Folding Socks on Wednesdays
Title: Folding Socks on Wednesdays
Pairing: Peter/Caspian
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: They're in love; Caspian knows that.
Companion piece to Bliss.
They're in love; Caspian knows that. The way their mouths slant together, hot and hard, echoes of perfection. Their embraces, no longer totally secret, are unfettered by the petty worries of young lovers who hold and grasp and never let go. Each fulfills a different need, steady and attuned to the emotions of the day.
Peter always knows what Caspian needs - wants, desperately - and when Peter comes to him, ready with a sword in each hand and the sun at his back, he knows it's not because he needs the practice. Peter's been watching him - he always watches him - and instinctively knows that Caspian needs to relieve the stress of the day's meeting with the nobles. When Peter hands him the sword with a gruff Here, he channels all of his frustration into the fight and Peter takes it, nodding afterward and leaving without a word but a silent practiced cue to follow.
He knows it isn't hero worship, not anymore. He knows that when he looks at the young King reading story books to Lucy in the dimly lit room, he can always find the spark of bright laughter over a shared joke or the tender after-kiss to the forehead that speaks of a fondness Peter rarely expresses but Caspian knows he has. He likes the gentle Peter by the candlelight, the one that sighs softly when he closes the door to his sister's bedroom, the one that meets him half-way down the hall with a satisfied dreamy smile, eyes hazy in the dark, and takes Caspian by the hand, content to just lay with him under the blankets (though he denies it in the morning).
He likes the many kinds of Peter that different occasions bring out, each no less beautiful than the others. Peter, the High King, always sends him surreptitious smirks from across the table at state functions or lets a hand slip to his thigh if they're sitting next to each other while the other hand waves about carelessly with gestures to the seated guests. He loves the momentary quirks of his lips and the sometimes unspoken glance of promises of more things to come, that he wants it just as much as Caspian does.
Peter, the lover, (though, he will never admit to the term) is slow and teasing, takes him until he has Caspian moaning in sibilant syllables any Spanish word that comes to mind because please, Peter, please, mi amor, I need, si, te and he has just enough time to watch Peter stare at him with glazed eyes before he can't stand it and throws his head back, almost hitting hard on the headboard if it isn't for Peter's hand there cradling his head.
Peter, the advisor, is harsh, decisive, yells sometimes, and bites his nails in frustration, oddly enraged by the affectionate smiles Caspian gives him when he does. But you're going about this all wrong. And he paces the floor until Caspian is sure there are grooves with long Peter-sized footprints. Stop, Peter. And he in turn pries Peter's hands from his lips and takes him by the hand to sit him down in the chair next to his, just rubbing his shoulders, thumb and forefinger in a pseudo-massage that has Peter leaning back and closing his eyes. Don't worry. Peter laughs. You don't worry enough, Caspian. Someone has to.
And there's Peter, just Peter who kisses the nape of his neck, or wakes with him in the morning, or leaves him notes on the mirror that say "Good night" (just because), or who rides horses with a finesse that has Caspian staring transfixed after his retreating back, or who likes to annoy Caspian by the way he bites into fruit, hard and crunchy with the juice squirting everywhere.
Peter who incessantly flicks his hair without the use of his hand so that Caspian is forced to reach over and pull it back for him - Peter likes that, he's sure, because there's no other reason why he would go through the trouble of doing it every time.
Peter who doesn't take the time - even though he has it - to write in anything but a messy scrawled script, too hurried to be bothered to sit down and compose something legible, so he stands half-arched over a desk and the paper becomes inevitably smudged with ink, so much so that Caspian has stopped trying to decipher it and rips open every letter with spite whenever he sees something in remotely the same style of writing.
Peter who's thickheaded and stubborn, who's oblivious to the point of pain on Caspian's part, who Caspian thinks does some of the things he does just because he knows they bother him.
He loves him, every little piece of him: the parts that he wants to touch, can touch, can be touched, and all those that can't.
Peter makes him feel at home and though he's spent his entire life living in the lands around Narnia, he isn't sure how he managed because without Peter they would, and do, feel incomplete. He realizes this first when Peter goes on an extended hunting campaign with Edmund, and the first night he doesn't sleep, curled around the pillow that belongs to Peter and looking out into the dismal room, the shadows that were somehow obscured by his light now seeping in from the background.
He grudgingly goes to breakfast, dodging the inquisitive glances of Peter's sisters, realizing only later that he had forgotten to take off their brother's favorite (and consequently, Caspian's favorite) blue shirt and soft brown trousers. He flushes in embarrassment when he gets back to their room and throws himself face first onto the bed. He doesn't take the clothes off, though, not until he had to come out for supper.
When Peter comes back he allows himself a sentimental grin which melts into a wide smile while Peter rolls his eyes: missed me that much? He gives him an exasperated look but slings his arm around Caspian's waist and walks shamelessly alongside Edmund, relaying the more interesting parts of their trip, and giving his brother a sly wink before he pushes Caspian into their bedroom to show him breathlessly exactly how much he also missed him.
He finds it endearing the way Peter loves to complicate matters, loves the way he overanalyzes everything but still manages to lose at chess every time, thinks that his self-induced denial is not a problem because he will accept it sooner or later and Caspian will be right there to reassure him when he does, soothe his worries with gentle kisses or quench his desire with his hard body against a wall.
In the meantime, he revels in the sensation of just being around Peter, loves the prickle of static and warmth from his body, perfectly content to perform the most mundane tasks that Peter swears they still only do because it's habit. He distastefully calls it domestic, but Caspian knows that, secretly, he looks forward to folding socks with him on Wednesdays too.
Pairing: Peter/Caspian
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: They're in love; Caspian knows that.
Companion piece to Bliss.
They're in love; Caspian knows that. The way their mouths slant together, hot and hard, echoes of perfection. Their embraces, no longer totally secret, are unfettered by the petty worries of young lovers who hold and grasp and never let go. Each fulfills a different need, steady and attuned to the emotions of the day.
Peter always knows what Caspian needs - wants, desperately - and when Peter comes to him, ready with a sword in each hand and the sun at his back, he knows it's not because he needs the practice. Peter's been watching him - he always watches him - and instinctively knows that Caspian needs to relieve the stress of the day's meeting with the nobles. When Peter hands him the sword with a gruff Here, he channels all of his frustration into the fight and Peter takes it, nodding afterward and leaving without a word but a silent practiced cue to follow.
He knows it isn't hero worship, not anymore. He knows that when he looks at the young King reading story books to Lucy in the dimly lit room, he can always find the spark of bright laughter over a shared joke or the tender after-kiss to the forehead that speaks of a fondness Peter rarely expresses but Caspian knows he has. He likes the gentle Peter by the candlelight, the one that sighs softly when he closes the door to his sister's bedroom, the one that meets him half-way down the hall with a satisfied dreamy smile, eyes hazy in the dark, and takes Caspian by the hand, content to just lay with him under the blankets (though he denies it in the morning).
He likes the many kinds of Peter that different occasions bring out, each no less beautiful than the others. Peter, the High King, always sends him surreptitious smirks from across the table at state functions or lets a hand slip to his thigh if they're sitting next to each other while the other hand waves about carelessly with gestures to the seated guests. He loves the momentary quirks of his lips and the sometimes unspoken glance of promises of more things to come, that he wants it just as much as Caspian does.
Peter, the lover, (though, he will never admit to the term) is slow and teasing, takes him until he has Caspian moaning in sibilant syllables any Spanish word that comes to mind because please, Peter, please, mi amor, I need, si, te and he has just enough time to watch Peter stare at him with glazed eyes before he can't stand it and throws his head back, almost hitting hard on the headboard if it isn't for Peter's hand there cradling his head.
Peter, the advisor, is harsh, decisive, yells sometimes, and bites his nails in frustration, oddly enraged by the affectionate smiles Caspian gives him when he does. But you're going about this all wrong. And he paces the floor until Caspian is sure there are grooves with long Peter-sized footprints. Stop, Peter. And he in turn pries Peter's hands from his lips and takes him by the hand to sit him down in the chair next to his, just rubbing his shoulders, thumb and forefinger in a pseudo-massage that has Peter leaning back and closing his eyes. Don't worry. Peter laughs. You don't worry enough, Caspian. Someone has to.
And there's Peter, just Peter who kisses the nape of his neck, or wakes with him in the morning, or leaves him notes on the mirror that say "Good night" (just because), or who rides horses with a finesse that has Caspian staring transfixed after his retreating back, or who likes to annoy Caspian by the way he bites into fruit, hard and crunchy with the juice squirting everywhere.
Peter who incessantly flicks his hair without the use of his hand so that Caspian is forced to reach over and pull it back for him - Peter likes that, he's sure, because there's no other reason why he would go through the trouble of doing it every time.
Peter who doesn't take the time - even though he has it - to write in anything but a messy scrawled script, too hurried to be bothered to sit down and compose something legible, so he stands half-arched over a desk and the paper becomes inevitably smudged with ink, so much so that Caspian has stopped trying to decipher it and rips open every letter with spite whenever he sees something in remotely the same style of writing.
Peter who's thickheaded and stubborn, who's oblivious to the point of pain on Caspian's part, who Caspian thinks does some of the things he does just because he knows they bother him.
He loves him, every little piece of him: the parts that he wants to touch, can touch, can be touched, and all those that can't.
Peter makes him feel at home and though he's spent his entire life living in the lands around Narnia, he isn't sure how he managed because without Peter they would, and do, feel incomplete. He realizes this first when Peter goes on an extended hunting campaign with Edmund, and the first night he doesn't sleep, curled around the pillow that belongs to Peter and looking out into the dismal room, the shadows that were somehow obscured by his light now seeping in from the background.
He grudgingly goes to breakfast, dodging the inquisitive glances of Peter's sisters, realizing only later that he had forgotten to take off their brother's favorite (and consequently, Caspian's favorite) blue shirt and soft brown trousers. He flushes in embarrassment when he gets back to their room and throws himself face first onto the bed. He doesn't take the clothes off, though, not until he had to come out for supper.
When Peter comes back he allows himself a sentimental grin which melts into a wide smile while Peter rolls his eyes: missed me that much? He gives him an exasperated look but slings his arm around Caspian's waist and walks shamelessly alongside Edmund, relaying the more interesting parts of their trip, and giving his brother a sly wink before he pushes Caspian into their bedroom to show him breathlessly exactly how much he also missed him.
He finds it endearing the way Peter loves to complicate matters, loves the way he overanalyzes everything but still manages to lose at chess every time, thinks that his self-induced denial is not a problem because he will accept it sooner or later and Caspian will be right there to reassure him when he does, soothe his worries with gentle kisses or quench his desire with his hard body against a wall.
In the meantime, he revels in the sensation of just being around Peter, loves the prickle of static and warmth from his body, perfectly content to perform the most mundane tasks that Peter swears they still only do because it's habit. He distastefully calls it domestic, but Caspian knows that, secretly, he looks forward to folding socks with him on Wednesdays too.