Author's Notes: It really hasn’t been that long since I posted the original version of this story, but already I feel it merits revision - although, I’ve got to admit, I thought it merited revision when I posted it the first time, which was pretty silly on my part.

The chapter of Fullness to follow uses prose from the original chapter, but cleaned up, moved around, and severely temporally-reworked. Large sections have been deleted entirely for lack of their needing to be there at this point in the story. When I wrote the original story, I was not expecting to continue the character development much beyond those seven thousand words. Three months later, I am a wiser writer. What you get out of my stronger writing is a chapter that is shorter, but which makes more sense and will allow me to develop the characters.

I could go on for a page about the way I think Prydwen would best be developed, but that page would be better put toward the story itself. This chapter is still quite flawed, of course, but the editing has made it flow better, even though there’s no kissing in this version (I’m not sorry at all about that, however).

Other notes? Prydwen’s way of speaking is not meant to be super-polished - his grammar is intentional. ‘Cian’ is pronounced ‘Shaun’. I feel no guilt whatsoever in messing with timelines, so there will be flashbacks aplenty. If you get time-sick, please leave immediately! I am henceforth no longer responsible for you throwing up on your computer monitor.

Oh, I forgot the obligatory warnings. Here: this story will involve male-male situations. There are also swords, bruises, bad words and allusions to abuse. There is also homophobia. Finally, although I am trying to move this into a more meaningful story-type, it is, at the core, angsty fluff. Well, read it and see what you think, I can’t genrefy it for you.

anonymne

Afternoon: classes all finished up, the day winding down, but not really for tutor and tutee. The student was waiting, and the teacher still out of earshot, so the former had time. Routine: tie up too-long hair (always he got scolded for it, but small luxuries were something afforded to the part-time swordsman that are rarely available to the full-time one); warm up the muscles a bit to loosen them before spending three hours getting kicked around a practice room; cast little healing magics to soothe the pain of day-before-last’s bruises.

Cast in his practice schedule as clearly as basics drills, these few minutes were all that were required to make him feel ready for anything - although, he never quite felt ready for Prydwen, strong and bullish, all shoulders and thighs, like a coiled spring ready to burst head-on.

The gate opened and made a crashing noise as it closed. Cian could see the effects of the impact of door swinging against metal grate even with his back to the door and his left leg raised, foot on his side’s bench, for a greave to be fastened - the chain-link shook in front of him, rattling a little as it did.

Crouched as he was with his back to the entrance, he half-waved at Prydwen (tutor, one year his senior, and imposing as anything) over his shoulder before using the hand to scrape more hair tight into his fist.

Prydwen smile-smirked fondly, always the older one. “You should cut it all off,” he said quickly, gently setting his sword-belt on the bench opposite Cian's, beginning the careful task of adjusting the practice armour he’d already loosely fitted to his body. “Better you do it yourself than lose it to some brigand interested in keepin’ it for his collection of pretty girl-hair.”

Cian chuckled a little, pushing away from the bench to stand, grabbing the tie from his mouth, fastening the tail, and somehow leaving a bun on his head with just a flash of the wrist. “You calling me a girl, Prydwen?” He smiled, reaching to adjust a leather bracer. “I thought we’d got past that stage already.”

“’Stage’?” asked Prydwen, looking a little amused-surprised. He was fixing his greaves with the care of a bird to its nest. “It’s not a ‘stage’ if you’ll always look pretty like a girl. It’s not a stage, it’s a way of being.”

“Hmm” was all Cian had to offer as a comeback as he walked to the middle of the room, making the last adjustment to his palm-cover. “Speaking of states of being, you shouldn’t always take so long, Sir Ever-Slow.”

Prydwen finished after a minute, adjusting his sword-belt carefully, turning to face Cian only once he’d ensured it was perfectly snug and balanced on his hip.

Then -

“Who gave you that?” asked Prydwen, his tone suddenly shifting, the pitch dropping, his hand pointing, his face serious, the eyes dark as though it was an accusation --

“What?” asked Cian, eyes wide. Always the innocent child.

“That,” muttered Prydwen, tossing the pointed finger up a little toward Cian's face.

“Please be more clear with me, Prydwen; neither of us have time to waste with guess-in-ten--”

A few quick strides over to his tall student (Prydwen had to put a hand on his shoulder to pull him down a little, to even the levels more), and he pointed to the black eye with a jabbing not-quite-touching finger. “That.”

There was a short pause as Cian stared big-eyed up Prydwen as though he had no idea. The lighter-brown-haired man didn’t move his pointing finger. “The black eye?”

Cian's eyes went bigger as though he’d had a revelation. “Oh, that. I dropped a graphite stick this morning and stood up against the corner of a table, it’s not something to go on about--”

“Cian,” Prydwen growled, annoyance in his tone, no amusement to be found. “I hate lying.” He released Cian's shoulder, let him stand, but didn’t let him go, standing back with crossed arms, waiting for an answer.

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Not very well,” muttered Prydwen, catching Cian's wrist and pulling the taller man to his side of the enclosure. He sat down, pointed insistently at the bench next to him. “Sit.”

Cian sat, quick as anything, obedient. “I wish you’d just leave it alone, it’s just a bruise, I’ll get worse from practicing with you anyway--”

“Quiet,” said the shorter man, and Cian was silent.

There was that familiar jar, full of greeny-yellow balm, and it was sharply cool and soothing on Cian's skin - he gasped as Prydwen’s fingers found the bruise, let his eyes close as the balm worked its plain herbal magic on the wound, taking the sting away as square-ended fingers rubbed gentle circles into the skin.

“What happened?” asked Prydwen, his voice quieter now, his tone soft. Cian adored that tone; Prydwen got it when they were close, when they were arguing and he wanted to fix things, when he was concerned. (It wasn’t as though Cian didn’t hear it often. It was simply that Prydwen wasn’t really so quiet in public, being of generally loud and boisterous quality.)

A thumb moved over his cheekbone, coaxing. Cian gasped a little again, more inwardly this time, surprised.

“You know what happened.”

“Cian,” murmured Prydwen, rubbing the thumb to the corner of his jaw. “Don’t be stubborn.”

Cian flicked his gaze away from Prydwen (who’d started getting fuzzy and warm around the edges) and looked down toward the place where the bench met the grating. “We had another fight.”

“You and Kerr, you mean,” said Prydwen again, soft, tilting his head, trying to meet Cian's eyes, which just flicked away to look in the opposite direction.

“Um. Yeah. Well, aside from you, who else would it be? Please, Prydwen...” Cian was a little frustrated, and looking a little tired. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it; it was in his tone. “This isn’t something I need to talk about, it’s the same as it’s been.”

“But you got to deal with it, you ass. You promised me,” murmured Prydwen, as Cian’s eyes flickered shut, as the thumb brushed up and the hand turned over on his cheek. Of course he sighed, soft and open-mouthed, pushing his cheek toward the warm back of Prydwen’s hand. The effect on his tutor was immediate and visible, Prydwen’s breath quickening, him leaning in a little closer, the tips of the fingers on his other hand barely resting on Cian’s knee--

--and Prydwen pulled away suddenly, holding his forearms up defensively, his back crashing against the grate as he semi-circled away, turning to look elsewhere, shutting his eyes. “There’s really no dealing with someone like him,” muttered Cian. “I can’t just kick him out of my life or anything.”

Prydwen’s touch was still gentle but it came in the form of a hand around his wrist. The pressure was reassuring but he didn’t turn back to face his tutor, knowing he wasn’t going to find comfort in his stare. “This isn’t an option. He’s causing you pain. You have to show him that I haven’t been teachin’ you for nothing. I always say it, Cian. The fact that there’ve been so many times you’ve come here already banged up is just as much reason.” A little sarcastically, “I hope you’ve learned from me, anyway.”

Cian half-grinned, resettling himself on the bench. “No, no, I’ve certainly learned from you, Prydwen,” he said, gentler as he went on, turning his face back toward the shorter man. “You’re definitely a good tutor.”

“The only way you learn, is if you use what they teach you in class,” Prydwen said, pride in his brief, knowing smile. There was a pause, and a return to seriousness. “You should use it, Cian. Brother or not, a beating would do’m good.”

Cian shook his head. “I’m not going to beat him. I can’t even beat you. He’s got a lifetime’s worth of experience and a top-of-class-ship on me, and I’ve got a dull leadweight.” (This was the rapier, cored with lead by the senior instructors who insisted two years was not enough time to train a mage to fight and thought weighting the thing would build muscle.) “Not to mention my share of bruises.”

“Got me, too,” murmured Prydwen with a smile, his grip moving to Cian's hand, squeezing it gently.

The smile was soft but the look was serious.

“I’m not forgetting,” whispered Cian, smiling also. “You’re too good a friend for that.”

There was a warm silence.

“Cian?” asked Theiis, putting his fork down slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’re joking, right? You mean Cian, the mage?”

Prydwen shook his head, the piece of bread sticking out of his mouth flopping a little. He pulled the excess off, ripping it with his teeth, talking as he chewed. “Not at all, no jokes. Can you believe it?”

“No, no, you don’t get it,” said Theiis, surprised. “No, he’s top of the class, genius, definitely. D’you know Kerr?”

“Tutored his class last year. This the same Kerr?”

“Second-in-class Kerr?”

Grunting in agreement, Prydwen chewed loudly, trying to grit down the excess anger on his food. “What ‘bout him?”

“Cian is Kerr’s twin brother, and--”

“Wait, how did the family that got out one of the best swordplay students the school’s seen produce a mage?” There was a dull tonk as Prydwen threw down his dry bread and thumped his elbows on the table so that he could express his confusion with his hands.

“Elbows off the table,” scolded Theiis first, swatting hands at Prydwen’s arms. Knowing there was no threat whatsoever, Prydwen just laughed the swatting off and took his time restoring his manners to himself. “Evidently he’s got to have the sword gene in him, if they want to start him on a catch-up schedule to get a mageknight out of him. How long has it been since we’ve had a mageknight graduate?”

Thirty years, thought Prydwen, and that one got himself torched five years in because he couldn’t decide on a fireball or a bullrush in time. But a force to be reckoned with nonetheless.

“Shut up,” Prydwen muttered bitterly, grabbing a fork and poking at his food. “Just-- a mage. Bet I’ll have no challenge at all, him just flopping over and gasping fishylike if I touch him. Brother or no brother to Kerr, ‘naturally talented’ shit aside, it’ll be like trainin’ my little baby cousin. Wah-wah, cry this or that, one nick and he’ll be wanting to cast a shield on himself.”

Theiis shook his head, too-long scholar’s hair falling in his face as he looked down at the table to think harder.“He’s actually extremely reasonable, Prydwen. From what I hear he was sick as a kid and came out with a touch of asthma, but I’ve never seen any mage, much less Cian, collapse of exhaustion in battle - you’re being unreasonable now, my friend...”

“Asthma? No,” Prydwen put down his fork, the potatoes abandoned in his frustration and disappointment. He let go an angry breath. “I was kiddin’, is all, and it’s all true. Just watch, Theiis-- me stuck with some stuck-up blue blood genius mage swordgifted thing, beat by not-being-able-to-catch-his-own-breath. And if he’s anywhere as assish as his brother is--”

“No,” interrupted Theiis, almost-gold eyes widening further over the rims of his glasses. He was shaking his head, serious. “No, not at all.” He shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head still. “Oh, God, Prydwen, shut up about this whole mage thing, the asthma thing. You have no clue, and-- look, you can’t even compare him to Kerr, even. They’re so different. Cian is everything Kerr isn’t-- I’m being honest, don’t look at me like that. He’s really gentle and brilliant and a great conversation - he never interrupts, not like Kerr does--”

“And ugly as sin? Kerr’s got that pretty face, so if they’re opposites--”

Theiis was shaking his head violently. “Uh-uh. No, no, Cian is beautiful. The most beautiful. Oh, God...” he whispered, shutting his eyes. “He sat for us in my art class, once. I could hardly draw, I couldn’t stop staring at him. He’s got this amazing-- I mean, Prydwen, I think of that face every time I think of beauty; he’s the most beautiful person you could hope to teach, I am not even kidding--”

“I really think you are.”

“Not when it comes to Cian Fionain, Prydwen,” Theiis said quietly, looking down at his food, picking up his fork again. His face was redder than Prydwen had seen it-- well, no, he’d seen it very red that one night they’d gone drinking with the seniors the year before. “Never.” He stabbed a carrot and put it into his mouth, staring thoughtfully down into a mix of butter and potato on his plate.

“You’re serious?” Prydwen laughed, surprised. “Theiis, you’ve got to be careful,” he said, leaning down, close to the table, speaking quietly with a cheeky smile on his face. “You talk like that, talking about beauty and me shutting up and Cian and you’ll have people thinking you-- you know--”

Theiis looked up, his eyes serious, the glint in them hinting at a glare.

“You-- you know-- you --” Prydwen slowed down and stopped at the sight of that glint, shocked now, more than surprised. “Oh. Um.” But it was too late, and he was already laughing into his food, looking down at it with a hand in front of his mouth like it could hope to shield the fact that he found Theiis’ position amusing.

Theiis, conversely, frowned angrily. “I knew you’d laugh. God damn, Prydwen--” he stopped to stab another carrot-- “--you have to grow up. Same with the rest of this country, same with the rest of the world.”

Prydwen laughed out loud. “Come on, Theiis, don’t get your hilts locked, be serious-- you can’t be attracted to a man, not like that, not findin’ him beautiful and artistic or anything. It don’t happen--” and he stabbed one of his own carrots-- “--and never twixt a noble and a commoner.”

“He’s not like that,” Theiis whispered, putting his fork down, pushing his plate to the side, resting his forehead on his hands. “I wish you’d get out of your head all this shit. He doesn’t care. Not like you do, you fucking...”

Prydwen raised his eyebrows expectantly, braced for whatever insult Theiis was scraping around to find.

“...you know, you’re an elitist, that’s what you are. You’re so preoccupied with prestige and class and sword-superiority and ‘how things should be’-- wait ‘til you meet Cian, then your whole perception will come crumbling around your feet. He’ll change you even if I can’t.”

“That’s stupid, Theiis,” said Prydwen, laughing. “One person can’t change the whole world for you, only big things.”

“Well, then,” whispered Theiis, “there’s no hope for you, is there?” He let his hands drop to the table and clasped them in front of him. “He changed me, he can change you, too, clear away some of the dirt that’s clouding your mind and messing with your world.”

“Oh, God, don’t remind me. Teaching some snot-nosed pretty kid-- pretty and who turns good men deviant? Are you kidding? I don’t want to go near that kind of thing, all men with men...”

Theiis said nothing, just stared at his hands. “Well then,” he whispered, “you obviously don’t want to go near me either.”

Prydwen made a face and shook his head. “No. Well, I know you, you’re not really like that. I know you well and even if you were deviant, I’m sure it wouldn’t make a difference-- not like you’re asking me to sleep with you, right--”

Theiis frowned again, this time with more anger and contempt than before. “That’s actually disgusting, Prydwen,” he whispered. “You’re stunning. I used to think you were really interesting and fun, and now here you are, talking like this about someone you’ve never even had the honour of meeting. Talking as though my liking men makes me a whore, as though it makes Cian and me low, or something. ‘I don’t want to go near that’? That’s the dirtiest thing I’ve ever heard out of you.” He stood, shaking his head, picking up his books, not looking at Prydwen, still staring down at his hands.

Prydwen frowned, chewing on another vegetable. “What’re you doing?” he asked, shaking his head, surprised. “You can’t leave, you haven’t finished your food.”

“I can leave,” Theiis said, “and I can hope Cian does change you, because I won’t be around to do that for you.”

And with that, he left, walking quickly from the meal hall.