Yes, the two men sat close together could not have been more different. Wen was nothing like Eivor had ever seen before. Well, other than at these summits but that had always been in passing. He was beautiful in a lot of ways. Soft like a woman and yet he held distinctly male features. Striking that perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Where Eivor came from that was not so common. Not so common at all. Yet this man walked that line effortlessly. He did not know what to make of it but he did know that he found an odd beauty in it. Eivor’s eyes flicked across Wen’s face, down his neck and chest, eyeing him down rather shamelessly. Sinning again, Eivor, and in a church no less. A smile pushed its way on to his face as he looked at the other man in the eye once more.
He sucked in a breath to answer the other but only let out a light, amused, hum as he answered himself. “When death itself does not frighten you, it takes a great deal to.” Eivor agreed. “Though, even if it were true and this- whatever they call it is a piece of their god, I would not fear eating it.” He went on. “After all if we can eat a piece of a god does that not make us gods ourselves?” He asked before leaning back against the pew. “What are you called then little bird? What would you have me call you?”
Countless advisors had told Wen that a strong prince must be able to hold eye contact, because to look away first was to betray your own uncertainty. That was well and good for princes like Zhao, or Xiamin, because they were strong. They felt strong. Wen did not. Eivor’s gaze raked shamelessly down Wen’s body, and when he looked back up Wen could not meet his eyes. The feeling in his belly was not one he could put words to, nor could he even tell whether it was good or bad.
“You should not look at me in such a way,” Wen scolded, consumed by a brief moment of boldness. Something about this strange, wild man awoke a fight or flight response, and princes did not flee. He knew how many regarded him: little brother, by blood or by reputation. A boy, just a soft silken slip of a thing, and it wasn’t who he wanted to be. He would be strong like Zhao, though perhaps with better judgement. He wanted to be the sort of man that could, at least, tell someone to point their eyes elsewhere.
There was no harm in looking, it was true, but Wen wasn’t a fool. He could see that those eyes, like penetrating ice, did not wander idly. And truthfully the attention was flattering, but it was also not appropriate. “My name is Wen, Prince of the Third Rank, and you should address me as such.” He would not usually be so prickly, and he certainly would not often dare to call rank, but it was clear that this man was not of noble birth, and his talk of becoming a god was unsettling.
