scream his name in pleasure, there is satisfaction in the quiet pleasured noises he punches out on each thrust. Dion is tight and hot around him, and the oil ensures little friction. As the Prince’s back begins to arch, Terence takes his cue to wrap one hand around Dion’s cock, stroking out of time with the punctuation of their hips.
“Terence, Terence, love,” Dion repeats until his expression turns tight and he spills over Terence’s hand and his own stomach. Terence needs only a few moments more, his gaze firmly fixed on Dion’s perfect face going slack with satisfaction.
Though he knows it will be a mess, he allows himself to come inside. The idea of letting go of Dion now is too painful to contemplate. Dion kisses him as they both float down, tangled in the wyvern’s-tail white sheets and the cool night air that still wafts around them.
“You’re perfect,” Dion whispers, touching Terence’s face again.
Snickering, Terence corrects, “You, more than anyone else in this world, know I am not.”
Dion smiles, “Alright then, but I like your flaws. It means I can keep up with you.”
“Says the one closest to a Prince Charming that Storm has ever seen,” Terence feels himself growing sleepy in the afterglow.
“Says the boy who used to hate me,” Dion sighs with mock annoyance.
“I never hated you.” Terence really doesn’t think he did. They were not always like this, but that’s beside the point. “What does it matter, if I grew into a man who loves you?”
Terence’s eyes are closed now, but he can hear the smile in Dion’s voice, “I suppose you’re right.”