Fic: Growing Pains, Troyslash, Hector/Paris, 1/2, PG13
Author: Jas Masson
Title: Growing Pains 1/2
Feedback: jasmasson@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money, blah blah
Rating: Part one is PG13, but part two will be NC17, baby.
Warnings: Pre-slash,
Fandom: Troy/Iliad, AU
Pairing: Hector/Paris
Archive: Yes
Summary: Paris grows up in Troy...
A/N: Movieverse. Not one for the purists. Homer would be spinning in his grave.
***
Paris was a curse. They had known it since he was a baby. The seers had foretold that Paris - a squalling, tiny newborn baby - would cause the downfall and ruin of Troy.
Their father was an honourable man, and a great king. He believed in the omens and the Gods, and reluctantly he had agreed to abandon Paris for the sake of his city.
But Hector, ten years old, had looked at his baby brother - who cooed happily whenever Hector held him, who smiled like the sun shining, who giggled when Hector tickled him and who gripped his fingers with a tiny fist - and wept. Pleaded with his father not to take Paris away, and finally Priam, not wanting to abandon his son in his heart, had acceded to Hector's wishes and allowed him to stay.
Sometimes, Hector wondered if the desperate protectiveness and responsibility he'd always felt for his brother dated back to that moment. As if by persuading their father not to send Paris away he was now responsible for ensuring that Paris caused no harm.
***
Hector had found it almost impossible to deny his brother anything. For example, his own favorite toy, a small wooden horse, had been Paris's the moment he laid his curious brown eyes on it.
Paris was holding the toy now, clutching it to his chest, as he stood in the doorway to Hector's chamber, as Hector sat up in bed.
He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, wondering what had woken him when he heard a sniff from the doorway. His eyes fell on the small, sad figure.
"Paris?"
This was apparently encouragement enough, because Paris ran into the room and jumped into Hector's bed, throwing himself into his brother's arms.
Hector held him tightly, rubbing at the chilled skin of his brother's arms. Paris hated to be cold, and he hated to be alone.
Warm dark curls tickled Hector's nose as his brother sniffled into his neck.
"Another nightmare, Paris?"
Paris nodded, hiccupping softly.
"You should have woken your nurse," he reprimanded Paris gently, absently wondering if he should tell his father the woman specifically employed to ward off Paris's night terrors had fallen asleep again.
Paris clung more tightly to his brother in response, and Hector knew he had slipped deliberately quietly out to come to him.
Hector stroked his brother's back soothingly until the trembling stopped and Paris sighed, slipping down to nestle contentedly in Hector's arms.
"Warm," he murmured softly as he settled down to sleep.
Hector fleetingly thought about sending Paris back to his bed, but a glance down at the deceptively angelic, tear-stained face was enough to cut off the thought before it was fully formed, and he settled down as well, hugging Paris tightly.
Whoever had told Paris three months ago that he should have been abandoned as a child - and Hector suspected one of their other brothers in a fit of jealousy - had been terribly cruel.
Even at five, when Paris had run sobbing to his parents, he'd seen the truth on their faces despite their denials. Paris had only allowed Hector to comfort him, as if he somehow, impossibly, remembered Hector saving him from abandonment five years ago.
Hector hugged his brother tighter, sharing his warmth as he slipped off to sleep. He had saved his brother from the reality of abandonment before, the terrible loneliness and cold, and he could protect him from the ghosts of it now.
He always would.
***
The royal house of Troy had never known a more spoiled, wilful child. Paris was outrageously indulged by all - perhaps from guilt at his near abandonment, perhaps from simple defencelessness against the boy's beauty and charms - charms which were used to ruthless effect by a ten-year-old tyrant. But it had also never known one so beloved. Hector knew that his parents loved him, but Paris was favored beyond all others.
The entire court, the servants, the citizens of Troy, all fell before his sweet face, and Hector smiled when the women of the court declared him to be the most delightful child they had ever known... they had never had to stop him playing to go to bed, or sent him to bathe.
Despite Hector's own, much clearer, knowledge of his brother's faults, no one else was more frantic as the palace was torn apart in desperation.
Prince Paris was missing and alarm spread like wildfire through the royal household.
At twenty, Hector was already the leader of Troy's army, although he still relied heavily on his more experienced soldiers and advisors. He had fought many battles, and killed many men. In his heart he had known no fear as he had gone to war; knowing he was protecting his home, knowing he was fulfilling his destiny.
It had been years since he had been bested in any competition, and he was already taller and stronger than most men would ever be. He felt no fear as he faced opponents over his sword and shield; indeed he enjoyed the fierce contest, the stretch of his muscles, the grace of the fight. No. He had never known fear like this, fear that caused his heart to pound and his blood to ring in his ears, as he searched the countryside frantically.
He shouldn't have heard his name. Over the distance separating them, the horses' hooves and the voices of the other men searching for their Prince, but he did.
He whirled his horse about and sped towards the solitary figure, skinny and bedraggled, barely discernable in the dim light.
He slid off his horse as he arrived, reaching blindly for his brother.
"Paris!" He grabbed the slim shoulders, almost crying in relief. "Where have you been?!"
"I went for a ride..."
"A ride!" Hector saw the undamaged limbs, so different from the images of bloody hair and broken bones that had danced grotesquely in his imagination, and felt his relief turn to anger. "You fool! You brat!" Needing to express himself physically he shook his brother hard. "The entire city is out looking for you! We were worried sick."
"I'm s-sorry," Paris choked out between shakes and Hector realised what he was doing and stopped, still clutching his brother's arms.
"You're sorry." He sighed. "Paris, you are a Prince of Troy. You cannot act so irresponsibly."
Paris's nodded, his averted face downcast, and Hector felt his anger crack.
He sighed again, "We'd better get you home."
Paris looked up, and in the dim light Hector could see the tears on his face.
"I was cold, Hector," he whispered softly. "And all alone."
Hector's anger disintegrated entirely with no further token resistance. He realised how cold the flesh under his hands was, and how desperately Paris's small slender fingers grasped his own muscled arms.
Hector groaned and enveloped his brother in his arms. Paris clung to him tightly, wrapping his legs around Hector's waist and sobbing quietly into his shoulder.
"Hush now," he murmured soothingly, rubbing Paris's back and kissing his soft curls. "It's alright. I'm here."
"Knew you would," Paris whispered, between sobs, "I knew you would come."
"Shh. I've got you."
He reached his horse, ignoring the other men who had been searching with him. Paris refused to let go, so he awkwardly manoeuvred himself and his precious, maddening bundle onto the horse.
He sat Paris in front of him, sat sideways and nestled into his chest and urged the horse home.
Paris sighed in contentment. Then he looked up. His face suddenly became a little knowing.
"Do you love me, brother?" he asked, slyly.
Warning bells rang in Hector's head.
*Do you love me brother? I found this kitten.*
*Do you love me brother? I've torn my robe.*
*Do you love me brother? I've spilt my soup.*
*Do you love me brother? I've broken your spear.*
"What?" he asked, not as harshly as he should, because his own hands were still trembling a little and Paris's dirty face still showed the tracks of his tears.
Paris looked up at him through his eyelashes. Hector thought for a moment. A ride? Where was the horse? And, why had Paris's own horse, a small, staid pony, still been in the stables when Hector had torn through them calling frantically for his brother?
"I took father's horse. And he ran away when I stopped at the sea."
Paris looked up at him innocently, with huge unquestioning eyes, trusting Hector to stand between him and a scolding.
Groaning, Hector directed his men to look for his father's horse, and tugged reprovingly at one of Paris's wayward curls. Satisfied, Paris snuggled into his brother's chest and Hector returned home to protect Paris from anyone, even their own father, and even when he deserved it.
***
Hector tried to feel sorry for what he'd done, as he stood over his brother Mestor, who nursed his split lip and spat blood and a tooth out onto the floor.
He knew he should feel bad. He was the leader of the army, and much older and infinitely stronger than his brother, and he had no right to hit him. Particularly when, he knew, Mestor had not been entirely at fault. He knew what Paris had done, but that knowledge had no power over the image of Paris's shocked, hurt eyes, and even less against the bruise darkening Paris's fine jaw.
He'd come across them standing inches apart, yelling at each other. Mestor, at twenty, was five years older, and a good thirty pounds heavier than Paris. This had, apparently, held little weight with the lovely Rachel, who had been Mestor's girlfriend until Paris had turned his eye on her.
"You little rat. You spoiled little brat." Mestor yelled.
"What?" Paris raised an eyebrow mockingly. "It's not my concern if you can't keep a girlfriend."
Mestor had stepped towards Paris with bloody murder on his face and Hector had intervened.
"What's going on here?"
They had both turned to face him.
"That little *bitch* was kissing my girlfriend."
"How dare you..."
"Paris!" Hector said, firmly, letting his disapproval show. Paris looked a little guilty and turned away.
"Mestor, don't speak to your brother like that. If Rachel's head can be so easily turned, you probably don't want her as your girlfriend, anyway."
Hector thought that probably didn't sound very convincing. It would take an extremely strong will to deny Paris, and Hector suspected that Paris had only looked at Rachel particularly because she Mestor's girlfriend and the thought of a pretty young girl denying a serious seduction from Paris was laughable.
Mestor was almost the only person in Troy who had not fallen to Paris's charms, and Hector suspected that was because Paris had never made any attempt to get along with him, quite the reverse. Their other brothers and sisters, with the exception of Cassandra, had all swallowed their jealousy and come to adore him. Mestor, Hector knew, still burned with jealousy at Paris's place in all of Troy's affections. Hector suspected him of being the one who told Paris so long ago of the plan to abandon him at birth, because although Paris had never said, his continued dislike spoke louder than words. Hector guiltily knew that this suspicion had made Mestor his own least favorite sibling.
"He's hardly my brother," Mestor hissed now in anger. "At least he wouldn't have been if father had abandoned him to *die* like he meant to."
Paris gasped and turned deathly pale, eyes huge in his face. Hector's fists clenched.
"You bastard," Paris whispered. He then drew himself up and his voice got increasingly louder. "No wonder Rachel came to me. She said you were a nasty, horrible boyfriend, and she was only going with you because you were a Prince, that you smelled, had a tiny penis, kissed like a frog..."
He got no further as Mestor's fist lashed out and connected with his jaw.
Hector barely registered Paris stagger backwards, as his own blood surged and the next thing he knew he was standing over Mestor, his fist throbbing.
"Go to your rooms, Mestor," he said, in a voice that was quiet, but unsteady.
Mestor scrambled away, and Hector turned to face Paris.
Paris was nursing his jaw, face still pale and his hand trembling.
"Let me look," he said softly.
He moved Paris's hand gently and touched the sensitive flesh, wincing when Paris winced.
"It's OK, nothing broken, just a bruise," he told Paris in relief. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the abused flesh.
A tear rolled silently down Paris's cheek, and Hector suddenly wished Mestor were still here to pay some more for that tear.
"Hey, it can't hurt that badly," he teased gently.
Paris snorted softly, meeting Hector's eyes and they both knew he wasn't crying because of his jaw.
No one else could possibly know. No one but Hector. They all saw the confident, beautiful prince who held the hearts of all of Troy in his graceful, careless hands, and didn't see the young boy still plagued by nightmares of being abandoned by those who should love him most. Paris still suffered at night, although not as often, and he still came to Hector for comfort.
Although it had wrung his heart, Hector had, however, recently been sending Paris back to his own bed when the nightmares came after a few minutes of reassurance. A Prince of Troy shouldn't be running to his big brother at night. And there were other reasons, now that Paris was fifteen and Hector only human despite what Troy might think.
"He was right, though," Paris said softly.
"It didn't happen, Paris. You're here and, let's face it, our parents love you best of all," he joked.
"Because of you," Paris looked into his eyes and Hector's heart beat a little harder.
"Well, I am a hero, you know," he said lightly, mocking himself and the recent celebration in his honor.
"Yes, you are," Paris said seriously.
Hector straightened, when he realised he had been leaning towards Paris.
"Still," he said sternly, "you shouldn't have kissed Rachel."
Paris shrugged casually, the moment broken. "I can't help it if I'm irresistible."
Hector met Paris's eyes, but refused to understand the challenge in them.
***
Hector looked up as his chamber was noisily entered.
Paris hurried over.
"They said you were hurt!" His voice was accusing, as if Hector had deliberately been wounded.
Hector shrugged, "It's just a scratch, Paris."
Paris studied Hector's leg intently. The servant girl was finishing up the stitches for the gash on his thigh.
"What are you doing?" He demanded of the girl.
Flustered the girl looked up and Hector winced slightly as she pulled too tightly.
"My Lord Paris," she said, blushing under his intense gaze, "I, I am just finishing up the stitches, then I shall bathe the wound," she gestured as a steaming bowl at her side, "and then I shall bandage the leg to protect the stitches."
She finished the stitches in the next moment, her hand shaking a little, but when she reached for the cloth in the bowl, Paris stopped her.
"Leave us," he said, briskly. "I shall do it."
"Paris, let the girl finish."
Hector was ignored as Paris scowled at the girl, storm clouds across the sun on his face.
"Leave us," he said again. The girl fled, not sparing Hector a second glance.
Hector sighed. As the firstborn Prince, and future King of Troy, he felt his wishes shouldn't be ignored that way, but he was fair to the servants, whereas Paris could be moody. Charming and irresistible one moment, angry and cruel the next. He could always charm back those who he offended, however, and his moods made him no less loved, indeed made those around him all the more anxious to please, to not see Paris frown.
Hector knew himself to be no more immune than the serving girl to Paris's charms, and so he had begun to avoid Paris in private, and his too knowing eyes.
Paris sat on the bed and Hector shifted.
"I can do it," he said, but Paris ignored him and picked up the cloth. Hector hissed in a breath as it stung his leg.
"Must you do everything, Hector?" Paris asked.
"Well, I did have someone else to do it, before you sent her away," he reminded Paris with a small smile.
Paris ignored him, concentrating on his task.
"You think all of Troy rests on your shoulders. You take responsibility for everything, Hector," Paris reproved.
"And you for nothing," Hector shot back, suddenly angry at being criticised by his careless young brother, whose scrapes, now more with young girls than broken toys or missed baths, Hector was still dealing with.
Paris looked up as he replaced the cloth.
"Perhaps I am not allowed to," he replied calmly. "You should let me out on the field."
He should, Hector knew. He really should. Paris was the only one of his brothers that did not go into battle for Troy, and Hector, and all his other brothers, had gone into the field at sixteen.
At seventeen, so nearly a man, Paris had grown tall, if still slender and much shorter than Hector. His skills with a bow surpassed even Hector's, and he showed great reflexes and swiftness with the sword and the spear, even if he lacked brute strength and endurance. Those could, however, come with time.
Still, Hector told himself, he did not practice as he should. He still had a casual attitude, seemingly to not realise the importance of his lessons and that, Hector told himself, was why he refused to let his youngest brother into battle.
"When you are ready," Hector said gruffly. "You must keep practicing. War is no game."
Paris smiled slightly as if he didn't quite believe Hector's reasoning.
"Are you done?" Hector asked, shifting uncomfortably.
"No!" Paris's hand on Hector's belly stayed him. "I must bandage the leg so the stitches are protected."
Hector froze under this gentle, intimate touch as though the hand were made of iron.
Paris picked up the bandages and set to work.
"Father was saying that you should have a wife, by now Hector. Someone to tend to your wounds, to come home from battle to."
*I have you.*
Hector looked away and shrugged. "Soon enough. I do keep busy, you know." He tried for lightness, but his voice fell flat.
Paris's fingers brushed against the skin of his thigh and he jumped slightly. Paris smiled.
"It wouldn't take long, you know." He grinned wickedly at Hector. "I hear the ladies talking about you, you know, and it wouldn't take long at all to catch a wife."
Hector blushed uncomfortably under Paris's gaze.
"You know, a girl I was... ah, 'talking' to the other day spoke continually of you. While we were... talking, she told me of past 'conversations' she had had with you. She admired your, ah, conversational technique, how you 'talked' to her as if she were the only one who mattered, how you seemed really interested in allowing her to 'talk' first, how strong you were, how considerate..."
"Paris!" Hector broke into Paris's low and intimate stream of words. "I think that is enough," he said roughly, gesturing to the bandages.
Paris looked speculatively at his brother, then shrugged. "As you wish."
He tore off the rest and secured the bandage.
"There," he said in satisfaction.
He looked up at his brother.
"You must be careful in the field," he said softly, serious now. "We need you. I need you."
Paris lowered his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Hector's and pressed his soft, pink lips gently to Hector's thigh and kissed the bandage.
Hector's heart pounded.
"I need to rest, Paris." He was amazed that his voice sounded almost like a plea.
Paris smiled at him, and Hector was surprised to see tenderness on his brother's beautiful, usually careless face.
"Yes, Hector," he said softly, standing up, but as he did he dropped a swift kiss onto Hector's head. "You rest. You'll need your strength."
Paris looked back with a gentle smile as he slipped out.
Hector was reminded of when he'd taken his brother fishing. Paris had enjoyed sitting by the riverside, spending time with his brother, but had thrown back almost all the fish, saying the smaller ones weren't ready.
He wondered how long Paris would continue to throw him back.
***
Growing Pains (2/2)
Title: Growing Pains 1/2
Feedback: jasmasson@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money, blah blah
Rating: Part one is PG13, but part two will be NC17, baby.
Warnings: Pre-slash,
Fandom: Troy/Iliad, AU
Pairing: Hector/Paris
Archive: Yes
Summary: Paris grows up in Troy...
A/N: Movieverse. Not one for the purists. Homer would be spinning in his grave.
***
Paris was a curse. They had known it since he was a baby. The seers had foretold that Paris - a squalling, tiny newborn baby - would cause the downfall and ruin of Troy.
Their father was an honourable man, and a great king. He believed in the omens and the Gods, and reluctantly he had agreed to abandon Paris for the sake of his city.
But Hector, ten years old, had looked at his baby brother - who cooed happily whenever Hector held him, who smiled like the sun shining, who giggled when Hector tickled him and who gripped his fingers with a tiny fist - and wept. Pleaded with his father not to take Paris away, and finally Priam, not wanting to abandon his son in his heart, had acceded to Hector's wishes and allowed him to stay.
Sometimes, Hector wondered if the desperate protectiveness and responsibility he'd always felt for his brother dated back to that moment. As if by persuading their father not to send Paris away he was now responsible for ensuring that Paris caused no harm.
***
Hector had found it almost impossible to deny his brother anything. For example, his own favorite toy, a small wooden horse, had been Paris's the moment he laid his curious brown eyes on it.
Paris was holding the toy now, clutching it to his chest, as he stood in the doorway to Hector's chamber, as Hector sat up in bed.
He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, wondering what had woken him when he heard a sniff from the doorway. His eyes fell on the small, sad figure.
"Paris?"
This was apparently encouragement enough, because Paris ran into the room and jumped into Hector's bed, throwing himself into his brother's arms.
Hector held him tightly, rubbing at the chilled skin of his brother's arms. Paris hated to be cold, and he hated to be alone.
Warm dark curls tickled Hector's nose as his brother sniffled into his neck.
"Another nightmare, Paris?"
Paris nodded, hiccupping softly.
"You should have woken your nurse," he reprimanded Paris gently, absently wondering if he should tell his father the woman specifically employed to ward off Paris's night terrors had fallen asleep again.
Paris clung more tightly to his brother in response, and Hector knew he had slipped deliberately quietly out to come to him.
Hector stroked his brother's back soothingly until the trembling stopped and Paris sighed, slipping down to nestle contentedly in Hector's arms.
"Warm," he murmured softly as he settled down to sleep.
Hector fleetingly thought about sending Paris back to his bed, but a glance down at the deceptively angelic, tear-stained face was enough to cut off the thought before it was fully formed, and he settled down as well, hugging Paris tightly.
Whoever had told Paris three months ago that he should have been abandoned as a child - and Hector suspected one of their other brothers in a fit of jealousy - had been terribly cruel.
Even at five, when Paris had run sobbing to his parents, he'd seen the truth on their faces despite their denials. Paris had only allowed Hector to comfort him, as if he somehow, impossibly, remembered Hector saving him from abandonment five years ago.
Hector hugged his brother tighter, sharing his warmth as he slipped off to sleep. He had saved his brother from the reality of abandonment before, the terrible loneliness and cold, and he could protect him from the ghosts of it now.
He always would.
***
The royal house of Troy had never known a more spoiled, wilful child. Paris was outrageously indulged by all - perhaps from guilt at his near abandonment, perhaps from simple defencelessness against the boy's beauty and charms - charms which were used to ruthless effect by a ten-year-old tyrant. But it had also never known one so beloved. Hector knew that his parents loved him, but Paris was favored beyond all others.
The entire court, the servants, the citizens of Troy, all fell before his sweet face, and Hector smiled when the women of the court declared him to be the most delightful child they had ever known... they had never had to stop him playing to go to bed, or sent him to bathe.
Despite Hector's own, much clearer, knowledge of his brother's faults, no one else was more frantic as the palace was torn apart in desperation.
Prince Paris was missing and alarm spread like wildfire through the royal household.
At twenty, Hector was already the leader of Troy's army, although he still relied heavily on his more experienced soldiers and advisors. He had fought many battles, and killed many men. In his heart he had known no fear as he had gone to war; knowing he was protecting his home, knowing he was fulfilling his destiny.
It had been years since he had been bested in any competition, and he was already taller and stronger than most men would ever be. He felt no fear as he faced opponents over his sword and shield; indeed he enjoyed the fierce contest, the stretch of his muscles, the grace of the fight. No. He had never known fear like this, fear that caused his heart to pound and his blood to ring in his ears, as he searched the countryside frantically.
He shouldn't have heard his name. Over the distance separating them, the horses' hooves and the voices of the other men searching for their Prince, but he did.
He whirled his horse about and sped towards the solitary figure, skinny and bedraggled, barely discernable in the dim light.
He slid off his horse as he arrived, reaching blindly for his brother.
"Paris!" He grabbed the slim shoulders, almost crying in relief. "Where have you been?!"
"I went for a ride..."
"A ride!" Hector saw the undamaged limbs, so different from the images of bloody hair and broken bones that had danced grotesquely in his imagination, and felt his relief turn to anger. "You fool! You brat!" Needing to express himself physically he shook his brother hard. "The entire city is out looking for you! We were worried sick."
"I'm s-sorry," Paris choked out between shakes and Hector realised what he was doing and stopped, still clutching his brother's arms.
"You're sorry." He sighed. "Paris, you are a Prince of Troy. You cannot act so irresponsibly."
Paris's nodded, his averted face downcast, and Hector felt his anger crack.
He sighed again, "We'd better get you home."
Paris looked up, and in the dim light Hector could see the tears on his face.
"I was cold, Hector," he whispered softly. "And all alone."
Hector's anger disintegrated entirely with no further token resistance. He realised how cold the flesh under his hands was, and how desperately Paris's small slender fingers grasped his own muscled arms.
Hector groaned and enveloped his brother in his arms. Paris clung to him tightly, wrapping his legs around Hector's waist and sobbing quietly into his shoulder.
"Hush now," he murmured soothingly, rubbing Paris's back and kissing his soft curls. "It's alright. I'm here."
"Knew you would," Paris whispered, between sobs, "I knew you would come."
"Shh. I've got you."
He reached his horse, ignoring the other men who had been searching with him. Paris refused to let go, so he awkwardly manoeuvred himself and his precious, maddening bundle onto the horse.
He sat Paris in front of him, sat sideways and nestled into his chest and urged the horse home.
Paris sighed in contentment. Then he looked up. His face suddenly became a little knowing.
"Do you love me, brother?" he asked, slyly.
Warning bells rang in Hector's head.
*Do you love me brother? I found this kitten.*
*Do you love me brother? I've torn my robe.*
*Do you love me brother? I've spilt my soup.*
*Do you love me brother? I've broken your spear.*
"What?" he asked, not as harshly as he should, because his own hands were still trembling a little and Paris's dirty face still showed the tracks of his tears.
Paris looked up at him through his eyelashes. Hector thought for a moment. A ride? Where was the horse? And, why had Paris's own horse, a small, staid pony, still been in the stables when Hector had torn through them calling frantically for his brother?
"I took father's horse. And he ran away when I stopped at the sea."
Paris looked up at him innocently, with huge unquestioning eyes, trusting Hector to stand between him and a scolding.
Groaning, Hector directed his men to look for his father's horse, and tugged reprovingly at one of Paris's wayward curls. Satisfied, Paris snuggled into his brother's chest and Hector returned home to protect Paris from anyone, even their own father, and even when he deserved it.
***
Hector tried to feel sorry for what he'd done, as he stood over his brother Mestor, who nursed his split lip and spat blood and a tooth out onto the floor.
He knew he should feel bad. He was the leader of the army, and much older and infinitely stronger than his brother, and he had no right to hit him. Particularly when, he knew, Mestor had not been entirely at fault. He knew what Paris had done, but that knowledge had no power over the image of Paris's shocked, hurt eyes, and even less against the bruise darkening Paris's fine jaw.
He'd come across them standing inches apart, yelling at each other. Mestor, at twenty, was five years older, and a good thirty pounds heavier than Paris. This had, apparently, held little weight with the lovely Rachel, who had been Mestor's girlfriend until Paris had turned his eye on her.
"You little rat. You spoiled little brat." Mestor yelled.
"What?" Paris raised an eyebrow mockingly. "It's not my concern if you can't keep a girlfriend."
Mestor had stepped towards Paris with bloody murder on his face and Hector had intervened.
"What's going on here?"
They had both turned to face him.
"That little *bitch* was kissing my girlfriend."
"How dare you..."
"Paris!" Hector said, firmly, letting his disapproval show. Paris looked a little guilty and turned away.
"Mestor, don't speak to your brother like that. If Rachel's head can be so easily turned, you probably don't want her as your girlfriend, anyway."
Hector thought that probably didn't sound very convincing. It would take an extremely strong will to deny Paris, and Hector suspected that Paris had only looked at Rachel particularly because she Mestor's girlfriend and the thought of a pretty young girl denying a serious seduction from Paris was laughable.
Mestor was almost the only person in Troy who had not fallen to Paris's charms, and Hector suspected that was because Paris had never made any attempt to get along with him, quite the reverse. Their other brothers and sisters, with the exception of Cassandra, had all swallowed their jealousy and come to adore him. Mestor, Hector knew, still burned with jealousy at Paris's place in all of Troy's affections. Hector suspected him of being the one who told Paris so long ago of the plan to abandon him at birth, because although Paris had never said, his continued dislike spoke louder than words. Hector guiltily knew that this suspicion had made Mestor his own least favorite sibling.
"He's hardly my brother," Mestor hissed now in anger. "At least he wouldn't have been if father had abandoned him to *die* like he meant to."
Paris gasped and turned deathly pale, eyes huge in his face. Hector's fists clenched.
"You bastard," Paris whispered. He then drew himself up and his voice got increasingly louder. "No wonder Rachel came to me. She said you were a nasty, horrible boyfriend, and she was only going with you because you were a Prince, that you smelled, had a tiny penis, kissed like a frog..."
He got no further as Mestor's fist lashed out and connected with his jaw.
Hector barely registered Paris stagger backwards, as his own blood surged and the next thing he knew he was standing over Mestor, his fist throbbing.
"Go to your rooms, Mestor," he said, in a voice that was quiet, but unsteady.
Mestor scrambled away, and Hector turned to face Paris.
Paris was nursing his jaw, face still pale and his hand trembling.
"Let me look," he said softly.
He moved Paris's hand gently and touched the sensitive flesh, wincing when Paris winced.
"It's OK, nothing broken, just a bruise," he told Paris in relief. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the abused flesh.
A tear rolled silently down Paris's cheek, and Hector suddenly wished Mestor were still here to pay some more for that tear.
"Hey, it can't hurt that badly," he teased gently.
Paris snorted softly, meeting Hector's eyes and they both knew he wasn't crying because of his jaw.
No one else could possibly know. No one but Hector. They all saw the confident, beautiful prince who held the hearts of all of Troy in his graceful, careless hands, and didn't see the young boy still plagued by nightmares of being abandoned by those who should love him most. Paris still suffered at night, although not as often, and he still came to Hector for comfort.
Although it had wrung his heart, Hector had, however, recently been sending Paris back to his own bed when the nightmares came after a few minutes of reassurance. A Prince of Troy shouldn't be running to his big brother at night. And there were other reasons, now that Paris was fifteen and Hector only human despite what Troy might think.
"He was right, though," Paris said softly.
"It didn't happen, Paris. You're here and, let's face it, our parents love you best of all," he joked.
"Because of you," Paris looked into his eyes and Hector's heart beat a little harder.
"Well, I am a hero, you know," he said lightly, mocking himself and the recent celebration in his honor.
"Yes, you are," Paris said seriously.
Hector straightened, when he realised he had been leaning towards Paris.
"Still," he said sternly, "you shouldn't have kissed Rachel."
Paris shrugged casually, the moment broken. "I can't help it if I'm irresistible."
Hector met Paris's eyes, but refused to understand the challenge in them.
***
Hector looked up as his chamber was noisily entered.
Paris hurried over.
"They said you were hurt!" His voice was accusing, as if Hector had deliberately been wounded.
Hector shrugged, "It's just a scratch, Paris."
Paris studied Hector's leg intently. The servant girl was finishing up the stitches for the gash on his thigh.
"What are you doing?" He demanded of the girl.
Flustered the girl looked up and Hector winced slightly as she pulled too tightly.
"My Lord Paris," she said, blushing under his intense gaze, "I, I am just finishing up the stitches, then I shall bathe the wound," she gestured as a steaming bowl at her side, "and then I shall bandage the leg to protect the stitches."
She finished the stitches in the next moment, her hand shaking a little, but when she reached for the cloth in the bowl, Paris stopped her.
"Leave us," he said, briskly. "I shall do it."
"Paris, let the girl finish."
Hector was ignored as Paris scowled at the girl, storm clouds across the sun on his face.
"Leave us," he said again. The girl fled, not sparing Hector a second glance.
Hector sighed. As the firstborn Prince, and future King of Troy, he felt his wishes shouldn't be ignored that way, but he was fair to the servants, whereas Paris could be moody. Charming and irresistible one moment, angry and cruel the next. He could always charm back those who he offended, however, and his moods made him no less loved, indeed made those around him all the more anxious to please, to not see Paris frown.
Hector knew himself to be no more immune than the serving girl to Paris's charms, and so he had begun to avoid Paris in private, and his too knowing eyes.
Paris sat on the bed and Hector shifted.
"I can do it," he said, but Paris ignored him and picked up the cloth. Hector hissed in a breath as it stung his leg.
"Must you do everything, Hector?" Paris asked.
"Well, I did have someone else to do it, before you sent her away," he reminded Paris with a small smile.
Paris ignored him, concentrating on his task.
"You think all of Troy rests on your shoulders. You take responsibility for everything, Hector," Paris reproved.
"And you for nothing," Hector shot back, suddenly angry at being criticised by his careless young brother, whose scrapes, now more with young girls than broken toys or missed baths, Hector was still dealing with.
Paris looked up as he replaced the cloth.
"Perhaps I am not allowed to," he replied calmly. "You should let me out on the field."
He should, Hector knew. He really should. Paris was the only one of his brothers that did not go into battle for Troy, and Hector, and all his other brothers, had gone into the field at sixteen.
At seventeen, so nearly a man, Paris had grown tall, if still slender and much shorter than Hector. His skills with a bow surpassed even Hector's, and he showed great reflexes and swiftness with the sword and the spear, even if he lacked brute strength and endurance. Those could, however, come with time.
Still, Hector told himself, he did not practice as he should. He still had a casual attitude, seemingly to not realise the importance of his lessons and that, Hector told himself, was why he refused to let his youngest brother into battle.
"When you are ready," Hector said gruffly. "You must keep practicing. War is no game."
Paris smiled slightly as if he didn't quite believe Hector's reasoning.
"Are you done?" Hector asked, shifting uncomfortably.
"No!" Paris's hand on Hector's belly stayed him. "I must bandage the leg so the stitches are protected."
Hector froze under this gentle, intimate touch as though the hand were made of iron.
Paris picked up the bandages and set to work.
"Father was saying that you should have a wife, by now Hector. Someone to tend to your wounds, to come home from battle to."
*I have you.*
Hector looked away and shrugged. "Soon enough. I do keep busy, you know." He tried for lightness, but his voice fell flat.
Paris's fingers brushed against the skin of his thigh and he jumped slightly. Paris smiled.
"It wouldn't take long, you know." He grinned wickedly at Hector. "I hear the ladies talking about you, you know, and it wouldn't take long at all to catch a wife."
Hector blushed uncomfortably under Paris's gaze.
"You know, a girl I was... ah, 'talking' to the other day spoke continually of you. While we were... talking, she told me of past 'conversations' she had had with you. She admired your, ah, conversational technique, how you 'talked' to her as if she were the only one who mattered, how you seemed really interested in allowing her to 'talk' first, how strong you were, how considerate..."
"Paris!" Hector broke into Paris's low and intimate stream of words. "I think that is enough," he said roughly, gesturing to the bandages.
Paris looked speculatively at his brother, then shrugged. "As you wish."
He tore off the rest and secured the bandage.
"There," he said in satisfaction.
He looked up at his brother.
"You must be careful in the field," he said softly, serious now. "We need you. I need you."
Paris lowered his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Hector's and pressed his soft, pink lips gently to Hector's thigh and kissed the bandage.
Hector's heart pounded.
"I need to rest, Paris." He was amazed that his voice sounded almost like a plea.
Paris smiled at him, and Hector was surprised to see tenderness on his brother's beautiful, usually careless face.
"Yes, Hector," he said softly, standing up, but as he did he dropped a swift kiss onto Hector's head. "You rest. You'll need your strength."
Paris looked back with a gentle smile as he slipped out.
Hector was reminded of when he'd taken his brother fishing. Paris had enjoyed sitting by the riverside, spending time with his brother, but had thrown back almost all the fish, saying the smaller ones weren't ready.
He wondered how long Paris would continue to throw him back.
***
Growing Pains (2/2)