GALLIUM

Brín. The Prince of the Seelie Court.

[princebrin]

tourmalinecrown‌:

It’s a credit to Brín that he doesn’t let Declan see him pull the mask over his face, his shift from hollow, worried contemplation to the confidence and ease of a Prince. He plays his part so thoroughly, these days, that someone who didn’t know him so well would likely believe that the ease and confidence with which he speaks is honest and not a carefully constructed facade. There are plenty of things, on any given day, which Declan could criticize him for, and he is still so young that it feels like watching a child sit on the throne, but… 

But the contemplative sadness isn’t a sign of a bad ruler, despite what their current location might lead Declan to think. Brín cares, and deeply, and Declan knows he will fight for his people just as fiercely as Sorcha will. Knows that he is trying his best in a situation that no queen or king of their kind has had to deal with before. War between the courts? Plentiful, but well understood. The slow death of many, as the humans expanded across their territory? It had been brutal, but again, it had been slow, and they had retreated best they could and saved many. This? This was sudden, and different, and entirely unknown. That Brín could even put a smile on, feign confidence to annoy the old advisor pestering him about things was a sign that Brín was holding it all together much better than he might have been.

      ‘When have I ever doubted you, my Prince?’ he replies, letting almost a hint of humor into his voice, moving to sit down on the step beside him. There is an instinct in him, hundreds of years old, to put an arm around him, to give Brín a chance to let his facade drop for another moment and lean on him; it is an instinct, it seems, that will never go away, no matter how often he restrains himself. 

Instead, he stays still, posture straight, as he follows Brín’s gaze out over the overgrown yard, only a memory left of the way its former human owners had bent and twisted nature to their own aesthetic ends. Fig buttercups overtaking the grass, trees growing across a carved-out path like green scar tissue. 

      ‘I think this will suit just fine. You’ve done good work.’

He smiles, again, a little bit at the note of humour in Declans tone of voice. The old man is a funny thing, wry and tender and despairing of Brin far too often. His most loyal and trusted advisor. Brín knows, distantly, that he couldn’t do any of this without Declan at his side. “Countless times, I’m sure.” He says, voice low and quiet and half to himself, yet still a joke shared between the two of them.

He rests his elbows on his knees, and as he feels the warmth of Declan beside him its very hard not to feel like a child. Declan had always been the kindest to him, after all, when he was still a little thing, often lost and at odds with the world. A treasured little Prince, yet so often pushed aside in favour of others, yet often whispered about. It took Brín a short span of time to figure out how to win undying love and loyalty, how to be cunning and hoard it. It shakes him, often, to remember that with Declan he’d never had to try, not even for a moment. Declan had offered comfort when he needed it, been more of a father than Brín’s own had ever been. And he stuck with Brín through all his struggles and tantrums and disastrous ideas. 

“As long as our people feel safe –– or safer, at least. I’m happy.” It’s true. Deep in his heart of hearts Brín knows that he would tear himself apart for them. Oh, he is a selfish creature. He wants to devour the world, devour their love and favour and devotion. He wants to selfishly hoard all of their affections and their hopes and their dreams, demanding all of them for himself. It is a little known fact that he gives the same amount in return. If he could make their world better, save each of their lives in exchange for his own, he would tear his own heart from his chest and let them crush it.

They were crushing it anyway. Every death. Every endless look of fear. A paranoid voice at the back of his mind warning them that if he doesn’t act they’ll end up hating him. So maybe his heart is breaking a little more every day. Maybe he thinks the worry and the grief could drive him mad. Maybe he finally understands why his mother left this world behind, maybe she knew it promised them nothing but doom. And more worry piled on top, fear at the fact that someday soon people might start to notice his gentle and slow unraveling. 

There’s a way Brín tends to bring things up, worries and fears, where they sound more like a joke than anything else. “I’m not sure it’s what my brother would do, if he had stayed and claimed the throne after all. Such a brute. He always did prefer to pick up a sword and not waste his time caring.” 

[princebrin]

valeriandairine‌:

time:: june 23, night location:: the loophole tagging:: @princebrin​

Midsummer had come and gone but Dáiríne hadn’t made too much of a show then. Put in an appearance, eyed a few familiar faces over the rim of her wine glass, but nothing much more than that. Her skill of fitting flawlessly into place was often done loudly, brashly, with fanfare, but every so often she let it simmer beneath the surface. Every so often she wanted to observe the unknowing, rather than just the distracted.

Which meant that when she flaunted into Loophole a few nights later she did it with the full regalia. Glamour flashing so that her every angle seemed to catch in the neon lights, something ensnaring left in her wake. Normally, her affinity was for humans, but not tonight. But she let the thrill of their attention buoy her as she strode without pause toward the back of the club. An exclusive corner, red rope and raised floor, a reserved seat and a clutch of admiring followers. 

Dáiríne stepped through like it was her throne. More accurately, she stepped through like she didn’t care whose throne it was. But of course she did, because that was precisely who she had come to see: the Prince. He was already seated and smiling before a gaggle of devotees when she slipped into his VIP section. Dáiríne barely breathed in the direction of the girl sitting closest to Brín before she was sliding away to make room.

“Shall I really call you Your Highness, or can we dispose of the formalities?” she opened with a grin and tone that were both far too insolent for her age, her lineage, her stature in the court. Brín had always, more or less, ignored her lack of respect, maybe even delighted in it a bit. But Dáiríne had been gone awhile and things were changing.

Folding her legs at the ankle, she turned her head to survey over the throng of bodies, the lights, the alcohol, the music. It was early yet, not even midnight, but the place was thick with humans and fae alike. “I do like this club, though. I forget it when I’m gone, but it’s such a nice little realm you’ve sliced out for yourself.” The party Prince. “Think of holding Midsummer here. Oh, it would never do, of course, because it should be outside. And I think it was lovely, still, at the Winter Court. But…think of it.” 

His kingdom is a sprawling thing, and this corner of it is where he comes to lose himself, when he needs to. Lights and music, libations and offerings to gods of old, his people come to revel and wile away the hours of the night, ensnare humans and win love. He likes his little club, his little throne, the greenery that adorns the walls and the neon lights that bring them all to light, the glittering of his skin that draws all eyes to him as he moves. 

He’s playing King now, surrounded by his devoted followers. Simpering sweet little things. When Dáiríne approaches and usurps the place of another, Brín pays it little mind. She’s a spitfire, that one. Such a big personality, so funny and so insolent. He ought to mind it more, perhaps, but he really doesn’t. Even if he wanted to try, he wouldn’t have the energy for it. 

He greets her with a grin instead, something savage and pleased and more feral than he’d allowed himself, usually. “Darling, you know you can call me anything you like.” He sighs, slow and drawling. A little banter won’t hurt anybody, it may even amuse him for a while until something better comes along. She’ll hold his attention just fine, for now. 

She’s graceful as she sits, the turning of her head, Dáiríne outshines so many people, and Brín is sure that she knows it. She was made from starlight, more-so than some of the others. He hums in agreement, though his mood turns sour slightly at the mention of midsummer and the winter court. His favourite day, sullied by the touch of his hated enemies. 

“I’m not sure lovely is the word I’d use.” Forcefully light, almost playful, with a sharp edge hiding underneath. “But they tried their best, we can’t fault them for that.” An attempt at diplomacy. He leans forward, then, takes her hand. “Next year we’ll show them how it’s really done. You’ll have to come again, delight us all with your presence, dear Dáiríne.”

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

It’s the first time they’ve ever seen a man-made structure of any kind in the Wilds. Not that they’ve explored there, much, so far, and not that it’s easy to tell the house is man-made from the outside, with the way nature seems to have reclaimed fo much of it, climbing ivy and crawling plants taking over the surfaces of it, so much of the outside wood and stone and other things you could easily mistake for natural. 

But it’s clear, when Brín leads them through the front door and into the grand if ancient expanse of the entrance hall, that this was a normal mansion once, long long ago, enough details left of whoever had lived here to make it feel like a piece of very human history, old in a way much different from grand trees or stone structures. Brín hadn’t said much, when they’d set off to find the place, just that there was a house he knew, that he thought they could fix up as a safe place now that people were starting to feel like maybe Hotel Titan wasn’t the sanctuary it had once been. He hadn’t explained what this place was or how he knew about it, but it’s obvious, looking at him look at the place, that he’s intimately familiar with it. He touches the wall like you’d gently run a hand over the muzzle of a horse you’d grown attached to, like the whole thing is filled with memory.

     ‘I’m sure it will be,’ they answer, though they don’t really have any reason to think that. It feels like the right thing to say, something about the air in here thick, to set Brín at ease.

They want to ask him a dozen questions. They want to know whose house this was, and why it’s here now, how it ended up like this, and why he sounds like it’s taking all his energy for his voice not to shake. They won’t—they don’t, for now, just stepping the rest of the way inside behind him and starting to walk around. It’s a little dusty, and dark; the windows need washing, and the ivy needs pruning, if any natural light is ever going to get in. But it feels safe, and that means as much as anything these days. 

Its easier, in the long run, to just watch Cian with the rapt attention that they often inspire in him. The steady set of their shoulders, the curious gleam in their eyes, the caution with which they approach the house. He trails after them, draws his fingers along surfaces absentmindedly, collecting dust. There were maids once, who cleaned. An alien concept. Servants who came and went through living rooms and drawing rooms and libraries, dining rooms and kitchens. 

“Plenty of bedrooms, upstairs. For the people who want them.” He says, more explanations, talking just to fill the space. “I figured –– there are some people too scared for the real world, too uncomfortable in court.” A shrug of his shoulders, absentminded. 

The doors to the drawing room stand open still, calling Brin to the precipice of entry, eyes flicking around the room. Skirting over the portrait of the old man himself, unwilling to linger on it in the dim light. He lets himself float over to the old piano, carefully lifts the lid, absently strokes a key. 

“It won’t hurt anyone, anyway. To clear it out and have it ready.” He shoots Cian a smile, sure it looks as whole and complete as it ought to in the low light of the room. “Ailis will like it, I’m sure. Make it her little war kingdom.” 

A breath, necessary in the slow warm air, eyes focused on the things in the room that are vital and alive and so bright, all potential and adoration. “So –– be as indiscriminate as you like, I suppose. We can just...shove anything that looks like it might get in the way into storage somewhere.”

[princebrin]

tourmalinecrown‌:

     time. afternoon, 26 June      place. the Darlington Estate           ( @princebrin )

This one had all been Brín’s idea, and though Declan had had his concerns about any remnant of this part of Brín’s history being so central to things at a moment when the prince was at risk of losing his sense of stability, well… it certainly did make a good headquarters, a good base of operations and a good safehouse for those who had been displaced. 

There is so much life to it, already, people moving around, moving in and out around them, Ailis ordering things moved into the dining room she has coopted to become something of a war room, others moving to and fro, a few of their human allies helping to get remaining iron moved out where it won’t cause problems. Brín has done a good job, of cleaning it up, of getting people on board, helping them feel safe and cared for. 

But he looks exhausted, lines in his face that aren’t usually there, a concerning distance in his eyes as he sits on the front stair and watches it all swirl around him. He is usually so enlivened, by the presence of others in proximity to him, but he seems drained, seems unsteady… 

     ‘It looks good,’ he says, voice approving, putting a hand on Brín’s shoulder as he approaches him from behind, taking a moment to survey the yard around them. He hasn’t spent much time, himself, in human places, hasn’t had much of any desire to, but at least the place is more fae than human anymore. And at least it feels as if they are moving in the right direction, towards something positive. 

The house is more alive than it’s been for years and years. Noise and people bringing it back to a shadow of its former glory. He tries, he really does, to feel content with it. To feel happy at the safety of his people, the joy and comfort they feel and the gratitude they show him for his effort. He tries. But he’s tired. 

Well, tired is an understatement. Exhausted. Fraying at the edges in ways he isn’t sure how to escape. He feels frantic with it, the endless things to do and the endless pressure to know what to say. People looking to him for so much. The risk of losing all he holds dear. There are moments when he has to find a quiet spot, like here upon the back stair in the afternoon light, relatively quiet compared to the hustle of bustle of life inside the house. From this spot, bathed in sunlight, he can gaze out at the old yard and seek some sense of peace. Almost like meditation. It still makes him feel mad and sick with old grief, but at least its something he can wear with more comfort. It sits underneath his usual skin more comfortably, he can layer the care free and self assured persona over top. 

He sees the land here through two different sets of eyes. Reality and memory mingling in one. There was a clearer path, once. It led to a stable. They kept horses. And further past the stable was where the trees had truly started, back then, though they’ve grown and crept and overtaken nearly all the yard by now. He’s exploring it inside his own mind when he hears the voice, pulled then from his reverie. 

Brín prides himself, quietly, on the fact that he only jumped the slightest bit. He knows Declan’s voice anywhere, the old familiar tones of it are a comfort through any storm. He glances up, plasters on his classic princely smile –– bright, speaking of pride and mischief and all things that put both the glimmer of fondness and the spark of impatience in the eyes of his most trusted advisor. “Of course it does.” He wants to make it gentler. It’s a good house. He fears, however, showing too much fondness for the place. He doesn’t want Declan to think him lost in the past, unable to carry onwards and put the best interest of others before himself. “Did you doubt me, old man? I told you it would serve us well.” 

[princebrin]

maehvc‌:

Maeve laughed, a bright sound, every imagined offense and hurt from Brín’s disregard these past few days flying away, like a handful of petals cast in the wind. She told herself that her attempt at defiance, the way she approached the Unseelie Queen seemingly without a care, was but a ploy to get capture his attention. And yet, she could not deny that there was a part of her that was fascinated by Sorcha, by the other Court, at they blood they spill without putting on airs. She would not say this to him though, her lips falling into a content smile, as she nestled into Brín’s embrace. 

“Hello, my dear Prince.” Maeve greeted him, comforted by the steady drum of his heart against her cheek, the familiar feel of his arms around her. Oh, how she wished for days such as this to never end, for these moments to take on immortality, where she could lavish in his affections at the heart of their Court, with the real world apart and only lush and greenery surrounding them. 

“Have you come to seek my aid, your Highness?” She turns in his arms, childlike delight on her face, and the wish for them to spend their days together blissfully is replaced just as easily by a far greater desire - to become of use to him, not just as a pretty thing to have by his side, but to be transformed into a valuable tool, a weapon. “As you know, always, I am your willing servant.” 

The sound of her laughter is such a delightful thing. He’s always thought so –– she’s always been a delightful girl. Brín always felt it his duty to care for her, to pluck her from otherwise relative obscurity and make her his clear favourite among the fray. Especially when Ailis left, it felt so important. He beams down at her in response to her greeting. 

With delicate fingers he reaches up to brush her hair back, fix it just so. Like this, she seems far too perfect to be real. His lovely little creature. “Precisely, dear. When did you get to be so clever.” He speaks fondly, tapping a finger against the very tip of her nose with the gentlest of touches. 

He shits, pulls out of the hug but keeps an arm firmly around her, leading her away on a leisurely stroll through court. “I have come to talk to you about something very important, Maeve.” He says, voice light yet somehow implying the seriousness of his coming request. “To ask you to do something –– I feel I can trust only you in this instance.” He says it, because he knows that’s what she wants above all else. To be held in such high esteem, to be trusted above all others for some reason or another. To be special. Special to him.

Perhaps he holds too much sway over her and those like her, perhaps he ought to set them free and tell them to find their adoration and love elsewhere. But he never will. “I know you are a willing servant, little dove. But I need you to be my the most loyal, to be quick and cunning and extremely brave. Can I trust you to do that, darling?” 

[princebrin]

the seelie court / june 22nd / @maehvc​

He’s been neglecting her, just a little bit. With everything that’s going on, with the killing and the intrigue and courtly politics taking up his days, with Cian on top of all of it. He hasn’t had much time for the smaller things in life, for steadfast loving little flowers like Maeve. 

He almost hadn’t noticed, until Midsummer. Oh, he’d seen her then, smiling for Sorcha so sweetly. Brín is a jealous soul, it comes as a second nature to him. He’s possessive, furiously so. He likes his things to stay in line, to stay close by, to reserve their truest love for him. He doesn’t like them to run off to rival leaders at a moments notice. 

The very thought of Maeve surrounded by the Unseelie Court’s monsters makes him flare with anger, but he soothes himself and forces himself to think more calmly. Sorcha will do anything she can to rile him up, to make him in to the petty little boy she sees him as. He can’t give in to the jealousy, no matter how much he wants to. What he can do is find a way to use this to his own advantage. 

He approaches Maeve in her element. The depths of the seelie court, lush and green and verdant in the warmth of the summer. He wraps his arms around her in a greeting, a warm embrace. 

     “There you are, little bird.” He sighs out. “I’ve been looking for you.”

[princebrin]

( the darlington estate, june 24th, late afternoon ) @ciancallaghan​

The old house is in good enough shape, though even protected by the glory of the Otherworld, Brín can feel the weight of time sitting heavy on it’s foundations. If he’d let it be claimed by the human realm, it would probably be gone by now –– taken by a fire, turned into a shadow of itself, a museum for tourists to sully with their grassy footprints and grubby fingers. 

The Otherworld has kept it better than humanity would have. The grounds have been reclaimed by nature, shrouded in the veil of wonder and magic inherent in the land. There’s a feeling of the wilderness in the air, though the house stands tall. Brín holds enough sway over nature to have kept it clean. 

He’s come here hundreds of times, over hundreds of years. This was a place that he called home, after all. It lives in his heart, something pulling him until he thinks of a man now six feet under ground, there in the wilds. It feels different, with Cian beside him. He doesn’t know why he asked for their help today, why he talked around the subject until Cian agreed and took his hand, coming with him all this way. He’d needed help clearing it up, for these terrified souls to move in and begin to call it home. It was true enough, he needed help, he hadn’t lied.

Still, maybe the true reason had more to do with not being able to face it without Cian beside him. To wipe away the dust and any remnant of his life here, seemed like admitting some kind of defeat to the sands of time. He’d needed something to anchor him in the day, in new blooming love and the beautiful reality of the life in Cian’s chest. 

They wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t have to put them under the ground like he had with Matthew Darlington. Like he had with so many of their fallen brothers and sisters, fair folk cut down so long before their time, after such a short span of their usually long lives. They all haunted him now, a litany of people who he’d failed. Failed as a lover, failed as a Prince. All he can do is try to keep a smile on his face, while Cian is looking, to direct them with a gentle voice about what needed to be done. Furniture uncovered from the etherial white fabric covering their surfaces, old wooden crates unpacked to add old creature comforts back into the home. Others would bring what they needed to live a comfortable life here, until the fight was done. 

The house would become a sanctuary, and maybe that would be nice. So he guides Cian through the expanse of the front door, something grand and beautiful and dreamed up hundreds of years ago. History, alive forever. He can distinctly remember that this house was the first feat of human engineering that he’d ever learned to love. The old wood crafted into the beautiful doors, the grand staircase and creaky boards that haunted his memories so fondly. It’s an old love affair, it’s why he’s still here in this world and why he never disappeared under hill with the rest of his family. He keeps a hand on the small of Cian’s back as they step under the entrance, aching at the idea of letting go.

     “She’ll do, won’t she?” He asks, voice a little too quiet. He clears his throat at the sound of it, carries on. Though it hurts him somewhere deep inside, he does pull away from them, reaches out to pet at a wall. The rich blue wallpaper over the dark wood, trying to sound less attached than he is. “The old girl is holding up well enough. Persistent little bugger. Should be safer than the hotel, don’t you think?” 

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

They laugh, at the last comment—Brín knows full well that if he’s around, Cian won’t work. He’s only one in a list of things that’s been distracting Cian from completing their dissertation the past few months, but he’s really a rather large one of those things, needy and lovely and restless in all the worst ways, all the best ways. He’ll say something like but petal, it’s so sunny outside, wouldn’t you rather be out there? Or, but petal, you look so tired, we should go get you a coffee and a little walk around the block, and next thing Cian knows, the day will be over and they’ll have gotten nothing done once again. He means well, he does, but they’re too far gone already.

     ‘You are, historically, very quiet,’ they joke as they emerge from the bathroom, grabbing the clothes he’s picked out and starting to tug them on. A soft v-neck, their favorite jeans. They’re going to have to do laundry, this week, they think distantly, to wear their summer-going-out-outfit again next weekend, but it already feels like such a faraway prospect, the mundanity of something like laundry, with Brín standing there. The kind of thought that worries them, when they have it, a reminder of how easy it would be to stop thinking at all and leave it all behind.

But there are things they don’t want to let go of. There are so many things they don’t want to lose.

     ‘Hey,’ they say, the thought occurring to them all at once. ‘Since I’m goin to your party, you should come with me. Afric and me, next weekend. Our mate Liam’s having a birthday party. Drinks and things.’ Silly human party, so different from the kinds of things Brín is used to. They don’t know what they expect him to say, in answer, once they’ve asked it, but they find themself holding their breath as they wait. 

Brín smiles at the joke, the mild jab at his own expense. It’s true enough, he hasn’t quite managed to make himself small and quiet and unassuming, hasn’t curbed the desperate need to swallow up every moment of their time. Sometimes, he thinks he would like to. To find a small place and tuck himself away there, be something small for Cian to keep. It’s a funny thought, and he knows he could probably never manage it. “Well, I do my best, petal.” 

It’s impossible not to watch with rapt attention as Cian dresses, the thoughtful little wrinkles on their face as they pull on their clothes. He wants to move, to close the distance between them and touch Cian in this bright morning light, press more kisses to the soft and slightly stubbled skin of their face. They’d be doomed, then, to spend the entire day in bed. He can’t allow himself to do it, but he entertains the thought none the less, lets himself get lost in it and lulled into some semblance of peace. Small indeed. Perhaps he might find happiness in a life where he wasn’t a Prince, a leader. Cian could keep him tucked away here and pull him out when they wanted, for whatever gentle purpose they concocted. 

Their voice pulls him out of the thoughts, and his eyes focus properly on them again. It takes a moment to fully comprehend what Cian is asking, and once he’s caught up he smiles. Caught off guard, it must brighten up his face more than anything else has managed today. “A party? Hoping to show me off, eh?” He teases, slow and quiet. Imagining it is a sweet thing. Cian in their element, surrounded by human friends at a human party. Drinks and things. He unfolds himself from where he’s been standing, clasps his hands together in light amusement as he ponders it. “I’ll go. ‘Tis only fair. They’ll all be astounded and delighted by me, as per usual, I’m sure.” 

Brín holds out a hand, unclasped, a gentle offering. This is a new phenomenon, but he rarely wants to go anywhere now without holding their hand. Awful and sentimental, like a lovestruck fool. “Come along, petal. The sooner we go the sooner you can come home again.”

[tvsource-archive]

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

He can’t lie. Neither of them can. But Cian still finds it hard to believe that he can actually promise that it won’t be as bad as they think. Not that Brín has broken a promise to them before, but the phrase seems like it should come with a hefty bit more weight coming from him that it might have coming from one of Cian’s past significant others promising them they wouldn’t be miserable at a party they didn’t want to go to.

They can feel it, as he kisses them, can feel that if they pushed a little harder he might give in. But they don’t have the heart to follow through—he’s right, he ought to be there. He’s kept his promises to Cian so far. The least they can do is not get in his way. 

     ‘Yeah, sure,’ they say, thought they don’t foresee a situation in which they decide they want to go and Brín tears himself from the lavish attention of his court just to tag along home with them. 

They pull away, finally, to get up, head into the adjoining bathroom to brush their teeth, try to make themself presentable. The state of the bathroom that meets them is dire, a stark reflection of what life has been for them the past few weeks, alternating periods of days where they can’t bring themself to get out of bed and days when all they want to do is desperately search out distractions, ending up and Loophole night after night and tugging Brín home along with them. The bathroom is a mess, but Cian’s sure the state of their degree is all the messier.

     ‘I can’t stay for long, okay?’ they call back into the bedroom, after a moment. ‘I should try to get some work done, later.’ Unlikely, but at least they can pretend they’re really trying, that they’re dedicating even an ounce of emotional energy to the thing that had been their entire life up until a few months ago. 

It’s a stupidly prominent ache, the lack fo their touch. Nothing to do but get up and move, start rummaging through their things for something they can wear to the party. A new anxiety is creeping in, something always at the edges of Bríns mind. The fear that he’s failing. The fear that he isn’t doing everything he should, too distracted, too scared, too sad. There are whispers of it, he knows. He can feel them on his skin, the doubts that seek to scratch and claw and take away all that he holds dear. 

Cian is a balm. Their touch, their eyes, their mundane life. He cares for them too deeply, is soothed too well by their very presence. He feels bad, asking them to come when he knows they’d rather stay away. But he might crumble if he can’t look across the crowd and find their eyes. He needs the certainty of that. 

“Okay.” He calls back, certain and sure. “Whenever you like, really.” His fingers stop on a shirt, one he knows Cian looks rather dashing in. He plucks it out of the pile, sets it on the bed with the rest of the things he’d gathered. Things that Cian finds comfortable, that they would pick out for themself, things he’s seen them wear to loophole. 

He moves then, to lean against the bathroom door and look at them. “I know how important your work is, really.” He offers them a smile, sweet and slow. “I’ll even watch you work on it for as many hours as you like, tomorrow. Be quiet as a mouse and all.” 

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

They operate on different clocks, Brín and Cian, different scales of time entirely. Cian had never, before, been one to mark the passage of time by the solstice and equinox, too busy keeping track of when the next Saturday was to think on grander scales than that, and early didn’t mean sunrise, it meant the nine am alarm they had set for every morning to make sure they got out of bed and went to the library on campus to pretend to get some work done, or teach their class, or see their advisor, or whatever other little errands they had to take care of.

They know it’s important, for him. They know he has responsibilities of a kind far different to their own. Especially with everything that’s happening. Their chest aches, for a moment, with guilt, that they have been thinking of their own petty problems above his, but it doesn’t stop the want, or the fear, or the tightness in their throat to feel it. 

He wants them there, but what he doesn’t realize is that he’s the only one who has made them a promise: if they could stay at his side the whole time they wouldn’t have to worry about being pulled into everything like a drowning man pulled down by the current. But Brín will get distracted and flutter off to go be adored and there will be a whole host of eager fae there just waiting to see how thin Cian’s skin really is.

They give themself a moment, eyes closed, face pressed against the side of Brín’s head, a moment to indulge every selfish urge they’ve ever had and every anxious thought they’ve been trying to ignore. Just a moment.

     ‘Can you find some clothes while I brush my teeth?’ they mumble, against his skin, finally giving in.

It’s an alien thing, to feel a little guilty about getting what he wants. Cian by his side, out there behind the veil. It’s been something Brín has wanted for weeks, since the first night he saw them. That spark, that curiosity, that connection. He didn’t know it would make him feel like this in the end, like someone had the power to unfold every layer and look into the soul of him. 

He pulls back at the sound of their voice, touches their precious cheeks and giving them the gentlest smile. “Yes. I can do that.” He agrees, and after a moment adds on to it. “Thank you.” He says it quietly, an honest and lovely thing. “I promise, it won’t be as bad as you think.” 

Brín leans forward, then, indulging in another moment of quiet peace. He kisses Cian again, lingering and sweet. Curls fingers into their hair and finds himself wanting. Wishing he could give in. Since when is Brín a person who would trade a party for a day held in someone else’s arms? Maybe he always has been. He’d done it before, after all, when the world needed him less. Wasted years and years being held by someone.

It’s terrifying to think he might be willing to do it again. Love on the horizon, building inside him like a parasite. He kisses them too gently, knows it must be telling. Someday, Cian Callaghan is going to see right through him and tear him apart. When he pulls away, it hardly counts as movement. Another little peck to the corner of their mouth, a kiss to their cheek. Tender and open.

“You can go whenever you want. Just tell me when you want to, okay?” He says it as he finally shifts backward, fingers grazing over their cheek again. 

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

It comes back to them as he says it—he mentioned, last night, and several times in the days leading up to now, to solstice celebration the Unseelie Queen would be holding, had said it with that little pout of his like he was put out someone else would be even more of the center of attention than him. It had been endearing, four days ago when Cian could stifle a gentle laugh and promise him he’d still be the life of the party. But now it was… something else. Daunting, a little. They find themself suddenly gripped with a strange feeling of dread, like they’re afraid of something they’re still too close to asleep to actually place. 

     ‘Solstice already?’ they say, buying themself a little time to wipe the sleep from their eyes, pull their hair out of their face, get themself upright so they can lean over to kiss him. 

It isn’t calculated, the kiss; it’s second nature. But once they’ve done it, something presents itself, to ease that feeling of dread, and they kiss him again, hand moving from their own hair to cup his face, to drift down his neck to the collar of his stolen t-shirt, then down his arm, gently tugging him towards them.

     ‘It’s so early, though,’ they say, their voice heavy with implication. Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t make me go with you. ‘Aren’t you meant to be fashionably late or something?’

Brín can’t help but smile. He’s been doing it so often lately, a real smile. Disarmed and out of his own control, smiling because he feels something so achingly soft that he has to smile about it. It all feels too precious for this world, too good to last. Cian is going to think better of this soon and leave him. They’re such a smart little thing, so desperately clever. Brín should have higher self esteem than this, but Cian still might up and leave at the end of the day. 

He lets out a soft hum. “Solstice already. Snuck up on you, did it?” Voice too gentle, already petering off as Cian leans forward and Brín moves to meet them in the gentle, sleep sweet kiss. it’s hard not to melt into it, just a little bit, the kiss and the touch of their hands, things that Brín seems to be aching for at every moment of the day. 

He’s getting rather too attached, and he can’t bring himself to pull away from it. Brín moves closer instead, and when the kiss breaks settles his head down with an amused huff, pressing a messy kiss to Cian’s shoulder. 

“I’m already fashionably late, love. The sun rose hours ago.” It’s his prerogative as a Prince to arrive whenever he pleases, but it’s going to boarder on unspeakably rude at a certain point. Brín can sense the reluctance in them, and it catches in his throat. He moves a gentle hand through their hair, nuzzles closer for a moment. “It’s important that I go.” 

And then, with hesitation. “You don’t have to come with me, if you’d rather stay here.” He regrets it the moment he says it, afraid that Cian will actually agree. “But I’d like it rather a lot if you did.” 

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

     time: morning, june 21      place: cian’s apartment           ( @princebrin​ ) 

It’s rare, on the days when they wakes up with Brín in their bed, that they aren’t the first one to finally roll over, disentangle themself from the sheets, and start their day—if, for nothing else, the desperate need to rid themself of morning breath, a problem that the prince of the seelie court somehow never seems to need to address. This morning, it’s warm, in their room, a rarity, warm and bright, sun filtering in through the little window across the room. They feel sun-soaked and lazy already. It’s the kind of morning where they want to grab a book from their bedside table and lay there for a few hours reading instead of getting up, and then maybe head for coffee somewhere nice much closer to lunchtime.

But when they find themself, for about the fourth time since the sun starting to rise woke them up a few hours before, stirring from the lazy doze of half-sleep, Brín is already getting out of bed. 

They watch him, for a moment, before finally sitting up—watch the long, languid, fluid motion of his body as he stands and stretches, watches the effortless grace with which his limbs carve through the air, and if they’re a little overly poetic about it all, well, they blame the whole being-half-asleep bit for it, and every movement Brín makes sometimes is a reminder of the distance there still is between him and them, between what he is and what they want to be.

      ‘Morning,’ they sigh, reluctant, when they finally do sit up. ‘Going somewhere?’

There’s a comfort in the chance to be languid and slow, mornings wasted here in one of those horrible human apartment buildings, pressed close to Cian and lazy with the enjoyment of it. Nine days out of ten, Brín never wants to leave, never wants to face reality or responsibility. Nine days out of ten, he just wants to keep humouring Cian in the delusion that everything can just be normal, that they can be normal together. 

Part of him wants it this morning, as well. Oh, just to gaze at that lovely face until Cian wakes up. Oh, to stay burrowed beneath the sheets and lavish Cian with attention all day long. It would be nice to just kiss them. It would be nice to do a lot of things with them, safe and away from prying eyes. Safe and clueless together. 

But Brín is a Prince. He doesn’t always have the luxury. 

So he pulls himself up, stretches and tries to talk himself in to being truly excited for the day. To wash away the lingering pettiness he feels. Midsummer is a day he looks forward to all year long. Part of him feels like the Unseelie Queen has stolen it from him, like she’s doing this in some petty attempt to take away something that he loves. But it doesn’t do to linger on the pettiness during an attempt to make peace. No, he’ll play as nicely as he can today. 

With a dreamy sigh he moves to dress, a sentimental part of himself still wanting to be wrapped in Cian all day long. That’s what makes him reach for one of their shirts, well worn and at the point of being useless, to put that on instead of anything he owns himself. 

A smile slips on to his face, unbidden, at the sound of their voice. Turning to gaze at them, ducking down to press a sweet kiss to their forehead. Allowing himself the indulgence, he shifts to perch himself at the edge of Cian’s bed, tilt himself toward their body. 

“It’s the solstice, petal. I have to go to the celebrations.” 

[princebrin]

time: early evening location: near the stone circle      ( @iona-fallon​ ) 

“Iona!” A rush of breath, a voice that sounds so genuinely happy it almost surprises him. He hasn’t been exactly taking it easy here, covered in the glorious midsummer sun. Oh, it’s one of his favourite days. It may have been sullied by the touch of unseelie hands, but the summer would always belong to him. He was the one meant to be shining under the light here, he was the one meant to be glorious above all else. And...okay, maybe he was a little too into it. 

Seeing Iona is a little thrill of joy in his heart. A faithful companion, a beautiful thing that has made him smile and lavished him with attention time and time again. He’s afraid he’s been neglecting them, recently. With the coming fight, with the terrible fear, with Cian swallowing up day after day. Still, now he rushes to their side, pulls them in with a twirl and a grin. “You’re here. Thank the gods. I’m surrounded by terrible bores, Iona, darling. You’re the only one who can save me from them.” A sweet kiss, pressed to their cheek. 

“Do you have a drink? Are you having a splendid time? Come, drink with me.” And because his hands are empty, he shifts his gaze around, landing on one of the others around them. “You.” A point of his finger, a beautiful smile. “Go bring the wine, now.” 

[hargreevesklaus]

klaus and the 2020 mood

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

They’re already brushing their teeth by the time he finally pulls himself up enough to speak, and so their mouth is full of toothpaste by the time they try to answer, a mumbled attempt at a retort that gets lost amidst the foam. They take a second, holding up a hand to ask him to wait, and spit out the toothpaste, rinse their mouth out so they can actually hold a conversation. 

     “It’s my class,” they repeat, mouth empty this time, toothbrush at their side as they lean around the adjoining door. “I do know it all already. I’m teaching the class.”

Whatever Brín is, whatever this is, Cian distinctly remembers a promise last night, a promise that they’re not going to have to change anything they don’t want to. And the PhD they’ve been working towards for years– way longer than it should have taken, really– has already been falling to the wayside the past few weeks in a way they don’t like. They like teaching class; usually, they like getting up early and getting to campus in time for it. Brín can lounge around here all day if he really doesn’t want to get up, but Cian’s not making any sacrifices for him right now.

     “You can come, if you want. Sit in, take me out for lunch after, make fun of everything I say. Loved your lecture, petal, but one thing you got wrong, actually, about the way the Courts work, in that one example…”

They laugh, to make sure he knows that they’re joking. That they’re not standing here, toothpaste foam on their chin, messy-haired, half-dressed, asking him to take them on a lunch date. 

He can’t help the smile, warm and fond. Cian is just an endearing thing –– all bumbling, all lanky limbs, and Brín never imagined that he’d be so thrilled to watch someone spit into a sink. With an arched eyebrow he listens to their words, smile growing a little wider. 

     “I stand corrected, petal. You’ll have to forgive me for underestimating the importance of the day.” A grin, a hand over his heart in sincerity, but a voice light and joking. He has to admit, the rambling and joking is something that warms him from the inside out. He would trade a thousand parties or a couple of more mornings like this, Cian Callaghan in the thin light flittering in through the window. 

The laugh is a delightful thing, and Brín finds himself chuckling along. He pushes himself up to cross the room, to reach a hand out and wipe away the smudge of foam on their chin. They look a mess, and Brín wants to kiss them until they forget about every responsibility they might have in the silly human world. He makes a soft, thoughtful sound. “I do like to be right about things, and watching you teach could be fun.” Tone still light, but he really is loathe to seperate from this fool today. “And making fun of you, thats delightful as well.” 

With a warm grin, he reaches forward, presses a soft and quick kiss to their lips, taking in the artificial mint scent of the toothpaste. “Very well, you can go to your class. And I’ll watch, so we’ll both have fun. Go finish cleaning up, I shan’t distract you.” 

[princebrin]

ciancallaghan‌:

It’s harder than it should be to extract themself from Brín’s limbs and recover their phone from the floor, and they can hear the pout in his voice, even through the muffled sound of sleepiness. 

     “It’s–” they fumble the phone in their hand, turning the alarm off so they can see the time illuminated behind it, and then groan a little. They should have set an earlier alarm the night before, but clearly they’d been a bit distracted. “Half nine. Shit. I’ve got to be in for class by ten fifteen.”

They scramble out of bed, shuffling through their clothes for something clean and easy, jeans and a jumper to throw on. They’d like to shower but, well, coffee seems more imperative, and they’re hungry and not entirely sure there’s anything other than cereal in the kitchen. They’ll have to splash some water on their face, put on some deodorant, and call that good enough. 

     “Sorry, you’ll have to–” they start talking as they move into the adjacent bathroom, grabbing their toothbrush out of its cup on the counter, “–get up, I’ve got to get going soon.” 

The pout is firmly fixed as he watches Cian go on their little journey. Poor little thing, stuck with things like classes and university to worry about. And poor Brín, seemingly second best to some boring man that wants to lecture Cian for an hour or two. 

     “Class? How dull.” He says, as he rolls over on the bed to get a better look at Cian, to keep his eyes on them as they move. “Can’t you miss it? Don’t you know it all already? You’re very intelligent, petal.” 

It’s all true. Cian is obviously so smart, sharp as a pin. It’s one of the things Brín likes the most about them, along with the pretty face and the pretty hair. He doesn’t think they really will miss their class, but it doesn’t hurt to try. 

     “You could at least stay here with me for a minute. Or give me a kiss.”