midnightdiddle

All for

x_saturnine. She kills me, she does.

Gwendal/Wolfram. In the rain. Shameless smutty angst? <3 Incest warnings.

Rain-Slick

Wolfram's hands were slick against Gwendal's skin where they curved in, slipped between Gwendal's pants and Gwendal's hips.

"Brother," Wolfram breathed against Gwendal's neck, and Gwendal could feel droplets of water fall from Wolfram's hair to his skin. It felt as though he couldn't breathe.

Gwendal rocked forward, wrapped his arms around Wolfram so he could pull Wolfram closer and up, until Wolfram was pressed against Gwendal's skin, all wet clothes and hot breath, cock and hips grinding against Gwendal's.

"Play with me?" Wolfram asked, and he sounded like he did when he was drunk on too much wine and too much youth. One of his hands was nearly Gwendal's face, fingers tracing near Gwendal's eyes, and his other hand was curling around Gwendal's cock, a little cold and too slick to say no. Gwendal groaned, buried his head against Wolfram's shoulder.

"Wolfram," Gwendal said, and he knew it was madness, that this was taking fire, and playing with it, and no amount of dirt in all the world could put out Wolfram. But he couldn't say no, couldn't say stop, because Wolfram was warm and wet and climbing into Gwendal's skin, handhold over handhold, his mouth on Gwendal's neck and Gwendal's shoulder and then Gwendal's mouth, tongue and teeth and lips.

"Brother," Wolfram almost whimpered, and it almost felt like he was shaking in Gwendal's arm, like quivers and tiny groans and bits and pieces of him, all breaking apart and coming together, and Gwendal had to tighten his arms, because it was Wolfram. And Wolfram clung tight, like he always had, and Gwendal let him, like he always had, and Gwendal wondered when the world had lit aflame.

"I can't," Gwendal tried to say, but he could, and he did, because it was easy to tear at Wolfram's clothes, at the vest and cravat, the thin white shirt that was sticking to Wolfram's skin. Easier to catch Wolfram's pants, pull at the strings and clasps until Wolfram was mewling into Gwendal's hair like Gwendal was the center of the universe. It wasn't hard to do any of it, except perhaps breathe, because Wolfram was still nearly climbing onto him, needy mouth and stubborn fingers, and it was almost hard to turn Wolfram away so Gwendal could fuck him like a dog.

But Wolfram fell to his knees, like he was a some child at some altar, and Gwendal pressed his forehead against Wolfram's back, where his shirt and vest were wracked up, and Gwendal could see, from the corner of his eyes, where rainwater blurred and stung, how his hair was plastering against Wolfram's skin, almost like ropes.

It wasn't that Gwendal didn't love his brother. It was that he loved him too much, from the way Wolfram would watch the king, yearning and hopeful, to the way Wolfram would shout at his men, a braggart in little-boy boots. And Gwendal loved the way Wolfram followed him, like Gwendal was some kind of god. And sometimes, try all he might, Gwendal couldn't help back grab Wolfram, twist him about in his hands, tie him in quick-silver dipped in moonlight, so Wolfram couldn't let go, and wouldn't let go, so Gwendal could fuck him and break him and fix him all over again, set him out like the little toy soldier Wolfram always was.

It was easy, to tie Wolfram in ropes of love.

Gwendal, Conrart, and Wolfram, in (non-incesty! zomg!) brotherly love. Because older brothers are supposed to take care of the younger.

To Sleep

"Gwendal," Conrart called from the doorway, leaning inwards. He was silhouetted from the candles in the hallway, halo about his head and shining through his loose shirt. Gwendal stared at him for a long moment, bleary eyed, before sitting up in bed.

"What is it, Conrart?"

"Wolfram's had a nightmare," Conrart said, edging into the room. "He's been screaming."

Gwendal felt his stomach turn to ice. Nightmares were bad. Nightmares meant Wolfram wasn't Wolfram anymore, wouldn't be for hours or days, dark eyed and cold. "Which room," Gwendal asked, pushing back his blankets, "is he in?"

"His," Conrart said, and he followed Gwendal through the hallways, quiet and grim.

Wolfram was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around his legs. His head was resting on his knees, and he was looking away from the door, towards the far wall.

"Wolfram?" Gwendal asked, stepping close, and after a moment Wolfram's eyes blinked. Gwendal sat on the edge of the bed, a couple hands-breadth from Wolfram, and watched as Conrart circled the room, lighting candles.

"Wolfram," Gwendal said again, when Conrart was standing next to him, leaning against a bedpost. "Look at me, Wolfram."

Wolfram's shoulders shuddered, stilled, then shuddered again. Gwendal hesitated, hand half-lifted, and when Conrart shifted next to him Gwendal reached out, grabbed Wolfram's shoulder.

Wolfram's face was hot and damp against Gwendal's shirt, soaking through to his skin, and Gwendal closed his eyes against the sight of Wolfram shaking. But Wolfram kept shaking in his arms, like he was laughing, or crying, or neither and both, all together at once.

"Brother," Wolfram said, voice strained, "sometimes I don't know who I am."

"Wolfram," Gwendal said, "hush. Sleep, we'll stay here."

"But who," Wolfram asked, and his voice was muffled and desperate, "am I?"

"Our brother," Conrart said, and he was crouching close, a hand on Wolfram's shoulder, another on Wolfram's head, tousling blond hair. "Always our brother."

Wolfram shook, and Wolfram screamed, and Gwendal held onto him, saying, "hush, hush, sleep, hush," and Conrart said, "we're here, we're here, you're our brother, we're here."

The morning was long in coming.