i let the voices take over. bon appetit
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Dunk understands very little of company etiquette, this much he's well aware and reminded about on the daily.
He envisions himself tangent to the party that celebrates the tying of the cold business seasons, extensively hears about it for a period of two gaping months and out of multiple tormented mouths—and Kiera, who appears exponentially elated and calls Maekar about flower arrangements twice a day, thrice if he steps on a crack—and finally receives a sealed invite.
It's a letter, which Arlan would've opened with a knife, skimmed through and promptly doomed to the dustbin, and it bears a bright red wax seal, Dunk's full name and address in the elegant cursive Baelor spent incredibly little effort on honing some twenty years ago or was perhaps born with.
He still slashes the fine paper with a jagged blade that makes a mess on his rug, rolls his eyes because Baelor couldn't bring his pride to physically type this on a computer, Gods, Dear Duncan, you are cordially invited to our official annual celebration, something about dress and conduct code, a full paragraph of reasons why Egg and Rhaegel need him to be present and never leave their side and lastly, a few unassuming lines of formalities from the rest: I, for one, would take much pleasure in seeing you in a suit. I look forward to the moment you will notice my need for pause and ask to take a walk outside.
Then he's on his knees in his attic, straining to haul boxes out of the pile he hasn't touched since moving in to find the right one, and he finds it with a huff and rips the tape and fishes a cream-white suit from his father's past and tries it on and it sure doesn't fit as it should but he could work around it. Could wear the jacket during the pleasantries and discard it as quickly as possible so that whoever stares at his shoulders for too long doesn't notice the seams squealing.
What he comes to realize once he gets to the venue, shares the elevator with four other people that visibly pre-gamed and is met with Egg's soda-induced sugar rush is that , minors excluded, no Targaryen is allowed to just sit. There's always a hand to shake and a conversation to nurse, and Baelor is wearing black, like most of the target audience for this mis-en-scene, and he blends in like his brothers and uncles and every unoriginal man wearing pants and has no time to nod and tilt his chin to properly greet him.
They exchange a brief wave from the other side of the spruced up room, a sea of chatter between them, all chandeliers and slender mirrors and columns and drapes of rich red velvet and silver tassels. Baelor shrugs, resigned from the start, and Dunk shrugs back, his smile a wee thing with feathers, and Baelor gets back to work.
Of course, it's Rhaegel who mentions the ill-fitting suit first, although he uses words pertaining to the semantic field of sexy and actually quite flattering, which eventually rush Dunk's blood to his cheeks. He swats the man away but Rhaegel's relentless, If I were my brother I'd parade you around like a trophy wife, which, bold of him to think that Baelor doesn't already do. He's simply smoother and subtle with it.
Rhaegel goes to pour Dunk a glass of wine that calls for every cell in his body to gulp down and immediately forget about the awful taste instead of spitting it on the nice embroidered tablecloth. While Rhaegel tires easily and goes to search for enrichment far from the brimming dance floor, Egg comes clean about the secret cave he's been building in their Minecraft server, I swear I wanted to see it done before telling you but I think a bot found me and it keeps setting fire to the bedroom, and Dunk asks, How many times has this happened, and Egg bows, admits, It's been a month, and Dunk sighs, Have you tried using a base that isn't wood? and Egg blinks.
He's on his phone, planning next steps and fully immersed before Dunk registers that he's about to actually get bored out of his socks. He's lost the second main reason for being here to a cave.
His head drops and soon he's hiding leonine yawns in his palms, sipping on sparkling water to wash away the wine and stealing finger food and sashimi out of his neighbors' abandoned plates. He doesn't want to be remembered as the one who ambushed the buffet until there was nothing left for the party's illustrious guests, so outsourcing it is.
He gets up after an hour, jacket still on, courtesy of Kiera taking the directional decision to dim the lights down to a comfortable purple hue, easy on the eyes. She says something about color theory and its effect of helping souls into letting loose and swaying their hips. Dunk cracks his ankles, thinks about tomorrow morning, jogging in the park, yes, he'll bring the dogs to the puppy bar and buy them a whipped cream cup to witness Thunder going bonkers over it.
"You look like you're having fun," Dunk hears the click clack of Baelor's shoes before he even stops in front of the chair he's awkwardly guarding.
"Oh, I'm dying of it," Dunk jokes, fixing his posture for the man. "Why, 's it time already?"
Baelor lets out a low chuckle, "You're in a mood."
He flexes his fingers, leaves his half-empty glass of champagne on the nearest table and fills his pockets with his hands.
"I'm not a party habitue per se," Dunk says, his smile fluttering.
"And yet here you are," Baelor pouts at the sudden song change, picks up its pace and taps the rhythm with a foot.
Dunk shakes his head, "Yeah, see, a high-and-mighty bloke said he fantasizes about me being his knight in shining armor or some other nonsense. I mean, how could I pass this opportunity up?"
"If you were true to your vows, it would surely paint you as the savior of a rather uneventful evening."
Baelor doesn't reply, instead beckons at the flock of tipsy associates and their plus ones indulging in their due uncoordinated shuffling. He notes, "I don't believe I've seen you dancing yet."
Dunk takes a step closer. It's been a while since he last got to enjoy Baelor's space without an e-mail stealing his attention or Maekar forcing himself in their bubble to "discuss business", which by this point must be code for (pardon Dunk's subconscious French) cockblockling.
"Why, do you want me to ask you first?" Baelor's consequent silence makes Dunk's mouth flatten. "You're outrageous," he says, and his arms raise instinctively to grab onto Baelor's.
Baelor, who's grown fond of being manhandled by the other man, responds with equal cheer: "I've been told, yes. I'm afraid I don't have much time before my brother flees Lyonel's grasp."
"And you set up a diversion to satisfy your urges, too," Dunk says. "Scandalous."
Baelor clicks his tongue to his palate, "Forgive a man for wanting to sate his own desires once every full moon," and then he notices. Traces Dunk's biceps where the fabric pulls and struggles and hisses. His lips curl up, the sweetest kind of recognition dawning on him, and his body loses all tension. "Ask me," he demands, low-toned.
He's never been shy, Duncan. Oblivious, yes, falling from the sky, that too, but he's never had trouble saying his piece to Baelor. If the latter were to employ the usage of a word such as shyness, he'd bind it to the shyness of trees. How they rustle softly, the mere lulling of sound, a vibration warmed by the sun and rendered weightless and vibrant by the winds. Duncan Pennytree will forever be a peaceful basking tree.
Dunk's stance settles. He scoffs, presses his thumbs over the inside of Baelor's elbows.
"Would his Grace mind a dance?"
Dunk squeezes his eyes shut. He meets Baelor under his ear and he doesn't have a seal for his invite nor paper to write it on, so he stamps a peck, no, the ghost of a kiss, on Baelor's neck. He whispers, "Would his Grace grant me the favor of dancing with me?"
"Okay," Baelor pulls him away by the obscenely tight shirt's collar. "Just one song, though," and before Dunk can comment on how impossible he is, they're rushing to the high tide of people crowding the floor, swinging left and right, and they're not slow-dancing, Kiera is bopping her head to Daryl Hall and John Oates and she's being held and Valarr is mouthing well, well, you, you make my dreams come true, and Baelor will cry the day they'll get married and dance to this song like they're doing now, and Dunk is holding him just the same and his suit may not fit but it's endearing and a testament to the man's heart.
Later, outside with their jackets off, assuaged by the night's breeze, Baelor leans on Dunk's shoulder and takes a breath.
"Old bones my ass," the laugh rumbling off Dunk seeps through Baelor's clothes and curls around his stomach. "You can move."
Baelor hums, "Never sustained the contrary."
Dunk presses a hand on the small of Baelor's back, pulling him in. "What're we doing after this?"
"Hopefully some more dancing."
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