Fic: My Mirror, My Sword and Shield (Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
Authors: cerebel and airspaniel. BOTH.
Pairing: Peter/Caspian/Edmund
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,300
Warnings: Incest, underage sexuality
Spoilers: Movieverse, through the end of Prince Caspian
Summary: “Peter,” says Edmund, soft and low. “He wants to thank us.”
- - -
Edmund vanishes, just after. The ice from the White Witch is still solid on the floor and Peter can't find him - he should be able to, the place isn't so large, after all. Corner after corner is crowded with Narnians, tense and angry, afraid but ready.
They will follow him, despite his lapses in judgment, and, for now, Peter can't stand the sight of them. They've been fooled, deceived into believing that the Kings and Queens of Old can save them, can lead them out of even the most hopeless of dilemmas.
How can they let him do this?
He led them into a slaughter, nearly let the White Witch back into the land, and they look to him as their king. Maybe he was never a king, just a stuck-up teenager in a king's body. Maybe he never knew what he was doing.
Maybe leaving Narnia the first time -
"Ed!" he calls, exasperated. What kind of High King can't even find his brothers and sisters, anyhow?
"Up here."
Peter twists, looks around - and up. Sees Edmund, on a ledge of rock, one leg dangling. His sword is unsheathed, beside him.
"What are you doing?" snaps Peter. "You should be out there, with them -" gesturing, aimlessly, back towards the Narnians, "not hiding in here." He takes a breath, then, "there's been enough carelessness already. We can't afford to take any risks, or lose this battle."
Edmund doesn't reply.
"Edmund!"
"I'm sorry," says Edmund, "was it me you were yelling at?"
All too apt. Peter feels a surge of resentment. Was it really that long ago when Edmund was in the wrong? When he preferred Turkish Delight to his own family?
"Who else would I be 'yelling' at?"
"Dunno," says Edmund, "sounds a lot like you were talking to yourself."
"Edmund," says Peter, "will you get down here, please?"
"How many times, Peter?"
Peter pauses, for a moment. "Just the once."
"How many times does she have to come back?" asks Edmund. "Before she's really gone?"
His voice is tight, not shaky. Not emotionless, not calm - but his eyes are fixed on his sword, unmoving.
"I'm sorry, Ed," says Peter. "I never -"
"Well, you were about to," interrupts Edmund.
"That wasn't what I meant!" Peter cries angrily, still feeling the ghost of the Witch's call, ice cold and silver sharp as a knife's point. He shakes it off, tries to, wishing his brother would just come down and talk to him face to face.
"How did you get up there anyway?" he calls, and Edmund doesn't answer. Not right away at least, eyes still trained on his sword, and Peter feels a different chill in his blood.
Edmund sighs heavily, as if he's just made a decision that's deeply regretful. "Arch on your right. There's a winding stair."
Peter takes the steps two at a time, every moment in the dark filled with strange anxiety as he races to his brother's side. When he steps out on the ledge his heart drops. It seems so high from this angle, and Ed is curled so small on the edge.
He treads carefully, hands outstretched and open, as if Ed were a wild animal that needed assurance he meant no harm. The gesture is lost, as Edmund doesn't look up; doesn't even raise his head to acknowledge Peter’s presence.
"I'm all right, you know," he mumbles, drawing his leg up and resting his chin on his knees. "I don't need you looking after me."
"Edmund..." Peter says, somewhat at a loss. He sits carefully on the ledge, feet swinging free over the edge, and claps a reassuring hand on Edmund's shoulder.
"I know that. I do know that."
Edmund leans into the touch then, and Peter simply slides his arm around his brother's slender shoulders, gathering him close.
"I couldn't let you, couldn't stand it. When I saw you, and... and Caspian, and she was... I couldn't!” Edmund mutters almost nonsensically, pressing his forehead against Peter's neck, savoring the familiar warmth.
But Peter understands, and his voice is quiet and intense. "I wouldn't have, Edmund. You have to know that. I wanted to, but I would never..."
"I know," Edmund whispers brokenly. "But I was so afraid."
A voice rings through the caverns, calling their names, but they ignore it as long as they can; letting the warmth of their embrace begin to thaw the ice in their veins.
"Peter! Edmund! Where are you?"
Peter chuckles softly. "That does get old, doesn't it?"
Edmund shrugs. “Usually it’s Lucy or Susan.”
“True.”
Caspian strides into the hallway below them, turning this way and that, shoulders set as though he were on a quest.
Peter exchanges a glance with Edmund. Caspian will find them eventually, of course.
“Peter! Edmund!” he calls.
“Hello, Caspian,” says Peter.
Caspian jerks, full-body, like he’s been struck with lightning. It takes him a moment, but he does look up, and see the two brothers, together.
“Hello,” says Caspian, clearly discomfited.
“What is it?” asks Peter.
“I would,” begins Caspian, but he pauses, as though he expects Peter and Edmund to say something. Make an offer, perhaps. His eyes trace over the ledge, his expression set with an edge of bewildered disorientation.
“What?”
“I would apologize,” says Caspian. “My conduct was inappropriate.”
Peter feels a swell of anger. “Inappropriate. You nearly -”
“I am sorry,” interrupts Caspian. “My intent, as always, is for the death of Miraz. Perhaps I should not bear all of the blame for a lack of faith in your efforts.”
Peter steels himself, ready to leap to his response.
“Shove it, both of you,” says Edmund, tiredly, too soft for Caspian to hear. He isn’t looking at either of them.
Edmund is right, though. Peter takes a breath, and he shakes his head, minutely. “I’m not the one you have to apologize to, Caspian.”
Caspian’s brows furrow, fractionally. “Who, then?”
“Ed,” says Peter, simply.
And even though Edmund’s face is hidden, there is no mistaking the misery that radiates from his seemingly small frame. Caspian lets his shoulders drop, aware that this will not be the fight he was expecting.
He is almost disappointed.
“I would do so, gladly,” he says softly. He gestures toward their ledge and tilts his head inquisitively. “May I join you?”
Peter is still clenching his jaw, fighting the urge to tell the prince “no,” to say that he is unneeded and unwelcome, and he should just -
“Sure,” Edmund shrugs, eyes still downcast. “Why not?”
Caspian enters the arch and ascends the stairs without being told the way, and Peter is tempted to hate him for it. He tightens his arm protectively around Edmund, even as Edmund turns away and footsteps fall close behind them.
For a moment, Caspian feels like an intruder, standing on this quiet ledge with the two brothers; and his words fail him. He clears his throat, and when his voice does come it is low and kind.
“I am afraid I do not entirely understand. But I am sorry, Edmund, for any grief I may have caused you.”
“It’s all right,” says Edmund. “You couldn’t have known.” He looks over his shoulder, over his brother’s hand, and regards Caspian; standing slightly awkwardly by the wall. It isn’t quite a smile, the expression that passes over Edmund’s face, but it seems amused nonetheless. “You’re very tall.”
Caspian does smile, a small twist at the corner of his lips. “I suppose that is true.” He drops into a crouch, resting his arms on his knees with his hands folded. “But it is only a matter of perspective.”
Something twists in Peter, when Edmund returns the smile and pulls away from his arm, turning his body to face the prince; a twinge of feeling white-hot and very like jealousy.
“That woman,” Caspian begins. “I have never felt anything like that.” His face falls at the memory. “Who is she?”
Edmund goes very quiet and very still. “She’s…”
“She’s gone,” Peter insists, tone brooking no argument. “She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. That’s all you need to know.”
“Is she really?” asks Edmund.
“Of course,” says Peter.
“Even if she’s gone,” says Edmund, “some part of her stays. Like echoes.” He looks back, to Peter. “There were people - there were Narnians - who wanted her back more than they wanted us.”
“Ah,” says Caspian, softly. “The White Witch.”
Edmund flinches.
“But you defeated her before, did you not?” asked Caspian. “The Kings and Queens of old drove winter from Narnia.”
Edmund doesn’t answer. He’s calmer, though, Peter sees - he’s silent because he’s thinking.
Was it because of Caspian? Is it that Peter can’t even help his own brother, now?
“You never told me,” says Peter, “what Aslan said to you, after you were rescued.”
Edmund meets Peter’s eyes - there’s an odd element there. Not distance, precisely, but something Peter can’t quite put his finger on.
But then Edmund’s eyes flick away, belatedly, guiltily. “Look at us,” he says. “Three kings, before a battle.”
“We should be preparing,” says Peter. “Ed is right.”
“Yes, of course.” Caspian moves to his feet - but he offers Edmund his hand.
Peter’s jaw clenches.
Edmund takes it, willingly, and Caspian pulls him up smoothly, without effort. There’s a half-second, though, a beat that takes just a little too long, when Caspian’s hand slides a up Edmund’s arm and Edmund is caught in Caspian’s gaze like he can’t let go -
“Come on, then,” says Peter, trying to hide the irritation in his tone.
~*~
Peter’s muscles ache; his shoulder throbs, still not fully recovered from the dislocation. It must be dozens of small cuts, bruises, and yet he has to thank lucky stars that there’s been nothing more serious.
The door to the bedchamber opens, slams shut, and Peter startles, barely catching the roll of bandages. He glances back -
“You couldn’t have entered with a bit more subtlety?” asks Peter.
Edmund half-smiles. “No.”
“That’s my brother,” laments Peter. “Could you help me with this?”
“Were you honestly trying to bind your ribs by yourself?” Edmund asks incredulously, shaking his head. “That’s my brother.” He snatches the bandages from Peter’s grasp, unrolling and measuring them out, not waiting for permission to lay his hands on battle-bruised skin; wrapping the linen gently but tightly around his brother’s body.
Peter gasps at the contact, though it doesn’t hurt. “I…”
“Had it sorted. I know,” Edmund teases. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, but he’s all but grinning now, and Peter hadn’t realized how much he missed the smile.
“There.” Edmund tucks the edge of the bandage under, securing it with a final pat to Peter’s chest. His fingers brush skin briefly and Peter’s breath catches, and Edmund’s sighs out in a rush of words. “I’m sorry, Peter! Did I hurt you?”
It still tingles, that small patch of skin that Edmund touched so lightly, and Peter doesn’t honestly know the answer. “I’m fine,” he decides, leaning back on his arms to put more distance between them.
Edmund’s eyes narrow, and he doesn’t so much look at Peter as look through him. “Lie down,” he says at length. “On your stomach, please.”
“What for?” Peter holds his breath.
“I want to look at your shoulder. It’s obviously still causing you pain,” Edmund’s voice is matter-of-fact, and Peter wonders what exactly he was so nervous about a moment before. He eases up onto the bed, turning over gingerly, and he doesn’t even try to suppress the sigh of contentment that escapes his lips as his wearied limbs begin to let go for the first time in what feels like years.
Then hands are on his back, above the bandage, gently tracing the bruises that mar his pale skin. Edmund’s hands are small and nimble, but surprisingly strong, as he deftly manipulates the muscles of Peter’s shoulders; pressing hard enough to release the knots of tension, without causing any pain himself.
“You should relax more often, Peter,” Edmund chastises playfully. “It would do wonders for that temper of yours.”
“Shut up,” Peter mumbles into the velvet bedspread, and Edmund just laughs, leaning forward to affectionately rest his brow against his brother’s soft, golden hair.
Peter’s eyes slide closed and he smiles. “I missed your laugh.”
Edmund pauses, then. “We didn’t laugh much in England, did we?”
“Not really,” says Peter. “Not after Narnia.” He turns around, shifts to face Edmund.
“It wasn’t fair,” says Edmund. “The way it vanished, like it wasn’t real anymore.” His mouth twists. “Some days it really felt like it was just one of Lucy’s games, didn’t it? Like we all just had a little too much imagination.”
“I’m not sure even Lucy could think up everything we did,” laughs Peter.
“I don’t know,” says Edmund. “I bet she could.”
Edmund reaches up, spur-of-the-moment, and brushes Peter’s bangs out of his face.
Peter stills, for a moment, at the unexpectedness of the gesture, but Edmund doesn’t seem to notice - he sighs. “Oh, no,” he says, “I’ve gone and made it worse.”
Peter reaches up to his hair. “Made what worse?”
Edmund tackles him mid-sentence - Peter’s breath rushes out of his chest, and they both fall back against the pillows, the headboard, Edmund on top. He already has one of Peter’s hands pinned down, and he’s the picture of confidence, sure of himself, like he knows he’s already won.
Edmund grins. “Say Uncle.”
Peter doesn’t want to fight, all of the sudden. His expression turns serious - “Ed, out in the battlefield,” he says, “you said save it for later -”
“It doesn’t matter, Peter,” says Edmund, cutting him off.
“No, it does,” says Peter. “It matters a lot.”
“Peter.”
“I don’t know how many brothers in the world can say that they’ve saved each other’s lives.”
Edmund releases his grip on Peter’s wrist; rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Probably not just us,” says Edmund.
Peter is aching, and he’s not really sure how to say what he means. He touches Edmund’s face, and somehow it brings them much closer - so close it’s choking the air away. There’s nothing but them, no Narnia, no White Witch -
“Ed,” starts Peter, but it’s Edmund who cuts him off, pressing a kiss to Peter’s mouth.
A chill rushes through Peter’s body, because it wasn’t what he wanted - except it was what he wanted, and all he can do is bring Edmund closer. It turns deep, all too fast, and Peter can feel Edmund shy away a little, move to brace himself with a hand by Peter’s head.
And then Edmund is pulling away, shifting off of Peter.
“I have to go,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Why?” asks Peter.
“I’ll see you later,” says Edmund, and he’s out of the room before Peter can react.
Peter leans back, against the headboard, and traces the edge of his mouth with his thumb.
~*~
It is funny, Caspian reflects, how quickly life can change, and how strange is the passage of time. Years have passed since a child was born, and he hurried through these very halls, fleeing for his life. It seems like an eternity since he sounded the horn, not knowing what its true power may be, and proud and haughty children answered the call.
And yet it seems that only a moment ago an inhuman chill gripped his heart, and the forgiveness of a king melted it away. Mere seconds since a noble boy fought a wicked man, taking the burden of an entire kingdom onto his shoulders and refusing to yield.
If he turns around, he is half convinced he will still see the battlefield, the trebuchets consumed by the living trees, the water cascading wildly; swallowing the remains of the soldiers he once called his people.
A small girl, holding a knife against an army, and a roar so great and terrible that it still echoes gloriously in his ears.
“Caspian?”
Of course, when he does turn, all that is there is the long stone hallway of the castle. Edmund is standing there, and it is not difficult at all to picture him flushed with exertion and grinning victoriously, sword still clutched in his clever fingers.
He is not holding his sword, and he is not geared for battle, but he is smiling widely, and there is a rosy hue to his cheekbones and the very tips of his ears. It sends a strange thrill through Caspian’s center, and he finds himself returning the smile.
“King Edmund,” he nods, just a hint of teasing. “I am glad to see you.”
“Why’s that?” Edmund asks, closing the distance between them. He’s still reeling a bit, still feeling the heady rush of adrenaline, and it’s enough to keep the nerves out of his voice. There is still so much that could go wrong…
“I wished to thank you. For all you’ve done.” Edmund is so close now, and Caspian can see how dark the boy’s eyes are, and how intent; and he falters slightly. “For Narnia.”
Edmund laughs, the sound sweet and musical. “I think you did quite a bit of it yourself.” He reaches out then, takes Caspian’s hand, and Caspian’s breath hitches. Edmund smiles again, mischief sparkling in his eyes.
“Besides, I don’t think I’m the one you should be thanking, really.” He tugs at Caspian’s hand, gently urging him to follow down the corridor, and then it is Caspian’s turn to laugh.
“Somehow I feel we have had this conversation before, or one at least remarkably similar.”
“I do hope this one will turn out differently,” says Edmund, absently.
Caspian tightens his hold on Edmund’s hand, and brings them both to a halt. “I do,” he says, “as well.”
Heart fluttering in his chest - he hardly believes that he would even dare - Caspian dips forward and kisses Edmund.
Edmund breaks it, with a little noise of surprise, but the moment his and Caspian’s eyes meet he reaches out, pulls Caspian back into it. The thrill of it - his tongue touches Edmund’s, and Caspian can feel Edmund lean into him, like a plea, a deeply physical plea for a little bit more.
He didn’t expect it to affect him this much.
Edmund’s eyes are a little wide, a little shocked. He recovers himself, though, glances down the corridor. “Come on,” he says, and he takes Caspian’s hand, again. This time, their fingers interlace.
~*~
Peter is at the window when the door to his chamber opens again; he turns. He wasn’t expecting Edmund back so soon.
“I thought you -” and he stops, because he sees Caspian, just behind. “Oh,” then, “Hello, Caspian.”
“Hello, Peter,” and Caspian looks to Edmund.
Silence takes hold of the room, for a moment. Peter isn’t quite sure how to proceed.
“Um, Ed,” says Peter, after a pause, “why-”
“King Peter,” begins Caspian, at the same time, and he waits until Peter falls silent. “I have already thanked Edmund for his role in the recovery of Narnia, and my own rise to the throne.”
It feels odd, in Peter’s chest, when he notes that Caspian didn’t use a title with Edmund’s name.
“It’s nothing I wasn’t obligated to do,” says Peter.
Caspian inclines his head. “You,” he says, to Peter, then - “you both,” to Edmund, too, “have earned my respect.” He extends his hand, towards Edmund.
Edmund glances from Caspian to Peter, and winces, inwardly. Well, no better time than the present - he reaches out, and takes it.
Caspian doesn’t hesitate. Edmund supposes it may be some remnants of the rivalry between him and Peter, or just that he’s still flush from the Narnians’ victory. Either way, he pulls Edmund into a kiss - right in front of Peter! - and Edmund makes a little bit of an undignified squeak.
Peter takes a step forward. “Caspian!” His hand is around Edmund’s wrist in a flash, pulling him away even as he steps protectively between them. Every nerve in his body is on fire, and he can’t quite tell whether it would be more satisfying to claim Edmund’s lips with his own, erasing any trace of Caspian’s touch from his brother’s mind, or to simply knock Caspian unconscious.
“He’s…” mine, Peter doesn’t say. “How dare you?”
“I am sorry to have alarmed you,” Caspian begins, though he doesn’t look very sorry at all. “But I think perhaps you have misinterpreted my actions.”
“Peter,” says Edmund, soft and low. “He wants to thank us.”
“I don’t want his thanks!” Peter snaps, arm winding back around Edmund possessively, keeping him behind. “They’re completely unnecessary.”
Then arms wind around his waist, and he has to fight to keep the challenge in his eyes; has to fight the urge to lean back into his brother’s warmth. When Edmund speaks, he feels it vibrate through his spine the second before breath hits his ear, and it’s all he can do not to shiver.
“Are you sure?”
Peter’s eyes slide shut despite himself, and Edmund looks to Caspian, wanting to know that this is all right; that he can have this, too. Caspian doesn’t meet his gaze, as he’s transfixed by the open longing on Peter’s face, the way his full lips are parted just enough to allow breath, color rising high on his cheeks to match their reddish shade.
“It’s all right,” Edmund encourages, letting his lips brush lightly against the shell of Peter’s ear. “I promise.”
“Peter,” whispers Caspian, and when Peter opens his eyes he sees only an instant of chestnut waves and golden skin, and eyes so dark they seem endless before Caspian closes the distance between them entirely; kissing him with the same devotion he showed to Edmund mere moments before.
Caspian’s hand touches Peter’s face, fingers gently playing over his eyebrow, his cheek, the side of his neck that isn’t warmed by Edmund’s quiet breaths; and even in this Peter isn’t content to surrender the high ground. He lunges into the body before him, nipping Caspian’s lower lip sharply and soothing it with a gentle swipe of his tongue, insistently demanding access. Caspian opens eagerly, burying his hand in Peter’s hair and pulling just hard enough to change the angle, making his own bid for control of the kiss.
“Oh, Edmund sighs, watching the two of them vie for dominance. He knew from the start that this would be a fight, but nothing could have braced him for how beautiful it is, or how deeply it would move him. He presses closer to Peter’s back, the backs of his hands brushing against the soft fabric covering Caspian’s chest, and he shudders out a breath.
With a wrenching effort, Peter drags his mouth away, not conceding defeat; merely changing the battlefield. Caspian makes a quiet sound in his throat at the loss, and Peter turns his head, pressing a consolatory kiss to the inside of his wrist.
“You wish to thank us, yes?” Peter says, not as breathless as he feels.
“Yes,” Caspian breathes, and Edmund smiles against the curve of Peter’s neck.
Peter is relentless. “Then show me.”
The moment stretches - Caspian pauses, and Edmund can see that he’s thinking, considering his options, figuring out what to do next. He and Peter are caught, it seems, in a world of stalemate.
Edmund makes the decision for them. Unlaces his tunic, pulls it over his head, and drops it to the floor. “You both coming, then?” he asks, as he slides onto the edge of the bed.
Caspian is there, faster than Peter, and Edmund lets Caspian kiss him, take his mouth, slide a leg between his own. He’s hard in a rush, hands grasping, fisting in folds of Caspian’s tunic. It takes him a moment to realize that Peter hasn’t joined them, and when he looks up -
Peter is watching them.
Oh.
Edmund turns back to Caspian, and Caspian must see some echo of Peter’s lust in Edmund’s eyes too, because he looks, looks deep, his hand stroking up the side of Edmund’s neck.
This, Edmund thinks, isn’t quite going according to his plan.
Then Caspian bites, lightly, where his hand just was. Edmund gasps, his eyes rolling shut, and he thinks that his plan wasn’t very detailed anyhow, and could probably use a little revision.
“Oh, Ed,” breathes Peter.
Caspian retreats, pulling at his own tunic, and Peter sits, on the very edge of the bed.
Not good enough. Edmund twists around Peter, pushing him back against the covers.
“You like being on top, Ed?” jokes Peter, a little shakily.
“I like you,” says Edmund.
Caspian - now just behind Edmund, on the bed - clears his throat. “Edmund?” He holds out a hand.
Peter has a flash of memory, a flash of jealousy.
Edmund extends a hand to take Caspian’s, but he’s looking back at Peter - and Caspian, surprising him, reaches not for his hand but his waist, and hauls him in, until Edmund is practically on Caspian’s lap.
Edmund falls forward, caught by Caspian. Trapped into another kiss, Caspian’s fingers stroking along the lines of Edmund’s bare back. Peter can’t stand the sight and he wants to see more, all at once - Catches a hint of tongue, between their mouths, and he can’t contain the thrill that flickers through him.
But then - Edmund gives a strangled cry, and Peter realizes Caspian’s hand is inside Edmund’s trousers, making a rough, rhythmic movement. Peter can’t breathe, and all Edmund can do, it seems, is moan, breathlessly, against Caspian’s shoulder. He moves without thinking, sliding his palm proprietarily up Edmund’s spine as he draws in close.
Edmund wants to arch back into that caress, but all he can do is roll his hips helplessly as Caspian strokes him, fingertips roughened by years of wielding a sword coaxing out his pleasure. Caspian lowers his head, nibbling again at that spot on Edmund’s neck, and Edmund is panting now, almost there, almost…
“Kiss me, Peter,” he gasps. “God, kiss me, please!”
And Peter, who’s never really been able to deny his brother anything, obliges tenderly; cupping his face and kissing him sweet and deep. Edmund moans into Peter’s mouth, shuddering against Caspian’s chest as four gentle hands and two loving pairs of lips ease him through his release.
He’s the most beautiful thing Peter has ever seen.
As his breath returns Edmund lets himself fall back, dragging Caspian and Peter down with him, since neither seems inclined to let go. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment of peace, and the warmth of the bodies that bracket him.
“Are you all right, Edmund?” Caspian asks, an edge of wariness creeping into his voice. He is achingly hard, inflamed by passion, but desperate to know he’s doing the right thing.
“More than all right. I’m a genius!” Edmund exclaims, and pulls Caspian in, soothing his nerves with a grateful kiss.
“And modest, too,” Peter teases, running his hand down his brother’s bare side and over the flat plane of his stomach. He pauses when his fingers meet Caspian’s body, just skirting the place where the dark leather of his breeches gives way to the golden tanned skin of his back, unsure of where to draw the lines here. Caspian sucks in a breath, hungry for the touch, and his hips twitch forward against Edmund’s thigh.
Peter takes this as an invitation, letting his fingers roam up that lean, strong back, feeling Caspian shiver. He is drawn to the soft, wild waves of Caspian’s hair, and Caspian leans his head back, letting Peter fill his hands with it.
The movement leaves his throat exposed, and Edmund takes advantage, pressing a kiss to the very spot where his pulse is hammering. Caspian cries out, able to restrain himself no longer, and pounces on Peter, rolling him to his back against the pillows.
It is useless to fight, and Peter no longer wants to, not here, not like this. He parts his legs instinctively, allowing Caspian to settle between them, and he fists his hands in that thick, dark hair and pulls, just hard enough. And then he can only hold on, as he is pinned to the bed and thoroughly ravished, Caspian’s mouth moving eagerly over his ear, his neck, the sliver of pale skin at the hollow of his throat, where the laces of his tunic lie undone.
“I think,” Caspian practically purrs, hands slipping under the fabric to caress Peter’s bare flesh. “That perhaps you are a little overdressed, my king.”
“Maybe you should help fix that, then,” says Peter, tilting his head to the side.
Caspian nuzzles into Peter’s neck, his hands pushing the tunic slowly up his body. Peter shivers at the touch, his eyes closing, head tipping back against the pillow.
Edmund sits up, arms braced behind him, the better to watch without interference.
The touch of Peter’s skin, the feel of Peter underneath him is enough to set Caspian’s pulse racing. All the infuriating arguments, the contests of strength, of will between the two of them - they were never truly concluded. Not properly.
Caspian pulls Peter’s tunic over his head, tosses it aside. And it’s time to stop waiting, stop teasing. Caspian’s fingers flit under Peter’s trousers, unlacing, until Peter shifts enough to pull them off entirely.
Edmund leans back against the headboard, his eyes wide and fixed, so completely, on Peter.
Caspian’s eyes flicker over to Edmund, seeking… encouragement? Permission? He isn’t quite sure. At Caspian’s perusal Edmund looks shifty, almost guilty, like he was caught doing something wrong.
“Keep going,” he says, almost in a whisper.
It’s almost too much. Edmund, watching them both - Peter, underneath him, his breathing loud in the quiet room. Caspian had never imagined that calling the Kings and Queens of old could have created something like this, let him experience this.
“Caspian,” says Peter, “if you’re not going to do something soon, then I will-”
Caspian moves down, slips his hand around the base of Peter’s erection, and takes it into his mouth.
Peter whines, choked off through his teeth, and his muscles are defined, sharp and tense, against his skin as he arches off the bed.
“Peter!” cries Edmund, and he’s there, in an instant, hand on Peter’s chest. Peter’s face is screwed up, eyes closed, and he moans, through a clenched jaw. Edmund isn’t sure what to do - stuck, somehow, between kissing Peter until he can’t think straight, until all he can feel is Edmund and Caspian (just like Edmund was, only minutes ago), and watching, just watching, so Peter is all that fills his vision.
Peter’s face, so breathtaking, as he breaks apart.
“Ed,” manages Peter, in a gasp, and then “Caspian.”
Edmund sees Caspian press Peter’s legs down, spreading his thighs open to the point of strain.
“Oh god,” says Peter, “please - Caspian!”
And Caspian pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Peter reaches up and seizes Edmund, yanking him into a rough, brutal kiss. Their teeth clash, and Edmund flattens his hand against Peter’s chest - not pushing away, just holding steady.
Caspian touches the edge of Peter’s jaw, turning his head back, away from Edmund. “You like, King Peter?”
“You’re a tease,” snaps Peter, but his voice is a little too breathy to hold any weight.
Caspian laughs low in his chest, even as his hand snakes down Peter’s trembling body. Peter groans aloud, and Edmund is yet again torn between kissing his brother’s face, seeing the desperate look in his eyes, and watching the slick head of his erection appear and disappear in Caspian’s fist.
Peter’s mind is a whirl, a swirling white noise of incredible pleasure, and the only thought that tumbles through his consciousness is this is the hand that touched Edmund… this is the hand that was… oh… He throws his head back, mouth working soundlessly, and Edmund’s hand is there to hold him up, kind, clever fingers cradling his neck.
“That’s right, Peter,” Edmund sighs, brushing his lips against the sweat-salt skin of his brother’s temple. “Just let go.”
As if he had been waiting for permission, Peter comes in a rush, choking off a sob as he pulses in Caspian’s hand; against his stomach.
Caspian moves before Peter has recovered enough to think, not sure he would be allowed to act in this manner otherwise, and drags the flat of his tongue across Peter’s belly; licking away the traces of his orgasm.
“Would you say I was teasing now?” He smiles lazily, but his eyes are still dangerous and wild.
Peter laughs, a sound just shy of hysterical. “No, I don’t suppose I would.” Edmund’s fingers are still soft on his neck, sliding up and over his jaw, his lips as he pulls away. Peter can’t resist mouthing his fingertips as they go, flicking the tip of his tongue against them.
Edmund shivers, and it’s nearly enough to make him lose his train of thought, but when he sees Caspian’s face, his wet, red mouth, those dark eyes, his mission is all too clear. He stretches forward, reaching over the end of the bed to retrieve something from the pile of bandage remnants and medical supplies.
“Ed?” Peter asks drowsily at the same time Caspian places his hands on Edmund’s waist, pulling him back. Edmund winds his arms around Caspian’s neck to kiss him deeply, groaning as he tastes Peter in his mouth, their mingled flavors something new and intoxicating, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever get enough.
“I believe,” Edmund pants, unable to leave the kiss for longer than a few words at a time. “That your thanks… have been… graciously accepted.”
Caspian smiles against his lips and holds him close, reaching his other hand out to Peter, who does not hesitate, taking it into his own and interlacing their fingers.
“Then I am satisfied,” replies Caspian, and Edmund kisses him again as Peter slips in close, free hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches and mumbling something that sounds like “Not yet, you aren’t.”
Edmund huffs a laugh against Caspian’s lips, and sits back just enough to look into his eyes. “What about you, Caspian? What may we do to thank you?”
Edmund can feel the surge of breath, the change of tension in Caspian’s body. He meets Caspian’s eyes and a grin spreads across his face - oh, he really hopes he’s right. He’d better be right.
He leans forward, palm against Caspian’s chest, lips beside Caspian’s ear. “Something you want, Caspian?”
Caspian makes a low hissing noise, his hand tightening on Edmund’s waist. “I think you know,” he returns, lowly.
“What are you two doing?” asks Peter, wary.
Edmund laughs. “You fought too much,” he murmurs.
“No,” says Caspian, softly. “Not enough.”
“What’s not enough?”
Caspian’s fingers skim the little bottle out of Edmund’s hand, and Edmund moves into Caspian’s kiss - a distraction, from the sleight of hand. And oh -
Peter’s touch is soft on Edmund’s cheek. “I wish you could see,” he says. “It’s how you just close your eyes and lean in, like you can find everything in the person you’re kissing.”
“It’s how you are too, Peter.” Caspian’s voice is husky.
Peter swallows. There’s something predatory about Caspian, suddenly, as though the way he got Peter off wasn’t enough. What were Ed and Caspian talking about? Must be something important, and he hates being kept in the dark. He is the High King, after all.
But not here, he supposes. Here, they are all equal.
“Come here,” says Peter, to Edmund.
Edmund glances at Caspian - what in all of Narnia could they be up to? - and does, all eagerness. There’s still something of a teenager in him, despite the time that they’ve lived, all they’ve seen, all they’ve done.
Peter twists Edmund down underneath him, and laughs at Edmund’s indignant surprise. “How do you like it, then?” he asks, brushing back a strand of Edmund’s hair.
“Keep rubbing against me like that,” says Edmund, squirming for a better position. “I’ll tell you in a few minutes.”
It all becomes real to Peter, right then. This is Edmund he has underneath him, Edmund the little brat who betrayed them to the White Witch, Edmund the one who nearly died at the Stone Table, Edmund the hero who keeps saving Peter’s life. He’s grown so much, and Peter has grown so much, and they’ve done it together, in Narnia, far away from England and the harsh reality of the war there.
And Caspian -
Caspian has become a part of this, somehow.
“Peter?” asks Edmund. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, Ed,” says Peter. “Everything’s great. Better than great.”
Edmund kisses him, long and soft. “I told you I was a genius.”
“I only doubted you for a little bit.”
Edmund’s eyes shift over Peter’s shoulder - to Caspian, Peter belatedly realizes, who has moved around behind him. There’s a shift in Edmund’s expression, some kind of mischievous sparkle, and then Peter knows he’s in trouble.
He can’t wait.
Edmund pulls him down into another kiss, and Peter recognizes it as a distraction even as he gives in, grinning widely against Edmund’s eager lips. It still surprises him, though, when a gentle hand smoothes down his back, curves around his ribs, over the linen that binds them and down to his hip; settles possessively over the point of bone and stays there, holding him steady and oh -
Peter needs it there, needs that hand; needs the hot embrace of Edmund’s lips and the hard line of his body to ground him, to keep him from falling apart as a slick finger slides downward from the base of his spine. He shivers hard, shuddering into Edmund’s arms, as it presses inward so slowly; and he is torn between pulling away from the strange sensation, and arching his hips back for more.
Despite the kisses, Edmund’s mouth has gone dry. The look on Peter’s face, flushed and wanton, lashes soft dark crescents against his cheeks as his brow is furrowed just slightly in an expression far too beatific to be pain… it takes his breath away.
“Peter…” he sighs, just as Caspian twists another finger to join the first and Peter moans low in his throat, hips twitching into the touch.
Caspian slows his hand, moving with an almost lazy rhythm, and Peter can’t stand it. He drives his hips back hard and fast, desperate for more, though he isn’t sure there can be more than this.
It seems impossible to feel this much and still survive.
Then Caspian’s fingers brush something bright and hot inside him, and he knows it’s impossible, knows that he’s flying to pieces and can never be put together again. Not the same as he was.
It’s been too long already and Caspian can only take so much time, only have so much patience as Peter writhes on his hand. He bends his head to kiss Peter’s back, running his tongue over the slick sharp blade of his shoulder and up the quivering muscle to the sweet skin just behind his ear.
“I want,” he gasps and has to begin again when his voice deserts him, lost somewhere between the heat of Peter’s body and the fire in Edmund’s eyes. “Peter, please…”
“Yes,” breathes Peter, quiet and shaken. His voice, once freed, is unstoppable; muttering praises and commands, prayers and pleas with equal weight and need. “Anything, Caspian. Do it. Now, god, please! Whatever you want, just…”
Caspian needs no further encouragement. He eases his fingers free, soothing the ache of abandonment with another kiss to Peter’s spine as he urges those slim hips up and back. The bottle of healing oil lies nearly forgotten on the bedcovers, and Caspian only fumbles a little as he opens it again, taking himself in hand, wanting to make this moment nothing but pure pleasure.
“Hurry, Caspian,” Peter begs, the words breaking off into a growl, and Caspian’s laugh is a breathless, broken thing.
“Demanding Peter,” he smiles. “So beautiful…”
Edmund wriggles out from under Peter - he’d rather feel Peter’s reaction, of course, than see it, but he doesn’t want Peter holding anything back.
Peter leans forward, on his forearms, and lets his head rest on the pillow. He can feel Caspian’s hands ease his thighs a little further apart, feel the shift in position behind him. This is it, and he breathes, low, even breaths even though his heart is racing, and oh lord, Edmund is right there -
It wouldn’t have mattered, even if Peter had tensed, even if he’d put up resistance. Caspian pushes inside him with an easy, deft movement, in Peter almost before he expects it.
Peter chokes back a noise, he’s not sure what it would have been, and he collapses a little, barely catching himself. Caspian’s arm circles his chest, and Caspian’s breath is hot on the back of his neck.
“Beautiful,” breathes Caspian -
“How about you move, then?” manages Peter, in more of a hiss, and he tenses up, consciously, all around Caspian.
Caspian makes a started kind of “oh” noise, and shoves in a little further. It feels more like a reflex motion than anything else, but it shifts the angle, somehow, and presses, even for just a moment, against that spot inside Peter.
Peter groans, breathless, all of the sudden.
“You like that?” asks Caspian, and he thrusts in, the same way. He’s paying attention, Peter realizes, dimly, as he presses a fist into his own mouth, stifling the noise he can’t help but make. This was what Caspian wanted, but Caspian is being careful, so careful to make sure that Peter wants it too, just as desperately, just as wantonly.
“Quit it, Peter,” Peter hears Edmund say. Edmund’s fingers close around his wrist, pull his hand away from his mouth.
Edmund. Peter had almost let himself forget about Edmund. He wonders what it would be like if Edmund were the one taking him, Edmund’s hand sliding from his hip to his waist, Edmund’s panting, Edmund shifting so he could just get a little bit further inside -
Peter whimpers, completely undignified and inappropriate for the High King, but that’s already too late, isn’t it? Because right now he wouldn’t give up this sensation for anything.
“Can you hold on, Peter?” asks Edmund, his voice broken.
“Ed-”
“Only I want you in me, after this.” Edmund sounds a little desperate, and he clasps Peter’s hand in between both of his, fingers tight around Peter’s wrist.
“God, Ed!” Peter yells, jerking his hand away; gritting his teeth and grabbing himself hard enough to hurt, to pull himself back from the edge he didn’t know was so close. “You can’t just say things like that!”
“He’s right, Edmund,” says Caspian, and it isn’t right that his voice can sound so steady when he’s buried so deep, hips still moving so maddeningly. He skims his hand up Peter’s hip, across his belly the exact way Peter had just imagined being touched; and closes it over Peter’s own, cradling his renewed erection with unmistakable possessiveness. “I thought this was about what I wanted, this time.”
He thrusts forward, perhaps a little harder than necessary, but he doesn’t regret it when Peter cries out loudly, pressing his forehead tightly against the arm he’s braced on. It won’t take much more, and both of them know it but neither can stop, pushing harder and faster and almost…
Caspian locks his arms around Peter, pulling him in tight; and Peter can feel it in every part of his body when Caspian shudders and stills, his open mouth pressed against Peter’s shoulder muffling the small, startled sound of his completion.
Peter bites down on his own wrist, trying so hard to hang on, willing himself to focus on that sharp sensation and not the feeling of Caspian, the ticklish brush of long hair against his sweat slicked back, the pounding of a heartbeat so close to his own. Even the sudden ache when he pulls away completely, and it hurts and Peter loves it all at once, and his breath is almost gone.
“Ed… I’m not… I don’t think…” Peter trails off, unable for the moment to keep a full sentence in his head. Edmund’s hands are instantly on his back, his face, trying to offer what comfort and calm they can; although it’s doing nothing to slow Peter’s racing heart.
“Are you all right?” he asks, so gently, and the look that Peter turns on him is almost angry in its intensity.
“You need to hurry, is all,” he manages, mouth set somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “I don’t exactly have all day.”
Edmund laughs, taking Peter’s hand and holding it up, sliding underneath his brother’s body once again. He places their joined hands on his hip as he tucks his legs up around Peter’s sides. “So do it, Peter. What are you waiting for?”
Peter strokes his hand up over Edmund’s thigh and down and down, nearly but not quite touching the places he’s been longing to touch. Edmund pushes his hips up, and Peter gasps aloud as his fingers slip back, just barely dipping into the give of Edmund’s body, where he’s already slick and stretched and -
“What did you think I was doing all this time?” Edmund pants, yearning for more.
Peter’s sigh is disbelieving and desperate, all at the same time. Beside them, Caspian watches eagerly, the roar of his own arousal no longer overwhelming the breathtaking picture that the brothers make.
And as Peter and Edmund kiss each other hungrily, light and dark clashing against one another in need, Caspian thinks that perhaps this is what he really wanted all along.
Peter takes it slow, and oh, it’s tight, muscles fighting against Peter even as he slips in, bit by bit. So tight, and not as easy as it was with Caspian, and Peter hesitates.
“Am I hurting you?” He’s not sure if the words come out, not completely coherently, but Edmund is already shaking his head.
“Course not, you couldn’t,” and Edmund shifts, just a little but it’s the perfect angle, somehow, and Peter pushes in, as far as he can go, buried inside Edmund’s body.
Edmund’s fingers tighten, convulsively, on Peter’s arm.
“Talk to me,” says Peter, “good or bad?”
“Good,” manages Edmund, “really, very good.”
“Nice to hear.” Peter touches Edmund’s cheek.
Edmund pulls Peter down, smashes their mouths together in another kiss. “Quit being daft,” says Edmund, desperate now, “and move.”
“Love you too, Ed,” gasps Peter, and Edmund moans, arching into Peter’s thrust. He’s so vocal, with a rush of “yesyesyes” and “oh god Peter” under his breath, groaning, twisting under Peter like he’s been driven completely mad, out of his mind.
Peter is barely holding on. He’s never seen Edmund like this before, even sweaty and flushed after a battle, and just the knowledge that it’s Edmund, that he’s always been there and will always be there, is enough to break Peter.
He wants to take Edmund in hand, but he can’t, it’s too complicated, he’s doing all he can as it is. He watches, as Edmund’s hand steals down - can’t look at Edmund’s face, he’d see it then, see how much Edmund wants it, and that’s too much, far too much.
-but no. Ed’s hand is pushed away, at the last moment, and it falls to his side, fisting in the sheets, tensing as Peter pushes in. Instead, Caspian - Caspian - wraps his hand tightly around Edmund.
Edmund twists, violently, with a near-scream.
He’s -
Peter’s vision goes gray, for a moment. The peak burns through him, too intense to think, sense, feel, and when he opens his eyes, Edmund is panting, shivering in the aftershocks of something that seems as though it was equally breathtaking.
Peter lets himself fall next to Edmund, limbs sluggish and relaxed.
“Urrgh,” says Edmund, coherently, and shifts around to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder.
“Both of you,” says Caspian, “are more amazing than I could have imagined.”
“Thanks,” says Peter, and he realizes, belatedly, that it sounds more like Caspian is intending it as a farewell. “Why don’t you lie down?”
Caspian hesitates. “You don’t want me to go?”
“Don’t be daft,” says Edmund, half-muffled into Peter’s shoulder. “We invited you here, didn’t we?” -then, at Peter’s look, “Well, I suppose I did, anyhow.”
“And it was very much appreciated, but would the two of you not prefer your privacy?”
“We’d like it if you stayed,” Edmund mutters around a yawn, already nearly asleep against Peter’s chest. Caspian remains wary, still unsure of this thing between them and how far he is allowed to go; feeling somehow that being here, seeing Peter and Edmund so vulnerable in sleep, would be far more intimate than anything they have just done. And as much as he yearns to stay here and be a part of that, he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome.
Peter rolls his eyes, reaches up and grips Caspian’s shoulder firmly. “Do I need to make it a command, Caspian?”
Caspian sighs gratefully and lets Peter pull him back down to the bed, his lips already curving back up in a mischievous smile. “I think perhaps you should save the commands for when we are all better rested.”
Peter chuckles softly as Caspian settles next to him, dropping a gentle kiss to Edmund’s forehead before brushing Peter’s lips lightly with his own. “And I think I still have many things to thank you for.”
“It can wait,” Peter mumbles drowsily, and Caspian can only smile and wind his arm around him, hand resting just against Edmund’s side, feeling them breathe together.
And just like that, tangled together in the stillness of a truly peaceful night, the kings of Narnia slept.
Pairing: Peter/Caspian/Edmund
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,300
Warnings: Incest, underage sexuality
Spoilers: Movieverse, through the end of Prince Caspian
Summary: “Peter,” says Edmund, soft and low. “He wants to thank us.”
- - -
Edmund vanishes, just after. The ice from the White Witch is still solid on the floor and Peter can't find him - he should be able to, the place isn't so large, after all. Corner after corner is crowded with Narnians, tense and angry, afraid but ready.
They will follow him, despite his lapses in judgment, and, for now, Peter can't stand the sight of them. They've been fooled, deceived into believing that the Kings and Queens of Old can save them, can lead them out of even the most hopeless of dilemmas.
How can they let him do this?
He led them into a slaughter, nearly let the White Witch back into the land, and they look to him as their king. Maybe he was never a king, just a stuck-up teenager in a king's body. Maybe he never knew what he was doing.
Maybe leaving Narnia the first time -
"Ed!" he calls, exasperated. What kind of High King can't even find his brothers and sisters, anyhow?
"Up here."
Peter twists, looks around - and up. Sees Edmund, on a ledge of rock, one leg dangling. His sword is unsheathed, beside him.
"What are you doing?" snaps Peter. "You should be out there, with them -" gesturing, aimlessly, back towards the Narnians, "not hiding in here." He takes a breath, then, "there's been enough carelessness already. We can't afford to take any risks, or lose this battle."
Edmund doesn't reply.
"Edmund!"
"I'm sorry," says Edmund, "was it me you were yelling at?"
All too apt. Peter feels a surge of resentment. Was it really that long ago when Edmund was in the wrong? When he preferred Turkish Delight to his own family?
"Who else would I be 'yelling' at?"
"Dunno," says Edmund, "sounds a lot like you were talking to yourself."
"Edmund," says Peter, "will you get down here, please?"
"How many times, Peter?"
Peter pauses, for a moment. "Just the once."
"How many times does she have to come back?" asks Edmund. "Before she's really gone?"
His voice is tight, not shaky. Not emotionless, not calm - but his eyes are fixed on his sword, unmoving.
"I'm sorry, Ed," says Peter. "I never -"
"Well, you were about to," interrupts Edmund.
"That wasn't what I meant!" Peter cries angrily, still feeling the ghost of the Witch's call, ice cold and silver sharp as a knife's point. He shakes it off, tries to, wishing his brother would just come down and talk to him face to face.
"How did you get up there anyway?" he calls, and Edmund doesn't answer. Not right away at least, eyes still trained on his sword, and Peter feels a different chill in his blood.
Edmund sighs heavily, as if he's just made a decision that's deeply regretful. "Arch on your right. There's a winding stair."
Peter takes the steps two at a time, every moment in the dark filled with strange anxiety as he races to his brother's side. When he steps out on the ledge his heart drops. It seems so high from this angle, and Ed is curled so small on the edge.
He treads carefully, hands outstretched and open, as if Ed were a wild animal that needed assurance he meant no harm. The gesture is lost, as Edmund doesn't look up; doesn't even raise his head to acknowledge Peter’s presence.
"I'm all right, you know," he mumbles, drawing his leg up and resting his chin on his knees. "I don't need you looking after me."
"Edmund..." Peter says, somewhat at a loss. He sits carefully on the ledge, feet swinging free over the edge, and claps a reassuring hand on Edmund's shoulder.
"I know that. I do know that."
Edmund leans into the touch then, and Peter simply slides his arm around his brother's slender shoulders, gathering him close.
"I couldn't let you, couldn't stand it. When I saw you, and... and Caspian, and she was... I couldn't!” Edmund mutters almost nonsensically, pressing his forehead against Peter's neck, savoring the familiar warmth.
But Peter understands, and his voice is quiet and intense. "I wouldn't have, Edmund. You have to know that. I wanted to, but I would never..."
"I know," Edmund whispers brokenly. "But I was so afraid."
A voice rings through the caverns, calling their names, but they ignore it as long as they can; letting the warmth of their embrace begin to thaw the ice in their veins.
"Peter! Edmund! Where are you?"
Peter chuckles softly. "That does get old, doesn't it?"
Edmund shrugs. “Usually it’s Lucy or Susan.”
“True.”
Caspian strides into the hallway below them, turning this way and that, shoulders set as though he were on a quest.
Peter exchanges a glance with Edmund. Caspian will find them eventually, of course.
“Peter! Edmund!” he calls.
“Hello, Caspian,” says Peter.
Caspian jerks, full-body, like he’s been struck with lightning. It takes him a moment, but he does look up, and see the two brothers, together.
“Hello,” says Caspian, clearly discomfited.
“What is it?” asks Peter.
“I would,” begins Caspian, but he pauses, as though he expects Peter and Edmund to say something. Make an offer, perhaps. His eyes trace over the ledge, his expression set with an edge of bewildered disorientation.
“What?”
“I would apologize,” says Caspian. “My conduct was inappropriate.”
Peter feels a swell of anger. “Inappropriate. You nearly -”
“I am sorry,” interrupts Caspian. “My intent, as always, is for the death of Miraz. Perhaps I should not bear all of the blame for a lack of faith in your efforts.”
Peter steels himself, ready to leap to his response.
“Shove it, both of you,” says Edmund, tiredly, too soft for Caspian to hear. He isn’t looking at either of them.
Edmund is right, though. Peter takes a breath, and he shakes his head, minutely. “I’m not the one you have to apologize to, Caspian.”
Caspian’s brows furrow, fractionally. “Who, then?”
“Ed,” says Peter, simply.
And even though Edmund’s face is hidden, there is no mistaking the misery that radiates from his seemingly small frame. Caspian lets his shoulders drop, aware that this will not be the fight he was expecting.
He is almost disappointed.
“I would do so, gladly,” he says softly. He gestures toward their ledge and tilts his head inquisitively. “May I join you?”
Peter is still clenching his jaw, fighting the urge to tell the prince “no,” to say that he is unneeded and unwelcome, and he should just -
“Sure,” Edmund shrugs, eyes still downcast. “Why not?”
Caspian enters the arch and ascends the stairs without being told the way, and Peter is tempted to hate him for it. He tightens his arm protectively around Edmund, even as Edmund turns away and footsteps fall close behind them.
For a moment, Caspian feels like an intruder, standing on this quiet ledge with the two brothers; and his words fail him. He clears his throat, and when his voice does come it is low and kind.
“I am afraid I do not entirely understand. But I am sorry, Edmund, for any grief I may have caused you.”
“It’s all right,” says Edmund. “You couldn’t have known.” He looks over his shoulder, over his brother’s hand, and regards Caspian; standing slightly awkwardly by the wall. It isn’t quite a smile, the expression that passes over Edmund’s face, but it seems amused nonetheless. “You’re very tall.”
Caspian does smile, a small twist at the corner of his lips. “I suppose that is true.” He drops into a crouch, resting his arms on his knees with his hands folded. “But it is only a matter of perspective.”
Something twists in Peter, when Edmund returns the smile and pulls away from his arm, turning his body to face the prince; a twinge of feeling white-hot and very like jealousy.
“That woman,” Caspian begins. “I have never felt anything like that.” His face falls at the memory. “Who is she?”
Edmund goes very quiet and very still. “She’s…”
“She’s gone,” Peter insists, tone brooking no argument. “She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. That’s all you need to know.”
“Is she really?” asks Edmund.
“Of course,” says Peter.
“Even if she’s gone,” says Edmund, “some part of her stays. Like echoes.” He looks back, to Peter. “There were people - there were Narnians - who wanted her back more than they wanted us.”
“Ah,” says Caspian, softly. “The White Witch.”
Edmund flinches.
“But you defeated her before, did you not?” asked Caspian. “The Kings and Queens of old drove winter from Narnia.”
Edmund doesn’t answer. He’s calmer, though, Peter sees - he’s silent because he’s thinking.
Was it because of Caspian? Is it that Peter can’t even help his own brother, now?
“You never told me,” says Peter, “what Aslan said to you, after you were rescued.”
Edmund meets Peter’s eyes - there’s an odd element there. Not distance, precisely, but something Peter can’t quite put his finger on.
But then Edmund’s eyes flick away, belatedly, guiltily. “Look at us,” he says. “Three kings, before a battle.”
“We should be preparing,” says Peter. “Ed is right.”
“Yes, of course.” Caspian moves to his feet - but he offers Edmund his hand.
Peter’s jaw clenches.
Edmund takes it, willingly, and Caspian pulls him up smoothly, without effort. There’s a half-second, though, a beat that takes just a little too long, when Caspian’s hand slides a up Edmund’s arm and Edmund is caught in Caspian’s gaze like he can’t let go -
“Come on, then,” says Peter, trying to hide the irritation in his tone.
~*~
Peter’s muscles ache; his shoulder throbs, still not fully recovered from the dislocation. It must be dozens of small cuts, bruises, and yet he has to thank lucky stars that there’s been nothing more serious.
The door to the bedchamber opens, slams shut, and Peter startles, barely catching the roll of bandages. He glances back -
“You couldn’t have entered with a bit more subtlety?” asks Peter.
Edmund half-smiles. “No.”
“That’s my brother,” laments Peter. “Could you help me with this?”
“Were you honestly trying to bind your ribs by yourself?” Edmund asks incredulously, shaking his head. “That’s my brother.” He snatches the bandages from Peter’s grasp, unrolling and measuring them out, not waiting for permission to lay his hands on battle-bruised skin; wrapping the linen gently but tightly around his brother’s body.
Peter gasps at the contact, though it doesn’t hurt. “I…”
“Had it sorted. I know,” Edmund teases. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, but he’s all but grinning now, and Peter hadn’t realized how much he missed the smile.
“There.” Edmund tucks the edge of the bandage under, securing it with a final pat to Peter’s chest. His fingers brush skin briefly and Peter’s breath catches, and Edmund’s sighs out in a rush of words. “I’m sorry, Peter! Did I hurt you?”
It still tingles, that small patch of skin that Edmund touched so lightly, and Peter doesn’t honestly know the answer. “I’m fine,” he decides, leaning back on his arms to put more distance between them.
Edmund’s eyes narrow, and he doesn’t so much look at Peter as look through him. “Lie down,” he says at length. “On your stomach, please.”
“What for?” Peter holds his breath.
“I want to look at your shoulder. It’s obviously still causing you pain,” Edmund’s voice is matter-of-fact, and Peter wonders what exactly he was so nervous about a moment before. He eases up onto the bed, turning over gingerly, and he doesn’t even try to suppress the sigh of contentment that escapes his lips as his wearied limbs begin to let go for the first time in what feels like years.
Then hands are on his back, above the bandage, gently tracing the bruises that mar his pale skin. Edmund’s hands are small and nimble, but surprisingly strong, as he deftly manipulates the muscles of Peter’s shoulders; pressing hard enough to release the knots of tension, without causing any pain himself.
“You should relax more often, Peter,” Edmund chastises playfully. “It would do wonders for that temper of yours.”
“Shut up,” Peter mumbles into the velvet bedspread, and Edmund just laughs, leaning forward to affectionately rest his brow against his brother’s soft, golden hair.
Peter’s eyes slide closed and he smiles. “I missed your laugh.”
Edmund pauses, then. “We didn’t laugh much in England, did we?”
“Not really,” says Peter. “Not after Narnia.” He turns around, shifts to face Edmund.
“It wasn’t fair,” says Edmund. “The way it vanished, like it wasn’t real anymore.” His mouth twists. “Some days it really felt like it was just one of Lucy’s games, didn’t it? Like we all just had a little too much imagination.”
“I’m not sure even Lucy could think up everything we did,” laughs Peter.
“I don’t know,” says Edmund. “I bet she could.”
Edmund reaches up, spur-of-the-moment, and brushes Peter’s bangs out of his face.
Peter stills, for a moment, at the unexpectedness of the gesture, but Edmund doesn’t seem to notice - he sighs. “Oh, no,” he says, “I’ve gone and made it worse.”
Peter reaches up to his hair. “Made what worse?”
Edmund tackles him mid-sentence - Peter’s breath rushes out of his chest, and they both fall back against the pillows, the headboard, Edmund on top. He already has one of Peter’s hands pinned down, and he’s the picture of confidence, sure of himself, like he knows he’s already won.
Edmund grins. “Say Uncle.”
Peter doesn’t want to fight, all of the sudden. His expression turns serious - “Ed, out in the battlefield,” he says, “you said save it for later -”
“It doesn’t matter, Peter,” says Edmund, cutting him off.
“No, it does,” says Peter. “It matters a lot.”
“Peter.”
“I don’t know how many brothers in the world can say that they’ve saved each other’s lives.”
Edmund releases his grip on Peter’s wrist; rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Probably not just us,” says Edmund.
Peter is aching, and he’s not really sure how to say what he means. He touches Edmund’s face, and somehow it brings them much closer - so close it’s choking the air away. There’s nothing but them, no Narnia, no White Witch -
“Ed,” starts Peter, but it’s Edmund who cuts him off, pressing a kiss to Peter’s mouth.
A chill rushes through Peter’s body, because it wasn’t what he wanted - except it was what he wanted, and all he can do is bring Edmund closer. It turns deep, all too fast, and Peter can feel Edmund shy away a little, move to brace himself with a hand by Peter’s head.
And then Edmund is pulling away, shifting off of Peter.
“I have to go,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Why?” asks Peter.
“I’ll see you later,” says Edmund, and he’s out of the room before Peter can react.
Peter leans back, against the headboard, and traces the edge of his mouth with his thumb.
~*~
It is funny, Caspian reflects, how quickly life can change, and how strange is the passage of time. Years have passed since a child was born, and he hurried through these very halls, fleeing for his life. It seems like an eternity since he sounded the horn, not knowing what its true power may be, and proud and haughty children answered the call.
And yet it seems that only a moment ago an inhuman chill gripped his heart, and the forgiveness of a king melted it away. Mere seconds since a noble boy fought a wicked man, taking the burden of an entire kingdom onto his shoulders and refusing to yield.
If he turns around, he is half convinced he will still see the battlefield, the trebuchets consumed by the living trees, the water cascading wildly; swallowing the remains of the soldiers he once called his people.
A small girl, holding a knife against an army, and a roar so great and terrible that it still echoes gloriously in his ears.
“Caspian?”
Of course, when he does turn, all that is there is the long stone hallway of the castle. Edmund is standing there, and it is not difficult at all to picture him flushed with exertion and grinning victoriously, sword still clutched in his clever fingers.
He is not holding his sword, and he is not geared for battle, but he is smiling widely, and there is a rosy hue to his cheekbones and the very tips of his ears. It sends a strange thrill through Caspian’s center, and he finds himself returning the smile.
“King Edmund,” he nods, just a hint of teasing. “I am glad to see you.”
“Why’s that?” Edmund asks, closing the distance between them. He’s still reeling a bit, still feeling the heady rush of adrenaline, and it’s enough to keep the nerves out of his voice. There is still so much that could go wrong…
“I wished to thank you. For all you’ve done.” Edmund is so close now, and Caspian can see how dark the boy’s eyes are, and how intent; and he falters slightly. “For Narnia.”
Edmund laughs, the sound sweet and musical. “I think you did quite a bit of it yourself.” He reaches out then, takes Caspian’s hand, and Caspian’s breath hitches. Edmund smiles again, mischief sparkling in his eyes.
“Besides, I don’t think I’m the one you should be thanking, really.” He tugs at Caspian’s hand, gently urging him to follow down the corridor, and then it is Caspian’s turn to laugh.
“Somehow I feel we have had this conversation before, or one at least remarkably similar.”
“I do hope this one will turn out differently,” says Edmund, absently.
Caspian tightens his hold on Edmund’s hand, and brings them both to a halt. “I do,” he says, “as well.”
Heart fluttering in his chest - he hardly believes that he would even dare - Caspian dips forward and kisses Edmund.
Edmund breaks it, with a little noise of surprise, but the moment his and Caspian’s eyes meet he reaches out, pulls Caspian back into it. The thrill of it - his tongue touches Edmund’s, and Caspian can feel Edmund lean into him, like a plea, a deeply physical plea for a little bit more.
He didn’t expect it to affect him this much.
Edmund’s eyes are a little wide, a little shocked. He recovers himself, though, glances down the corridor. “Come on,” he says, and he takes Caspian’s hand, again. This time, their fingers interlace.
~*~
Peter is at the window when the door to his chamber opens again; he turns. He wasn’t expecting Edmund back so soon.
“I thought you -” and he stops, because he sees Caspian, just behind. “Oh,” then, “Hello, Caspian.”
“Hello, Peter,” and Caspian looks to Edmund.
Silence takes hold of the room, for a moment. Peter isn’t quite sure how to proceed.
“Um, Ed,” says Peter, after a pause, “why-”
“King Peter,” begins Caspian, at the same time, and he waits until Peter falls silent. “I have already thanked Edmund for his role in the recovery of Narnia, and my own rise to the throne.”
It feels odd, in Peter’s chest, when he notes that Caspian didn’t use a title with Edmund’s name.
“It’s nothing I wasn’t obligated to do,” says Peter.
Caspian inclines his head. “You,” he says, to Peter, then - “you both,” to Edmund, too, “have earned my respect.” He extends his hand, towards Edmund.
Edmund glances from Caspian to Peter, and winces, inwardly. Well, no better time than the present - he reaches out, and takes it.
Caspian doesn’t hesitate. Edmund supposes it may be some remnants of the rivalry between him and Peter, or just that he’s still flush from the Narnians’ victory. Either way, he pulls Edmund into a kiss - right in front of Peter! - and Edmund makes a little bit of an undignified squeak.
Peter takes a step forward. “Caspian!” His hand is around Edmund’s wrist in a flash, pulling him away even as he steps protectively between them. Every nerve in his body is on fire, and he can’t quite tell whether it would be more satisfying to claim Edmund’s lips with his own, erasing any trace of Caspian’s touch from his brother’s mind, or to simply knock Caspian unconscious.
“He’s…” mine, Peter doesn’t say. “How dare you?”
“I am sorry to have alarmed you,” Caspian begins, though he doesn’t look very sorry at all. “But I think perhaps you have misinterpreted my actions.”
“Peter,” says Edmund, soft and low. “He wants to thank us.”
“I don’t want his thanks!” Peter snaps, arm winding back around Edmund possessively, keeping him behind. “They’re completely unnecessary.”
Then arms wind around his waist, and he has to fight to keep the challenge in his eyes; has to fight the urge to lean back into his brother’s warmth. When Edmund speaks, he feels it vibrate through his spine the second before breath hits his ear, and it’s all he can do not to shiver.
“Are you sure?”
Peter’s eyes slide shut despite himself, and Edmund looks to Caspian, wanting to know that this is all right; that he can have this, too. Caspian doesn’t meet his gaze, as he’s transfixed by the open longing on Peter’s face, the way his full lips are parted just enough to allow breath, color rising high on his cheeks to match their reddish shade.
“It’s all right,” Edmund encourages, letting his lips brush lightly against the shell of Peter’s ear. “I promise.”
“Peter,” whispers Caspian, and when Peter opens his eyes he sees only an instant of chestnut waves and golden skin, and eyes so dark they seem endless before Caspian closes the distance between them entirely; kissing him with the same devotion he showed to Edmund mere moments before.
Caspian’s hand touches Peter’s face, fingers gently playing over his eyebrow, his cheek, the side of his neck that isn’t warmed by Edmund’s quiet breaths; and even in this Peter isn’t content to surrender the high ground. He lunges into the body before him, nipping Caspian’s lower lip sharply and soothing it with a gentle swipe of his tongue, insistently demanding access. Caspian opens eagerly, burying his hand in Peter’s hair and pulling just hard enough to change the angle, making his own bid for control of the kiss.
“Oh, Edmund sighs, watching the two of them vie for dominance. He knew from the start that this would be a fight, but nothing could have braced him for how beautiful it is, or how deeply it would move him. He presses closer to Peter’s back, the backs of his hands brushing against the soft fabric covering Caspian’s chest, and he shudders out a breath.
With a wrenching effort, Peter drags his mouth away, not conceding defeat; merely changing the battlefield. Caspian makes a quiet sound in his throat at the loss, and Peter turns his head, pressing a consolatory kiss to the inside of his wrist.
“You wish to thank us, yes?” Peter says, not as breathless as he feels.
“Yes,” Caspian breathes, and Edmund smiles against the curve of Peter’s neck.
Peter is relentless. “Then show me.”
The moment stretches - Caspian pauses, and Edmund can see that he’s thinking, considering his options, figuring out what to do next. He and Peter are caught, it seems, in a world of stalemate.
Edmund makes the decision for them. Unlaces his tunic, pulls it over his head, and drops it to the floor. “You both coming, then?” he asks, as he slides onto the edge of the bed.
Caspian is there, faster than Peter, and Edmund lets Caspian kiss him, take his mouth, slide a leg between his own. He’s hard in a rush, hands grasping, fisting in folds of Caspian’s tunic. It takes him a moment to realize that Peter hasn’t joined them, and when he looks up -
Peter is watching them.
Oh.
Edmund turns back to Caspian, and Caspian must see some echo of Peter’s lust in Edmund’s eyes too, because he looks, looks deep, his hand stroking up the side of Edmund’s neck.
This, Edmund thinks, isn’t quite going according to his plan.
Then Caspian bites, lightly, where his hand just was. Edmund gasps, his eyes rolling shut, and he thinks that his plan wasn’t very detailed anyhow, and could probably use a little revision.
“Oh, Ed,” breathes Peter.
Caspian retreats, pulling at his own tunic, and Peter sits, on the very edge of the bed.
Not good enough. Edmund twists around Peter, pushing him back against the covers.
“You like being on top, Ed?” jokes Peter, a little shakily.
“I like you,” says Edmund.
Caspian - now just behind Edmund, on the bed - clears his throat. “Edmund?” He holds out a hand.
Peter has a flash of memory, a flash of jealousy.
Edmund extends a hand to take Caspian’s, but he’s looking back at Peter - and Caspian, surprising him, reaches not for his hand but his waist, and hauls him in, until Edmund is practically on Caspian’s lap.
Edmund falls forward, caught by Caspian. Trapped into another kiss, Caspian’s fingers stroking along the lines of Edmund’s bare back. Peter can’t stand the sight and he wants to see more, all at once - Catches a hint of tongue, between their mouths, and he can’t contain the thrill that flickers through him.
But then - Edmund gives a strangled cry, and Peter realizes Caspian’s hand is inside Edmund’s trousers, making a rough, rhythmic movement. Peter can’t breathe, and all Edmund can do, it seems, is moan, breathlessly, against Caspian’s shoulder. He moves without thinking, sliding his palm proprietarily up Edmund’s spine as he draws in close.
Edmund wants to arch back into that caress, but all he can do is roll his hips helplessly as Caspian strokes him, fingertips roughened by years of wielding a sword coaxing out his pleasure. Caspian lowers his head, nibbling again at that spot on Edmund’s neck, and Edmund is panting now, almost there, almost…
“Kiss me, Peter,” he gasps. “God, kiss me, please!”
And Peter, who’s never really been able to deny his brother anything, obliges tenderly; cupping his face and kissing him sweet and deep. Edmund moans into Peter’s mouth, shuddering against Caspian’s chest as four gentle hands and two loving pairs of lips ease him through his release.
He’s the most beautiful thing Peter has ever seen.
As his breath returns Edmund lets himself fall back, dragging Caspian and Peter down with him, since neither seems inclined to let go. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment of peace, and the warmth of the bodies that bracket him.
“Are you all right, Edmund?” Caspian asks, an edge of wariness creeping into his voice. He is achingly hard, inflamed by passion, but desperate to know he’s doing the right thing.
“More than all right. I’m a genius!” Edmund exclaims, and pulls Caspian in, soothing his nerves with a grateful kiss.
“And modest, too,” Peter teases, running his hand down his brother’s bare side and over the flat plane of his stomach. He pauses when his fingers meet Caspian’s body, just skirting the place where the dark leather of his breeches gives way to the golden tanned skin of his back, unsure of where to draw the lines here. Caspian sucks in a breath, hungry for the touch, and his hips twitch forward against Edmund’s thigh.
Peter takes this as an invitation, letting his fingers roam up that lean, strong back, feeling Caspian shiver. He is drawn to the soft, wild waves of Caspian’s hair, and Caspian leans his head back, letting Peter fill his hands with it.
The movement leaves his throat exposed, and Edmund takes advantage, pressing a kiss to the very spot where his pulse is hammering. Caspian cries out, able to restrain himself no longer, and pounces on Peter, rolling him to his back against the pillows.
It is useless to fight, and Peter no longer wants to, not here, not like this. He parts his legs instinctively, allowing Caspian to settle between them, and he fists his hands in that thick, dark hair and pulls, just hard enough. And then he can only hold on, as he is pinned to the bed and thoroughly ravished, Caspian’s mouth moving eagerly over his ear, his neck, the sliver of pale skin at the hollow of his throat, where the laces of his tunic lie undone.
“I think,” Caspian practically purrs, hands slipping under the fabric to caress Peter’s bare flesh. “That perhaps you are a little overdressed, my king.”
“Maybe you should help fix that, then,” says Peter, tilting his head to the side.
Caspian nuzzles into Peter’s neck, his hands pushing the tunic slowly up his body. Peter shivers at the touch, his eyes closing, head tipping back against the pillow.
Edmund sits up, arms braced behind him, the better to watch without interference.
The touch of Peter’s skin, the feel of Peter underneath him is enough to set Caspian’s pulse racing. All the infuriating arguments, the contests of strength, of will between the two of them - they were never truly concluded. Not properly.
Caspian pulls Peter’s tunic over his head, tosses it aside. And it’s time to stop waiting, stop teasing. Caspian’s fingers flit under Peter’s trousers, unlacing, until Peter shifts enough to pull them off entirely.
Edmund leans back against the headboard, his eyes wide and fixed, so completely, on Peter.
Caspian’s eyes flicker over to Edmund, seeking… encouragement? Permission? He isn’t quite sure. At Caspian’s perusal Edmund looks shifty, almost guilty, like he was caught doing something wrong.
“Keep going,” he says, almost in a whisper.
It’s almost too much. Edmund, watching them both - Peter, underneath him, his breathing loud in the quiet room. Caspian had never imagined that calling the Kings and Queens of old could have created something like this, let him experience this.
“Caspian,” says Peter, “if you’re not going to do something soon, then I will-”
Caspian moves down, slips his hand around the base of Peter’s erection, and takes it into his mouth.
Peter whines, choked off through his teeth, and his muscles are defined, sharp and tense, against his skin as he arches off the bed.
“Peter!” cries Edmund, and he’s there, in an instant, hand on Peter’s chest. Peter’s face is screwed up, eyes closed, and he moans, through a clenched jaw. Edmund isn’t sure what to do - stuck, somehow, between kissing Peter until he can’t think straight, until all he can feel is Edmund and Caspian (just like Edmund was, only minutes ago), and watching, just watching, so Peter is all that fills his vision.
Peter’s face, so breathtaking, as he breaks apart.
“Ed,” manages Peter, in a gasp, and then “Caspian.”
Edmund sees Caspian press Peter’s legs down, spreading his thighs open to the point of strain.
“Oh god,” says Peter, “please - Caspian!”
And Caspian pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Peter reaches up and seizes Edmund, yanking him into a rough, brutal kiss. Their teeth clash, and Edmund flattens his hand against Peter’s chest - not pushing away, just holding steady.
Caspian touches the edge of Peter’s jaw, turning his head back, away from Edmund. “You like, King Peter?”
“You’re a tease,” snaps Peter, but his voice is a little too breathy to hold any weight.
Caspian laughs low in his chest, even as his hand snakes down Peter’s trembling body. Peter groans aloud, and Edmund is yet again torn between kissing his brother’s face, seeing the desperate look in his eyes, and watching the slick head of his erection appear and disappear in Caspian’s fist.
Peter’s mind is a whirl, a swirling white noise of incredible pleasure, and the only thought that tumbles through his consciousness is this is the hand that touched Edmund… this is the hand that was… oh… He throws his head back, mouth working soundlessly, and Edmund’s hand is there to hold him up, kind, clever fingers cradling his neck.
“That’s right, Peter,” Edmund sighs, brushing his lips against the sweat-salt skin of his brother’s temple. “Just let go.”
As if he had been waiting for permission, Peter comes in a rush, choking off a sob as he pulses in Caspian’s hand; against his stomach.
Caspian moves before Peter has recovered enough to think, not sure he would be allowed to act in this manner otherwise, and drags the flat of his tongue across Peter’s belly; licking away the traces of his orgasm.
“Would you say I was teasing now?” He smiles lazily, but his eyes are still dangerous and wild.
Peter laughs, a sound just shy of hysterical. “No, I don’t suppose I would.” Edmund’s fingers are still soft on his neck, sliding up and over his jaw, his lips as he pulls away. Peter can’t resist mouthing his fingertips as they go, flicking the tip of his tongue against them.
Edmund shivers, and it’s nearly enough to make him lose his train of thought, but when he sees Caspian’s face, his wet, red mouth, those dark eyes, his mission is all too clear. He stretches forward, reaching over the end of the bed to retrieve something from the pile of bandage remnants and medical supplies.
“Ed?” Peter asks drowsily at the same time Caspian places his hands on Edmund’s waist, pulling him back. Edmund winds his arms around Caspian’s neck to kiss him deeply, groaning as he tastes Peter in his mouth, their mingled flavors something new and intoxicating, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever get enough.
“I believe,” Edmund pants, unable to leave the kiss for longer than a few words at a time. “That your thanks… have been… graciously accepted.”
Caspian smiles against his lips and holds him close, reaching his other hand out to Peter, who does not hesitate, taking it into his own and interlacing their fingers.
“Then I am satisfied,” replies Caspian, and Edmund kisses him again as Peter slips in close, free hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches and mumbling something that sounds like “Not yet, you aren’t.”
Edmund huffs a laugh against Caspian’s lips, and sits back just enough to look into his eyes. “What about you, Caspian? What may we do to thank you?”
Edmund can feel the surge of breath, the change of tension in Caspian’s body. He meets Caspian’s eyes and a grin spreads across his face - oh, he really hopes he’s right. He’d better be right.
He leans forward, palm against Caspian’s chest, lips beside Caspian’s ear. “Something you want, Caspian?”
Caspian makes a low hissing noise, his hand tightening on Edmund’s waist. “I think you know,” he returns, lowly.
“What are you two doing?” asks Peter, wary.
Edmund laughs. “You fought too much,” he murmurs.
“No,” says Caspian, softly. “Not enough.”
“What’s not enough?”
Caspian’s fingers skim the little bottle out of Edmund’s hand, and Edmund moves into Caspian’s kiss - a distraction, from the sleight of hand. And oh -
Peter’s touch is soft on Edmund’s cheek. “I wish you could see,” he says. “It’s how you just close your eyes and lean in, like you can find everything in the person you’re kissing.”
“It’s how you are too, Peter.” Caspian’s voice is husky.
Peter swallows. There’s something predatory about Caspian, suddenly, as though the way he got Peter off wasn’t enough. What were Ed and Caspian talking about? Must be something important, and he hates being kept in the dark. He is the High King, after all.
But not here, he supposes. Here, they are all equal.
“Come here,” says Peter, to Edmund.
Edmund glances at Caspian - what in all of Narnia could they be up to? - and does, all eagerness. There’s still something of a teenager in him, despite the time that they’ve lived, all they’ve seen, all they’ve done.
Peter twists Edmund down underneath him, and laughs at Edmund’s indignant surprise. “How do you like it, then?” he asks, brushing back a strand of Edmund’s hair.
“Keep rubbing against me like that,” says Edmund, squirming for a better position. “I’ll tell you in a few minutes.”
It all becomes real to Peter, right then. This is Edmund he has underneath him, Edmund the little brat who betrayed them to the White Witch, Edmund the one who nearly died at the Stone Table, Edmund the hero who keeps saving Peter’s life. He’s grown so much, and Peter has grown so much, and they’ve done it together, in Narnia, far away from England and the harsh reality of the war there.
And Caspian -
Caspian has become a part of this, somehow.
“Peter?” asks Edmund. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, Ed,” says Peter. “Everything’s great. Better than great.”
Edmund kisses him, long and soft. “I told you I was a genius.”
“I only doubted you for a little bit.”
Edmund’s eyes shift over Peter’s shoulder - to Caspian, Peter belatedly realizes, who has moved around behind him. There’s a shift in Edmund’s expression, some kind of mischievous sparkle, and then Peter knows he’s in trouble.
He can’t wait.
Edmund pulls him down into another kiss, and Peter recognizes it as a distraction even as he gives in, grinning widely against Edmund’s eager lips. It still surprises him, though, when a gentle hand smoothes down his back, curves around his ribs, over the linen that binds them and down to his hip; settles possessively over the point of bone and stays there, holding him steady and oh -
Peter needs it there, needs that hand; needs the hot embrace of Edmund’s lips and the hard line of his body to ground him, to keep him from falling apart as a slick finger slides downward from the base of his spine. He shivers hard, shuddering into Edmund’s arms, as it presses inward so slowly; and he is torn between pulling away from the strange sensation, and arching his hips back for more.
Despite the kisses, Edmund’s mouth has gone dry. The look on Peter’s face, flushed and wanton, lashes soft dark crescents against his cheeks as his brow is furrowed just slightly in an expression far too beatific to be pain… it takes his breath away.
“Peter…” he sighs, just as Caspian twists another finger to join the first and Peter moans low in his throat, hips twitching into the touch.
Caspian slows his hand, moving with an almost lazy rhythm, and Peter can’t stand it. He drives his hips back hard and fast, desperate for more, though he isn’t sure there can be more than this.
It seems impossible to feel this much and still survive.
Then Caspian’s fingers brush something bright and hot inside him, and he knows it’s impossible, knows that he’s flying to pieces and can never be put together again. Not the same as he was.
It’s been too long already and Caspian can only take so much time, only have so much patience as Peter writhes on his hand. He bends his head to kiss Peter’s back, running his tongue over the slick sharp blade of his shoulder and up the quivering muscle to the sweet skin just behind his ear.
“I want,” he gasps and has to begin again when his voice deserts him, lost somewhere between the heat of Peter’s body and the fire in Edmund’s eyes. “Peter, please…”
“Yes,” breathes Peter, quiet and shaken. His voice, once freed, is unstoppable; muttering praises and commands, prayers and pleas with equal weight and need. “Anything, Caspian. Do it. Now, god, please! Whatever you want, just…”
Caspian needs no further encouragement. He eases his fingers free, soothing the ache of abandonment with another kiss to Peter’s spine as he urges those slim hips up and back. The bottle of healing oil lies nearly forgotten on the bedcovers, and Caspian only fumbles a little as he opens it again, taking himself in hand, wanting to make this moment nothing but pure pleasure.
“Hurry, Caspian,” Peter begs, the words breaking off into a growl, and Caspian’s laugh is a breathless, broken thing.
“Demanding Peter,” he smiles. “So beautiful…”
Edmund wriggles out from under Peter - he’d rather feel Peter’s reaction, of course, than see it, but he doesn’t want Peter holding anything back.
Peter leans forward, on his forearms, and lets his head rest on the pillow. He can feel Caspian’s hands ease his thighs a little further apart, feel the shift in position behind him. This is it, and he breathes, low, even breaths even though his heart is racing, and oh lord, Edmund is right there -
It wouldn’t have mattered, even if Peter had tensed, even if he’d put up resistance. Caspian pushes inside him with an easy, deft movement, in Peter almost before he expects it.
Peter chokes back a noise, he’s not sure what it would have been, and he collapses a little, barely catching himself. Caspian’s arm circles his chest, and Caspian’s breath is hot on the back of his neck.
“Beautiful,” breathes Caspian -
“How about you move, then?” manages Peter, in more of a hiss, and he tenses up, consciously, all around Caspian.
Caspian makes a started kind of “oh” noise, and shoves in a little further. It feels more like a reflex motion than anything else, but it shifts the angle, somehow, and presses, even for just a moment, against that spot inside Peter.
Peter groans, breathless, all of the sudden.
“You like that?” asks Caspian, and he thrusts in, the same way. He’s paying attention, Peter realizes, dimly, as he presses a fist into his own mouth, stifling the noise he can’t help but make. This was what Caspian wanted, but Caspian is being careful, so careful to make sure that Peter wants it too, just as desperately, just as wantonly.
“Quit it, Peter,” Peter hears Edmund say. Edmund’s fingers close around his wrist, pull his hand away from his mouth.
Edmund. Peter had almost let himself forget about Edmund. He wonders what it would be like if Edmund were the one taking him, Edmund’s hand sliding from his hip to his waist, Edmund’s panting, Edmund shifting so he could just get a little bit further inside -
Peter whimpers, completely undignified and inappropriate for the High King, but that’s already too late, isn’t it? Because right now he wouldn’t give up this sensation for anything.
“Can you hold on, Peter?” asks Edmund, his voice broken.
“Ed-”
“Only I want you in me, after this.” Edmund sounds a little desperate, and he clasps Peter’s hand in between both of his, fingers tight around Peter’s wrist.
“God, Ed!” Peter yells, jerking his hand away; gritting his teeth and grabbing himself hard enough to hurt, to pull himself back from the edge he didn’t know was so close. “You can’t just say things like that!”
“He’s right, Edmund,” says Caspian, and it isn’t right that his voice can sound so steady when he’s buried so deep, hips still moving so maddeningly. He skims his hand up Peter’s hip, across his belly the exact way Peter had just imagined being touched; and closes it over Peter’s own, cradling his renewed erection with unmistakable possessiveness. “I thought this was about what I wanted, this time.”
He thrusts forward, perhaps a little harder than necessary, but he doesn’t regret it when Peter cries out loudly, pressing his forehead tightly against the arm he’s braced on. It won’t take much more, and both of them know it but neither can stop, pushing harder and faster and almost…
Caspian locks his arms around Peter, pulling him in tight; and Peter can feel it in every part of his body when Caspian shudders and stills, his open mouth pressed against Peter’s shoulder muffling the small, startled sound of his completion.
Peter bites down on his own wrist, trying so hard to hang on, willing himself to focus on that sharp sensation and not the feeling of Caspian, the ticklish brush of long hair against his sweat slicked back, the pounding of a heartbeat so close to his own. Even the sudden ache when he pulls away completely, and it hurts and Peter loves it all at once, and his breath is almost gone.
“Ed… I’m not… I don’t think…” Peter trails off, unable for the moment to keep a full sentence in his head. Edmund’s hands are instantly on his back, his face, trying to offer what comfort and calm they can; although it’s doing nothing to slow Peter’s racing heart.
“Are you all right?” he asks, so gently, and the look that Peter turns on him is almost angry in its intensity.
“You need to hurry, is all,” he manages, mouth set somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “I don’t exactly have all day.”
Edmund laughs, taking Peter’s hand and holding it up, sliding underneath his brother’s body once again. He places their joined hands on his hip as he tucks his legs up around Peter’s sides. “So do it, Peter. What are you waiting for?”
Peter strokes his hand up over Edmund’s thigh and down and down, nearly but not quite touching the places he’s been longing to touch. Edmund pushes his hips up, and Peter gasps aloud as his fingers slip back, just barely dipping into the give of Edmund’s body, where he’s already slick and stretched and -
“What did you think I was doing all this time?” Edmund pants, yearning for more.
Peter’s sigh is disbelieving and desperate, all at the same time. Beside them, Caspian watches eagerly, the roar of his own arousal no longer overwhelming the breathtaking picture that the brothers make.
And as Peter and Edmund kiss each other hungrily, light and dark clashing against one another in need, Caspian thinks that perhaps this is what he really wanted all along.
Peter takes it slow, and oh, it’s tight, muscles fighting against Peter even as he slips in, bit by bit. So tight, and not as easy as it was with Caspian, and Peter hesitates.
“Am I hurting you?” He’s not sure if the words come out, not completely coherently, but Edmund is already shaking his head.
“Course not, you couldn’t,” and Edmund shifts, just a little but it’s the perfect angle, somehow, and Peter pushes in, as far as he can go, buried inside Edmund’s body.
Edmund’s fingers tighten, convulsively, on Peter’s arm.
“Talk to me,” says Peter, “good or bad?”
“Good,” manages Edmund, “really, very good.”
“Nice to hear.” Peter touches Edmund’s cheek.
Edmund pulls Peter down, smashes their mouths together in another kiss. “Quit being daft,” says Edmund, desperate now, “and move.”
“Love you too, Ed,” gasps Peter, and Edmund moans, arching into Peter’s thrust. He’s so vocal, with a rush of “yesyesyes” and “oh god Peter” under his breath, groaning, twisting under Peter like he’s been driven completely mad, out of his mind.
Peter is barely holding on. He’s never seen Edmund like this before, even sweaty and flushed after a battle, and just the knowledge that it’s Edmund, that he’s always been there and will always be there, is enough to break Peter.
He wants to take Edmund in hand, but he can’t, it’s too complicated, he’s doing all he can as it is. He watches, as Edmund’s hand steals down - can’t look at Edmund’s face, he’d see it then, see how much Edmund wants it, and that’s too much, far too much.
-but no. Ed’s hand is pushed away, at the last moment, and it falls to his side, fisting in the sheets, tensing as Peter pushes in. Instead, Caspian - Caspian - wraps his hand tightly around Edmund.
Edmund twists, violently, with a near-scream.
He’s -
Peter’s vision goes gray, for a moment. The peak burns through him, too intense to think, sense, feel, and when he opens his eyes, Edmund is panting, shivering in the aftershocks of something that seems as though it was equally breathtaking.
Peter lets himself fall next to Edmund, limbs sluggish and relaxed.
“Urrgh,” says Edmund, coherently, and shifts around to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder.
“Both of you,” says Caspian, “are more amazing than I could have imagined.”
“Thanks,” says Peter, and he realizes, belatedly, that it sounds more like Caspian is intending it as a farewell. “Why don’t you lie down?”
Caspian hesitates. “You don’t want me to go?”
“Don’t be daft,” says Edmund, half-muffled into Peter’s shoulder. “We invited you here, didn’t we?” -then, at Peter’s look, “Well, I suppose I did, anyhow.”
“And it was very much appreciated, but would the two of you not prefer your privacy?”
“We’d like it if you stayed,” Edmund mutters around a yawn, already nearly asleep against Peter’s chest. Caspian remains wary, still unsure of this thing between them and how far he is allowed to go; feeling somehow that being here, seeing Peter and Edmund so vulnerable in sleep, would be far more intimate than anything they have just done. And as much as he yearns to stay here and be a part of that, he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome.
Peter rolls his eyes, reaches up and grips Caspian’s shoulder firmly. “Do I need to make it a command, Caspian?”
Caspian sighs gratefully and lets Peter pull him back down to the bed, his lips already curving back up in a mischievous smile. “I think perhaps you should save the commands for when we are all better rested.”
Peter chuckles softly as Caspian settles next to him, dropping a gentle kiss to Edmund’s forehead before brushing Peter’s lips lightly with his own. “And I think I still have many things to thank you for.”
“It can wait,” Peter mumbles drowsily, and Caspian can only smile and wind his arm around him, hand resting just against Edmund’s side, feeling them breathe together.
And just like that, tangled together in the stillness of a truly peaceful night, the kings of Narnia slept.