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Lucien can hardly remember the days when life wasn’t so boring.
Long ago, this kingdom had been a place of hope and promise for Lucien. Of course, people would expect him to think so. How could he not? The heir to a noble house, a leader of a powerful faction, and a contender for the throne itself; what was there to resent? It was easy to find hope in a future already paved in gold, in a destiny that placed him at the kingdom’s helm when the crown inevitably passed.
But it’s not that. It’s never been that.
Truthfully, it was everything but that. It was the parts of childhood that he knew he’d never get back. It was the training, the late nights stabbing straw mannequins and patching up wounds. It was the sparring, the dirt on his knees, the cuts on his arms. It was the laughter echoing through the palace halls. It was the debates on philosophy, swordplay, matters of the crown—everything under the sun. It was the simple satisfaction of innocent companionship, the kind of friendship that flourished between two young, bright minds who saw the world in similar ways, despite coming from opposite houses.
It was Gale.
For a time, Lucien allowed himself to dream of more. Stolen glances at fancy banquets, catching each other’s eyes across the training grounds, knocking each other down with little stick swords and outstretching their hands to help each other back up—the curve of Gale’s smile, his crinkled eyes and bellowing laughter, warmed something hidden very deep inside Lucien’s chest.
There were nights—when the castle was quiet, save for the distant hum of wind—where Lucien would linger in the gardens, taking in the scent of each flower he passed by. The sun would set, the night would still, and Lucien already knew that the guards would be looking for him. Regardless, he continued on, treading the garden silently until he reached the fountain.
Finally, there, from the carved stone bench, he would see Gale.
And Gale would swing his legs, staring up at the stars from the balcony, far too close to the edge and far too immersed in the patterns woven into the skies. Never once did Gale catch Lucien’s longing stare. Never once did Gale have the privilege of seeing Lucien’s small, secret smile, painfully soft and fond. Never once would Lucien understand what made the stars so pretty to everybody else when the sight of Gale’s happiness was impossibly more beautiful.
But those days have been long gone.
The betrayal came not as a sword drawn in anger, but as a carefully calculated move. Lucien was trained as a strategist, not a warrior—he was not above using others to succeed.
It was during a crucial moment in the kingdom’s politics, when tensions had reached a breaking point between the rival factions and peace had to be secured no matter the cost. Varying suggestions floated between the two houses—marriage proposals, fights to the death, promises to a crown that Lucien could see through oh so easily. A crown demanded more than promises. He knew it demanded action.
Lucien made a decision. If peace was not found soon, everyone would lose everything—he would lose his route to the crown, he would lose his dreams, and both houses would crumble without resistance. And so, he made a secret deal with the ruling king: in exchange for support from the monarch’s faction, they would see Gale’s house’s lands ceded to a neighbouring duchy.
It was part of the game. It was part of the strategy, the thin and twisted web of careful diplomatic relations that Lucien had danced upon like he’d made them. He knew the loss would be devastating—it was devastating, that was the point! His future was at stake, the throne was at stake, and it was the perfect plan to solve all the political problems at once.
But Lucien didn’t see it. He hadn’t thought of the consequences—of what he’d chosen to give up for the sake of himself. He had believed that Gale, ever the reasonable and empathetic one, would understand. What was some land to the greater good, sacrifices to bring about peace? It had all seemed so right in the moment, like he’d found the last piece to the most dangerous puzzle he’d ever played in his life.
He had miscalculated.
“What have you done?” Gale’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like the sharpest of blades. His eyes looked different—they’d been so open, warm, and trusting, and Lucien’s heart twisted knowing that his now narrowed, betrayed eyes were his fault entirely. “You sold us. You sold my family for a crown that neither of us care about.”
Lucien was defensive, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “I didn’t sell your family, it’s just some stupid land! Don’t you get it? It was the only correct move, the most accurate—anything else might’ve prolonged this war, this tension, and it was blatantly obvious that one of us was meant to do something.
“And what do you mean by neither of us caring about the crown?” Lucien laughed disbelievingly, not quite having realized the gravity of the confrontation. “You know we’ve been training our entire lives for that, right? I guess we did say that it wasn’t the biggest of our problems, but come on, Gale, we were so young. Hasn’t life woken you up yet? Surely you understand that the fight for this crown is what both of our lives are for.”
A pause.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Lucien’s eyes widened, a shiver running down his spine. He’d never heard Gale sound so… angry? Does the puny word ‘angry’ suffice to describe this rigid sharpness in his tone?
“Are you crazy?! Our lives aren’t for some dumb fucking crown, Luci! ‘Some stupid land’? Land that my family fought for, died for?” Gale took a half step back, voice trembling with pure despair. “There’s no fucking way that you’re the Luci that I’ve known and loved my entire life, because I was under the impression that Luci actually, you know, cared about me!”
“Oh, don’t you fucking start! Of course I care, are you insane?!” Lucien raised his voice, fueled by the fire beginning to burn in his stomach. He wasn't sure if the fire was a flaming manifestation of anger, or if it was a pathetic attempt at fury that fed off of the guilt encroaching upon his throat. “Things could’ve ended up so much worse if I didn’t do that! You can thank me later—I know you hate this diplomat shit, and I just saved us both a huge fucking headache of politics!”
“But behind my back?” Gale’s voice dropped to a whisper again as a sheen of furious tears glazed over his eyes. This kind of sorrow is new to Lucien—it sounds like surrender, somehow, which he’d never heard from the ever-fighting Gale. “Behind my back, Luci. That’s betrayal. Do you understand how much that hurts me, or are you too— too morally fucked up to know what that word means?”
“…”
Lucien didn’t have an answer. How could he when he, of all people, knew that was the worst part?
Gale hadn’t said a word after that night. The anger burned in the following silence, his cheerful demeanour gone—replaced by a polite but icy distance. He then bowed, a forthright display of distant respect, and then footsteps treaded away from Lucien's chambers.
From then on, Gale continued to serve his role in court with grace, just as he always had; but to Lucien, the warmth he’d grown so familiar with had vanished. There was nothing left but a cold emptiness, a gulf too wide to bridge.
Lucien had tried to reach out, at first. He had made jokes, teased, attempted to restore the bond only they shared—to no avail. Every word fell flat, and Gale never faltered in his restraint. He had been perfectly civil, but nothing more.
Lucien loathes it: loathes the person he's made Gale, loathes his actions, loathes the crown that he had once seen with bright eyes and enough hopes to last a lifetime. The guilt has been gnawing at him day after day. It’s painful, so painful, to have the tenderness of a first love turned into nothing more than a memory that he doesn’t even want. He carries it with him all the time, even when Gale’s not around—and when he is, it grows from this little stone of remorse settled in his soul to this massive, ground-shaking boulder upon his shoulders.
Yet his pride holds firm. He refuses to apologise, because he was right in that moment, wasn't he? And the deed has been done—the lands had been signed off, and Lucien knows better than anyone that a 'sorry' won't fix all the strife he caused.
Still, Lucien hasn't forgotten. He doesn't think he ever will.
His mind refuses to forget as much as his body does. He'll still search for Gale's eyes in the midst of a crowded event, hoping to be grounded in the fact that Gale is there, cold or not. He'll still offer his hand when he brings Gale to the ground in a sparring match, even if Gale turns his head and gets up on his own. He'll still visit the fountain, tracing his hands over the engravings in the stone bowls, and look up at the balcony to see Gale watching the stars at midnight.
He'll still love Gale, even if he knows it’s totally pointless.
The kingdom is on the edge of war. Political alliances are fragile, and every noble family seems eager to secure their hold on the throne.
Thus, the two houses have been forced into an uneasy truce, just long enough to prevent the kingdom from falling apart.
Lucien is all too aware of the distance that has grown between them. It still strikes him like a knife—the way Gale's eyes never quite meet his in the same way. Every word that passes Gale's lips is carefully measured, guarded. Lucien hates talking to whatever this husk of Gale is, hates this cold professionalism that neither are willing to break.
But there are moments when they are alone—when the noise of the world falls away.
Sometimes, Lucien catches a glimpse of something softer in Gale's eyes, something that lingers just long enough to make his heart skip a beat, but the look vanishes just as quickly in place of that cool mask of indifference. Even still, it's those brief instants that keep Lucien awake at night, wondering if Gale ever thinks of those days—when they were talking, when they were friends, or something teetering beyond that.
Every time they speak, there is a part of him that longs—even if he refuses to show it. His pride refuses to let him speak the words that echo in his chest: I’m sorry. I regret what I did.
It is easier, far easier, to make jokes. To tease. To prod at the edges of Gale’s composure and see if he will crack, to see if there's a hint of the boy he once knew somewhere deep within there.
He sucks in a breath, surveying the near-empty meeting room. The meeting between houses adjourned just under half an hour ago, but Gale, ever the hard worker, remains inside to sign off various 'important' things. Leaning back from the small crack between the doors, Lucien pushes them open, stepping inside quietly.
Gale's eyes flick to him to check who entered before settling back onto whatever he's writing.
“Ever heard of a break?” Lucien remarks, strolling to sit across the table from Gale.
Gale doesn’t look up from his papers, but his lips twitch upward in that faint, almost imperceptible smile that Lucien has come to both dread and crave. His pen moves with precision across the page, yet Lucien notices the slight furrow in his brow—an involuntary sign of frustration, maybe, or something more.
“No, I haven’t, actually,” he replies smoothly.
“You’re so extra. Take some time off for yourself one of these days, man.” Lucien sighs, leaning back in his chair with a stretch. He watches Gale for any sign of a reaction, but he doesn’t flinch—instead, his eyes flicker over his work again, expression unreadable.
“Well, someone’s got to keep things in order.”
Lucien snorts. “Admirable.”
His eyes linger on Gale for a moment longer, trying to figure out how the years between them have so thoroughly erased what they used to have. Even if it was too long ago to remember vividly, he knows there was a time—before all the politics, all the betrayal—when Gale’s presence wasn’t just a reminder of everything Lucien gave up. He understands it’s his fault, he truly understands, but it still makes him wonder.
Gale pauses in his writing, gaze drifting just briefly to Lucien, even if only for a split second. It’s like a subtle invitation, an unspoken acknowledgement of the tension between them, thick in the air—and Lucien seizes it.
“What happened, Gale?”
A pause.
Gale raises an eyebrow, clearly sensing the shift in tone. His pen slows to a stop, then it clicks as he closes it. “What do you want, Lucien?”
Lucien. Fucking ouch. He doesn’t think anyone’s called him ‘Luci’ since that damned night, so long ago.
The simplicity of the question cuts straight through the walls they’ve built around themselves. Lucien doesn’t have an answer—not one that will fit the conversation they’re having now, at least. Rather than pretending, he lets out a dry chuckle, trying to brush it off with more bravado than he truly has. “I want to know what happened to the old Gale. The one who’d toss a joke back at me, not just sit there and take it.”
Tick, tick, tick. Gale taps his pen against the table, growing slightly faster with each press.
A pause: one second, two, three.
“Y’know,” he mumbles, “I’m still the same.”
Quiet, voice flat, Lucien thinks he should be used to this tone of Gale’s—but there’s something underneath, unspoken, not quite tangible enough to be made out. It’s gone before Lucien can decipher it.
He feels a lump form in his throat, but he swallows it down, replacing it with whatever fake sense of pride he’s able to muster. He can’t—he won’t— admit the ache he feels when he’s around Gale while he’s… not Gale, and instead this polite and distant shell; Lucien feels it when Gale acts like he's just another noble, another face in the crowd that doesn’t mean anything special. He doesn’t want to believe that that’s what they’ve been reduced to.
“It doesn’t seem like it.” Lucien sounds far more teasing in his head, but the real weight and fear within him seep into the words to reveal just how desperate he is. “But maybe you’ve always been better at hiding it than I was, despite it all.”
There’s a beat of silence between them. Gale’s hand tightens slightly on the pen, serving as the only sign that the words have hit harder than he lets on—but he doesn't respond.
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
No matter how many times Lucien pushes, no matter how many jests he makes, Gale never falters. He is unshaken, as always. His resilience has become a shield Lucien can’t break through. And it should be easier, he should be able to move past this—to focus on the politics, the alliance, the kingdom.
But it isn’t that simple.
In the dead of night, when Lucien lies awake, it’s Gale’s face that lingers in his mind. Not the calculating diplomat, not the careful noble; no, it is the boy he knew—so full of hope, so full of trust, with eyes bright enough to light up the palace on their very own. It is the boy who has smiled at him with the same earnestness that Lucien had foolishly taken for granted.
And in those moments, when the weight of everything presses down on him, Lucien finds himself wondering if he can ever find a way back. If it is even possible to apologize for what he has done. To mend the wounds he has caused.
But for now, all he has are his words—words that, no matter how sharp or witty they are, can never undo what has been broken.
Something something peace, something something alliance, Lucien’s sick of it.
To be honest, Lucien wasn’t really listening at all during the briefing session. All he heard was ‘caravan’, ‘Gale’, and his own name—thus, he had inferred was that he'd be spending a few nights travelling to another kingdom, accompanied by some soldiers and Gale.
He’s waited for an opportunity like this since forever. A moment to speak alone with Gale, unravel all this tension, learn to know each other again—a trip that could turn them from strangers into friends again. The caravan isn’t the most posh or noblelike, but he can’t find it in him to care considering that he’ll be in these quarters with the ever elusive noble for a few days, just like when they used to have sleepovers as kids.
During onboarding, Lucien makes sure not to scare Gale off too much—instead, he keeps to himself, organizes all his luggage, and reads a book as the horses gallop ahead. Gale sits on the bed across from him, cross-legged and writing something in a notebook, and Lucien allows himself to reminisce as he mindlessly flips through the pages.
The day goes by in a flash. Living in a caravan isn’t as hard as he’d expected, and it’s kind of fun to be jostled around by the rough road beneath the wheels. Luckily, neither have gotten carsick just yet, but Lucien doesn’t think it’ll be long until one of them does.
“Lords,” calls a guard when the movement ceases. “Night is falling upon us. We will be taking a rest here—we are halfway through our journey, and we will pick up in the morning.”
Lucien crawls off his bed and peeks through the window, flashing a thumbs up. “Got it. Thank you!”
Drawing the curtains closed, he sighs and falls back onto his bed, relaxing properly. “So, how was the ride?” he asks.
Gale closes his notebook, packing it into his satchel. “Unexpectedly okay. I don’t feel like throwing up, thank god.”
“Me neither,” Lucien says breezily, and they settle back into silence.
He rests his head against the pillow—a little stiff, but his neck feels fine. Muscles relaxing, Lucien allows his eyes to flutter to a close, making the most of the night. “G’night, Gale.”
A pause.
“Good night.”
.
..
…
The caravan has barely begun to settle for the night when the attack comes.
Shouts ring out through the air, hooves pound against the ground as the caravan sways back and forth, and the sounds of chaos ring outside. Lucien is on his feet immediately, ducking under his bed to grab his sword, and he stands up to see Gale having done the same. Hand on the hilt of his weapon, Lucien kicks open the caravan door, eyes scanning the darkness as he descends down the steps.
“Lords!” yells a guard, one that appears by their side in an instant. “The attackers are mercenaries, sirs! We don’t know where exactly from, but they’re trying to kill everyone!”
Lucien pats the guard on the shoulder. “Got it. Tell whatever soldiers you can to coordinate into formation—don’t spread out and fall immediately, gather as many as you can and assemble them here.”
“Understood!”
Brandishing his sword, Lucien watches the night’s abyss steadily for any sign of attack. It’s under a minute before ten to twenty guards stand to either of his and Gale’s sides in perfectly practiced battle formation. Gale begins to explain the battle plan—always, as the better fighter—as Lucien listens carefully for any sign of an ambush.
Suddenly, a weapon gleams in the moonlight. Lucien interrupts hastily, “There!”
He moves to protect the others, guiding them as the battle ensues. He doesn’t think about it—he never does when it’s for others—yet as he sees Gale fighting alongside the rest, his heart stutters in his chest. Snapping back into focus, Lucien downs one mercenary to his front, sweeping their leg and ducking under a close attack before plunging his sword into a non-vital area above their stomach. With the adrenaline of victory thrumming through him, he extracts his sword with a huff, searching for his next target.
“Fuck! Shit!”
Gale.
Lucien turns to see Gale on the ground, his hands clasped around the sharp end of a foreign blade that hovers above his face. Blood streams down his hands as he holds the sword in place, gasping with effort to keep them from thrusting it into his neck, and he squirms and shrieks as the attacker shifts their leg to stomp on his knee.
Gale! Lucien thinks, and he begins to sprint.
And then everything goes wrong.
In the fray, one lunge away from helping Gale, Lucien is struck from behind. A searing pain courses through him as a blade pierces his side, and he lets out an agonized scream. The nearest guard rushes to his side and kicks the assailant down, the tip of the sword cutting even farther down Lucien’s torso, and he bites his lip to stifle another yell. He grits his teeth. Don’t fall.
He can’t. Not while Gale is in danger.
Lucien rushes forward. His hand extends, sword piercing the armour of the mercenary standing above Gale. Their blade falls with a clink, and Gale rolls out from under it just in time.
“Y—You okay?” Lucien gasps, breathing heavy.
“I’m alright,” Gale says hurriedly, eyes wide with shock. “Are you, though—?”
But it’s too much. Lucien’s vision blurs, the weight of his own body suddenly too heavy to bear. He stumbles, his knees giving way beneath him, and then—
“Luci!”
The sound of his name—desperate, raw—cuts through the fog.
Luci. It’s been years since he’s heard that.
Lucien tries to focus, but the blood loss is dizzying. His body feels like it’s slowly shutting down yet burning him alive at the same time, and he writhes a bit on the ground in a hopeless attempt to quell the soreness devouring him whole. He doesn’t think he’s ever hurt this bad—he’s never been properly stabbed before, and damn, he would not get properly stabbed ever again if it were up to him.
For a moment, everything goes still.
In that instant, the battle fades into the background, and all that’s left is Gale’s frantic voice.
“Luci! Stay with me!”
Gale’s face appears in his line of blurred sight, pale with fear, his hands desperately pressing against the wound. Lucien attempts to choke out a protest, because the pressure makes it almost worse, but he knows from all their first aid training that it actually is meant to help. Lucien can only make out the urgency in Gale’s eyes, the raw emotion spilling from him, unfiltered. This is a Gale that Lucien has never seen before—the calm, collected prince is gone, replaced by someone broken, vulnerable, terrified.
Lucien’s mouth opens, but his voice is barely above a croaking whisper. “Gale…. I…”
“Don’t you dare!” Gale’s voice cracks, his grip tightening around Lucien’s hand. This touch—he hasn’t felt Gale’s hands in a long time, his rough and calloused palm flush against Lucien’s dainty own. This time, it’s different—his hand is bloodied, flesh split open, and Lucien can feel the fresh wound from the sword that was pressed up against his hand. “Don’t you dare close your eyes!”
Lucien can feel his consciousness slipping, the world around him darkening. Panic seeps through him, weaves into his skin and clogs his lungs, but he keeps his eyes open— for Gale, for Gale, for Gale, keep them open. He’s barely aware of his own delirium when the words spill from him—words he’s kept locked away for far too long, and they fall from his mouth along with shallow breaths.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, torso jolting up and down with effort. Tears cloud his burning hot eyes, falling down the sides of his face. “For everything. For... For never saying it... but I always... cared. I always... wanted you...”
He tries to focus on Gale’s face, but it’s a hazy blur. At the very least, he can feel the distress, see his mouth agape and eyes wide.
“Wanted you to look at me... the way you used to.” Lucien coughs, blood splattering. “Before... everything.”
Gale’s hands shake as he presses harder against Lucien’s side, his voice breaking with emotion Lucien has never heard before. “You did have me, Luci. You always had me. Don’t do this. Please... stay with me.”
Lucien’s eyes flutter, but the world is slipping away. He tries to speak again, but the words get tangled in his throat, a clot of blood replacing them when he tries to spit it out. A distant part of him knows that he might not make it, that this might be the end. But all he can focus on is Gale—Gale’s voice, his touch, his warmth. It’s all he’s ever wanted. He doesn’t quite mind going like this.
The last thing Lucien hears before he loses consciousness is Gale’s voice, trembling with fear and desperation. “Please... don’t leave me, Luci. I need you. I can’t—I can’t—do this without you.”
His eyes shut.
Lucien’s eyelids open to a dim light, and the first thing he feels is the aching, searing pain in his side. His chest tightens, and he gasps, trying to move, but a soft pressure on his hand stops him.
“Easy, Luci,” a familiar voice murmurs firmly. “You’re safe.”
That tone…?
Lucien turns his head, and there, sitting on a stool by his bed, is Gale. His face is haggard, eyes red-rimmed, but his usual mask is gone. There’s no pretension, no rivalry—just the rawness of someone who’s been shattered and rebuilt by their own fear.
Lucien’s heart stutters, and he can barely manage a small, weak smile.
“Woah, hey handsome,” he murmurs. “‘S this heaven or…?”
Gale’s eyes soften, his lips pulling into the faintest of grins. He squeezes Lucien’s hand gently, his thumb brushing over the back of it. The motion is nauseatingly recognisable, a forgotten, intimate touch from the days of their youth that nearly brings tears to Lucien’s eyes. But it’s not the same—his palm is bandaged, rougher than Lucien remembers.
“Oh shit,” Lucien mumbles, attempting to sit up.
“Nope, nope, nope—” Gale cuts him off, using his other hand to pin Lucien’s shoulder back to the bed. “Doctor’s orders. You can’t move too much.”
“Whaaat,” Lucien whines, pouting at Gale petulantly. “What the heck? I can’t even sit? I’m not gonna die if I sit up.”
“That might be true.” Gale chuckles, removing his pressure from Lucien’s shoulder. “But I’m not gonna risk trying.”
Lucien makes a show of scoffing, but the corners of his lips twitch with sheer delight. He cares.
“Anyway, about what was said at the battleground…” Gale coughs, suddenly looking a bit ashamed. “Sorry for being a little… you know. Cold, acting like we didn’t know each other. It was over the top, and a bit immature… I didn’t mean to break us off just like that. I just needed some space, then I got all in my head about it, and—”
“My god, shut up,” Lucien groans. Gale recoils ever so slightly with surprise, but stops himself short, thankfully. “What on earth are you apologizing for, you idiot? That was one hundred and ten percent my fault. It— You know, it was just so shitty what I did, and I was too naïve to think about how that affected you. It was so stupid, and I was so young and dumb, and I can’t believe that it took me getting fuckin’ stabbed to finally tell you all this—”
“Hey, hey.” Gale’s bandaged thumb wipes at the skin beneath Lucien’s eyes.
“Shit,” Lucien murmurs, laughing softly. The touch rips the words away from his throat. “Am I crying?”
“What? Is your face fucking numb? Yes, you’re crying, you dumbass,” Gale chokes out, halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Lucien peers at the noble through blurry eyes. “So are you.”
“That wasn’t the question!”
A pause, and then laughter.
Warm, familiar laughter, bellowing and warm and so awfully Gale. A different kind of relief sweeps over Lucien’s body—as if a healer’s magic were upon him, wrapping him in a cool layer of safety and peace. That’s how listening to Gale felt, wasn’t it—it had just been so long that Lucien realizes he’d forgotten the sound. His laughter mixes in, swirling together in the lighter air, and tears brim at his eyes again from a new place of joy.
“So I guess we’re both sorry and guilty,” Gale says as the laughter dies, wiping a tear from his jaw. “It’s been so long, Luci.”
“Luci,” Lucien repeats, tasting the word on his tongue. He beams, irrationally happy to hear the shorthand of his name. “I missed that.”
“I missed calling you that,” Gale replies, his grip tightening on Lucien’s hand. “I didn’t allow myself to, but now I can again… so, welcome back.”
Welcome back. It’s as if all those years of stress and regret had been nothing more than a bad dream. ‘Back’, Gale said. As if Lucien was always meant to be here, like it’s a home that they were destined to return to, together. They were always meant to be together.
“So we’re cool,” Lucien clarifies, just to make sure.
Gale snorts, coughing. “You’re so dumb. Yes, we’re cool, you stupid idiot. More than cool.”
“What! You’re the stupid idiot, you stupid idiot.”
“Wow, real mature, Luci!”
“As if maturity is a you thing.”
“Uh huh? I'd still beat your ass in a swordfight!”
“You wait ‘till I’m out of this damn bed, I’ll beat your ass up!”
“Why don’t you take a damn rest so you’ll be out of this clinic even faster?!”
“You know what?! Maybe I will!”
Lucien closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillow, his grip tightening around Gale’s hand. Gale’s presence—steadfast and real—fills the space around them, and Lucien realizes, in that moment, that this is what he’s wanted all along. Not the rivalry. Not the ‘old’ Gale. Just... this.
“I missed you,” Gale whispers, his face tucked into the crook of Lucien’s neck and shoulder. His hands wrap around Lucien’s waist, snaking up until the tips of his fingers brush Lucien’s nape, and Gale gently presses against the bandaged wound at his side. “You’ve been recovering so well. I’m glad to be having you back in a few weeks, y’know?”
“Mhm...” Lucien hums, closing his eyes.
“Thank you for that night. You saved me. You’re always there when I need you.” There’s a strained gulp that travels down Gale’s throat, his voice reduced to a murmur. “Can I say it? I’m gonna say it, I’ve waited long enough. I love you, Luci.”
Lucien’s breath catches in his throat.
This warmth—it scares him.
For years, he longed for this embrace, longed for Gale’s touch and his words and him. Now he has it once more—has Gale here, laying at his side, legs tangled together in the mess of a hospital bed as the only light shining in the room leaks from a flickering lamp in the corner. He feels Gale’s heartbeat against him—gentle, slow, rhythmic. Those solid, hefty arms are so much stronger than they had been a decade ago, but there’s a lingering familiarity to the feeling nonetheless.
He’s scared. He’s scared when he allows himself to reciprocate—lets his arm wander over Gale’s shoulders, pulls him closer, hears the muffled gasp and the hum of contentment. He’s scared when he thinks about those words, those three words that he’d been thinking all this time but never quite got so far as to say—because love is scary, and Lucien’s never loved so openly in his life, but the distance truly did make his heart grow fonder.
And now he’s a little less scared, because even if Gale hadn’t acted as though he cared, Lucien now knows he always did. Because Gale’s a pretender, a damn good one at that, and even still? Lucien knows that those words come right from the heart.
Naturally, so will his.
“I love you more, Gale.”