Adair is feeling all kinds of clever, the usual adrenaline rush at losing his guard outweighing the flutter of nerves he gets being on his own. Up until recently, he’s been lulled into a false sense of security in the new world, feeling far away from the troubles of Zenan and the mysterious root of his parents’ deaths. Now, he’s slightly more alert as he winds his way through the corridor, away from his designated study and, instead, towards one of the many courtyards he’s been visiting in place of the garden (a sanctuary that’s been tainted by one of the guards discovering him there). His hands fold behind his back, wisps of frills looped round his wrist kissing his skin as they brushed against each other. Clear greens tipped skywards, drinking in the melting colors and the dusting of stars like they’re the last he’ll see. A warm breeze tugs at locks of his short cropped hair, tickling the back of his ear and drawing a lazy smile onto pink lips.
It’s his own corner of the world – or at least he thinks it is his alone. Solitude in a place so tightly packed with royals, members of the court, and loyal subjects, is a blessing in and of itself. Adair may blossom around others but he feels his most peaceful when he’s by himself. Serenely, the young prince strolls to the center of the courtyard, barely pulling his eyes off the heavens long enough to place his footfalls. He can smell lilacs, freesias, a hint of something citrus from an overgrown grove somewhere, wafting on the current of air that teases the breezy fabric draped on his figure and billows it out around his waist. Adair is just taking to smoothing it down when he hears a scuff and the click of a shoe hitting the pavement of the courtyard. He’s been fastened in place, fixating on the celestial show overhead, so he knows it’s not his own footfall ringing in his ears. He’s been joined and his gaze reluctantly flickers towards the sound.
“Dandelion!” Adair lights up with an awed whisper, his whole being brightening and his hands coming up to clasp just under his chin upon catching sight of the approaching figure. It takes half a second before he registers that he’s not being rewarded with a chance visit from one of his most beloved subjects – he’s being caught. An embarrassed flush intermingles with the freckles that dot his cheeks and Dawson is very right. They have talked about it. Multiple times. Maybe it’s the upturn to the corners of his lips that allows Adair to dismiss the scolding and inspires him to repeat his offense. It’d also be far more convincing if Adair didn’t have some implicit trust that, even out of sight of his guard, there’s a pair of eyes on him. A particular pair of pretty hazel eyes, at that. “Should I not be making their job difficult?” he asks with an innocent tip of his head to the side. “They ought to be prepared for anything. Even a rogue prince who wants to look at the stars.”
Adair extends a single finger upwards, as though Dawson isn’t perfectly aware of the twinkling lights permeating the dripping colors of the setting sun. A grin blossoms onto his own features as the compliment slips into Dawson’s admonishment. Of course, Adair manages to get away. He’s the most clever! “You should feel flattered,” he observes, taking a few measured strides to put him directly in front of Dawson’s broad chest. The fact he needs to tilt his chin back slightly to make eye contact sends a flutter of nerves down into Adair’s stomach which does nothing to lessen the smug look on the little prince’s face. “I learned my evasion tactics from you.” Adair’s footsteps aren’t silent like he knows Dawson’s are naturally. He’s not as perceptive and some might even describe him as oblivious, meaning so in the best way possible. But minor victories like managing to dodge his shadows at a time of high alert healthily boost Adair’s ego and he wants to do the same for Dawson, as gratitude.
“I don’t need them here protecting me,” Adair adds in a softer voice, dropping his chin so that he has to look at Dawson through his lashes. The expression melts to something bashful and ever so soft, matching the warmth blossoming beneath his ribcage. “I have you, don’t I?”
Dandelion. Careful control of his emotions seems to slip slightly, and somewhat warm swells inside of him, nestled down into his deepest crevices and corners. He feels himself fill out with it, feels the curve of his lips twitch up slightly, just for a moment. It’s okay.That’s how he always reacts, and in some ways, it fits. In some ways, he expects it enough to give over to the illusion tha he's in control of it, even when rationally he knows that he's not. He can still remember where the nickname came from, the very moment that Adair decided that is what Dawson was going to be called. The memory is a fond one that he revisits often, just as he does all of the moments that he shares with him.
A soft breeze continues to stir their surroundings, and it stirs Dawson's hair too, Adair's curls. He's tempeted for a slit seconf to reach up and touch, so muchso that his fingers twitch at his sides, just barely. He's still got enough sense to be able to refrain, however, and he draws in a deep breat through his nose, trying not to let hsi imagination run too wild and fabricate the scent of his skin in the air between them. It's not real, but he wants it to be, in secret, in the dark, without anyone to see or hear or now besides him. Them. Both of them.
Stepping back one pace to create some distance, to make it harder to slip up (it's purely for him, purely for his own lack of faith in his self-control when it comes to Adair; gods, when did it get so bad?), Dawson keeps his gaze locked with Adair's, unwilling and perhaps unable to break their stare. His voice had gone so soft just then, but there was a firm note to it too, a seriousness that shakes the assassin from his insides outwards. He feels bits of him tremble at the verbal confirmation of the prince's faith in him, at the knowledge that he's aware, he's so aware that Dawson would never let anything happen to him. His hands are rough hands, his hands are killer's hands, covered in black leather and ready to grip weapon at any moment, but he wants them to be gentle. He thinks they could be, for him.
"Of course, your highness. It's not only my duty, but my honor to make sure that no harm comes to you." It sounds so formal, and yet hidden in those words is something warm, something that means more than perhaps just what he's presenting to him. It's there in hazel eyes, there in the lines of his face and the curve of his mouth, the flash of teeth he gives before he reaches up to scratch at the light stubble lining his jaw. He's stil got him caught, got him staring. He wants to run a fingertip along the fan of his lashes, dark against the swell of his cheek. He knows he can't.
Breathing out slow from between barely parted lips, Dawson forces his gaze away from his prince in order to do another quick sweep of their surroundings, absorbing details that the average person wouldn't ever so much as consider. He really meant it when he both implied and stated that he is dedicated to Adair's safety. It's what matters the most to him, even with all of his other confusing, mixed-up emotions that makes him want to heave and writhe and go completely still at the same time. Completely still at his side. "May I ask you something?" The present question is essentially rhetorical, as it doesn't take him very long to go onto the next one, not waiting for an answer. "Why do the stars captivate you so?"
Eyes are cast towards the heavens again, noting the blended colors, the sprawl of scattered twinkling stars shining down. They get brighter as the sun sinks, and he enjoys watching them. It doesn't sate his curiosity much, but rather makes it stronger, more persistent. There are some princes that wouldn't tolerate questions in any form, let alone something so personal, but Dawson has earned that with Adair. They have earned so much with each other, but maybe, maybe they're just too frightened to take it. Maybe Dawson is too frightened.
