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kuthuhal · 22 days ago

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Stucky Recs: Pride Edition

So, the original plan was to do dystopias and apocalypses as the next theme. I actually started that post. It's sitting in my drafts. But then between work, moving, and other real-life stuff, I sort of ran out of days in May. Now it's mid-June. And since it is mid-June -- and since part of the whole point of these rec lists is the theming -- I thought I'd go for Pride recs instead.

We'll do dystopias in July.

I could have done a lot of different rules/qualifiers with this theming, but, for this time/post I went with, "actively has sexuality themes as a decently large plot point." I ended up with 12 fics.

Note: As part of my personal campaign to combat the persistent idea that every great fic in this fandom was written in 2015, I'm now marking recs of fics written post-2016 and recs of fics written post-Endgame.

Canon

🏳️‍🌈 Tin Soldiers | idrilka | Teen | 19,743 words

You know what's great? Fake pop culture, fake academia, and fake social media. This fic makes such good use of all of those things and is so smart about it. I love that this fic narratively sandwiches CA:TWS. So a large part of the point here is the public perception of Steve, and of SteveandBucky right before, during, and then after the events of CA:TWS, in a world where all of that is real. The way it's done is brilliant and feels so true and accurate to life. There is live tweeting and live reactions. There are news headlines. There's fandom culture and blogging. There are social media arguments. It's just so well done. There are a lot of fics that look, at least briefly, at the public perception/use of Steve's legend in some way, and a lot of them are fantastic. I'm just so especially of fond of this fic. There's a hyper-realism to it. Plus, it includes a scene of people live reacting to Steve spontaneously and bluntly coming out on CNN. It's some beautiful stuff.

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As Michelle Mbatha argues in The Anatomy of a Sidekick, “Barnes’ transition from a partner to a sidekick marks the point at which the relationship between Barnes and Rogers becomes that of a mentor and pupil, thus effectively prohibiting any potentially »unsavoury« readings of their partnership” (121). In this sort of dynamic, one which emphasizes the much more prominent age difference, there is, indeed, no place for any assumptions of queerness or any sort of code similar to that which permeated cinematographic works of the time, signifying penalizable, “forbidden” practices falling under the censorship guidelines (see also: The Celluloid Closet, 1995). Bucky, then, in taking his place as Captain America’s teenage sidekick, becomes figuratively castrated in order to appear effectively sexless and thus avoid any possibility of coding their relationship as queer.

Moreover, the insistence upon heteronormative and ultimately exclusionary interpretations of Rogers’ relationships with Barnes and Carter respectively, both in the comics and in biographical writings, comes from the need to reaffirm the image created by the American propaganda, which constructed Captain America to reflect the intrinsically jingoistic policies of the United States, to propagate the myth of American machismo and uphold the wholesome image of the American everyman at the same time.

🏳️‍🌈Let me be buried under your name | tempestaurora | Teen | 50,669 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Oh no. This one. So, sometimes, my notes on fics in my rec database have sensible things like comments about tropes or moments I definitely want to point out. Other times, well -- The notes on this one say, "DOG TAGS," and also, "OH GOD." Which is very helpful of me. To myself. But I will say more coherent words about it to all of you. I imagine that fics that have both wartime and post-TWS scenes are emotionally trying for us all, and this very painful, and very beautiful fic is certainly a good example of why. There is a heartbreaking quality to the wartime Bucky POV, the during Hydra captivity POV, and the post-TWS Bucky POV that has really stayed with me. Bucky's thought processes, and his descriptions of Steve at various points, especially, are so observant and vulnerable all at once. It's also all just -- Guttingly but wonderfully romantic.

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Maybe he’d read before the light died entirely. Steve had bought him a pulp novel at the market and Bucky had been working through it slowly, dragging out the story and making it last, to make the most of the pages. He’d likely read it three times over before trading it for something else, and even then he’d tell the story to himself – mythical, magical things he’d never even thought of existing; time travel and other worlds, aliens and laser guns and space ships, exploring the stars. His eyes fluttered shut, and he just listened to Steve’s breathing, to him drawing, to the birds outside the window. He’d more than once thought that he could live in this moment forever; that he’d be more than happy to live out the rest of his days just like this one, with Steve and a crummy apartment and a warm summer day. Screw marriage, kids, and a house in the suburbs – this was where Bucky pictured when he thought of home. This was what he’d be imagining on the cold nights in Europe. This was what he’d fight to come home to.

🏳️‍🌈We wear red so they don't see us bleed | unicornpoe | Teen | 2,161 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

This is the most beautifully tense little fic. A canon-divergent-before-canon-starts fic (I never know how to classify those. If it's AU, but Steve and Bucky still move in together by like, 1939-ish... is it fully AU? Like, yes because them as childhood friends is important, obviously, but also -- in the grand scheme of overall canon -- sort of no?) that has Steve and Bucky sitting in jail cell doing this dance of little cues about each other. This is all little words and gazes and touches; there is a conversation under a conversation in this fic. They're having this casual chat as strangers in jail, except they're also having this whole second secret dialogue underneath it where they're trying to make sure they speak each other's language. Also? I adore this characterization. I love it.

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Bucky stands up and crosses the cell in two long strides, draping himself in clean lines along the section of free bench next to Steve; he pulls one leg up beneath him and stretches the other out, so that their ankles almost touch. Turned toward Steve as Bucky is, he can watch fully the sharp, barely-there movement of Steve’s eyes flickering down to their legs, and then back up to the wall across from them. He doesn’t turn to Bucky. It’s mostly silent in here. There’s a faint murmur of voices somewhere down the hallway, the quiet, steady tick of a clock hidden from view, the various noises of the men locked up with them—but other than that, nothing. “Where’d a guy like you learn to throw a punch like that?” Bucky asks finally, when he’s spent too long staring at the delicate, fucked-up line of this man’s profile, spent too long raking his eyes over and over again down the line of his feather-soft lashes. The corner of Steve’s mouth ticks up, just slightly, just a little bit.

Shrunkyclunks

💗I just met you (and this is crazy) | littlesystems | Explicit | 41,784 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

This is one of those fics that surprised me with just how much I liked it. I certainly wasn't expecting to dislike it, but I was not expecting to love it so much, either. It's a joy, though, just a total feel-good joy. It's a fic that has Steve and Bucky pretty instantly head-over-heals for each other, something I never ever object to, and the instant attraction works so well here. I think, too, so much of what I love about this one, is that they make each other so happy in it -- like the two of them truly just get dumber and happier and more in love with every 100 or so words of this fic. So then I get happier and happier as I continue to read it. Seriously, this fic is a joy in part because Steve's POV is so damn giddy and joyful about Bucky. I love that. It's good stuff.

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“You’re a person, Steve. And if people hurt you or take advantage of you, that’s not your fault, either. You should be able to go to a bar. You should be able to hook up with some guy. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. The fact that someone took pictures is the photographer’s fault. And the fact that newspapers decided to print it is the editors’ fault. And the fact that some fuckwad decided to lie for a quick buck is his fault. You may regret it, and that’s fine. But I don’t want to hear you blame yourself again. Got that?” Steve nods. His throat feels tight enough that he’s not sure he can speak. Bucky tips their foreheads together and they sit in silence, until Steve has naturally matched his breathing to Bucky’s - slow, deliberate, relaxed, and not geared up for a fight. Bucky kisses him softly, then.

💗The Voyager | notlucy | Explicit | 76,740 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

I am a sucker for the Steve and Bucky road trip fic. A very recently arrived in 21st century Steve on a road trip with a modern Bucky? All that time alone? In those motels? That might or might not have the right number of beds? This is a good trope that we should very much use forever. This fic is such a classic sort of road trip fic. Honestly, I've never been on any sort of proper, real road trip, but I'd like to think this fic feels like a road trip -- what they must feel like, anyway. There's such freedom in the storytelling here. There's a suspended sense of time in this fic. There's a way this fic rolls along with a pace that makes sense here, in this story -- it's a pace that definitely wouldn't work in all stories, which is exactly why it does, in this one. It's lovely, it's a little bit surreal, and it stays with you long after you finish it.

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“Wow,” Bucky managed. Words were difficult when faced with something so spectacular, the canyon spread out before them lit with the slow, smoldering burn of that deep, ancient glow. “Awesome,” Steve murmured, the word incongruous in his mouth. Bucky nearly poked fun, until he realized Steve meant it literally - what they were seeing was awesome. Smiling, he leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder before entwining their fingers, not caring a whit who might see them. Who might care. At that moment, Bucky wanted to tell the entire world, because he was in love. Except it wasn’t love. Strong like, maybe. Effortlessly increasing affection, sure. But not love. You couldn’t fall in love that fast. He’d only known Steve since May, after all. It was at most infatuation. Appreciation. Fascination. Bucky was a very level-headed person. It wasn’t love. But it was something.

Modern

🌈On The Back of a Raindrop | musette22 @musette22 | Explicit | 52,215 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Something I love to read in kid fics is any time that thing happens where it's not just Steve and Bucky acting like a couple without being together yet, but a group of people starting to act like a family unit in every single way -- except that no one has talked about that, or acknowledged it, and technically, someone is actually still the neighbor, or the babysitter, or, in this case, the gardener. I love that, and I love this fic, specifically. Featuring this sweetest and loveliest and healthiest family forming in a backyard garden over the months of a beautiful summer. It's so domestic, so intimate, and it happens so naturally over the course of this story. It makes everything feel so perfectly meant to be, so romantic, and so satisfying. Also! One of my database notes on this one is, "SARAH," because this is a fic with a very alive Sarah Rogers, and I love, love, love, Steve and Sarah's relationship in this fic.

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Now that he’s gotten to know him, seen him with the twins, has gradually watched Bucky’s tan deepening and bringing out the grey-blue of his eyes, Steve is so wildly attracted to him sometimes that it knocks the breath right out of him. It’s how he ends up sketching Bucky again on Wednesday, from his usual spot in the shade. He makes sure to make it a PG rendition this time, including Gracie and Miles as well, so that when later, Bucky asks him ‘Hey, whatcha drawin’?’, Steve can actually show him the sketch. Bucky is silent for the longest time when Steve hands over his sketchbook. For a moment, Steve almost panics, wondering if he accidentally forgot to draw Bucky’s jeans or something, but then Bucky looks up, a look in his eyes that Steve can’t quite pinpoint. “This is amazing, Steve. Could I… Would you mind if I hold on to it, maybe?” Steve blinks in surprise. “Of course, yeah. I mean, it’s not my best work. I could do you something better if you like.” “It’s perfect,” Bucky frowns, seeming almost offended Steve would suggest otherwise. “I love it.”

🌈One for Fiction | thepinupchemist | Explicit | 6,713 words |*Post-2016 Rec*

I very much enjoy a shrinkyclinky-ish modern fic where Bucky is a disaster about the fact that Steve, like, exists. I am just so here for this, and this very adorable fic is a top-tier demonstration of that. Featuring a Veteran-turned-librarian Bucky and a barista Steve, and a lot of awkward flirting. At a library! Also featuring a lot of Bucky being a disaster about Steve, but also a lot of Steve being like, "...have you? seen? or? met? yourself? You are definitely the catch here." It's cute. They're cute. This fic is cute.

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“Fun fact about the library,” Bucky went on, “As long as no one can see your computer screen, you’re allowed to look at porn. That’s protected under intellectual freedom.” Steve raised a brow. “Interesting.” They meandered back to Bucky’s display. The night, as far as nights went, was a quiet one for the library, and the cafe was a ghost town, but for the group of teenagers with bags of McDonald’s scattered across the table and AP History books open on their laps. “Where’d everyone get their pronoun pins?” asked Steve, as Bucky pushed his stepladder upright, collected his tape dispenser, and climbed back up to finish hanging the flag garland. “They make ‘em at one of our sister libraries,” Bucky said, “Have a pin press over there and everything. I’m picking up a couple of shifts for one of the ladies over there next week; you want me to grab you some?” See, Bucky used to be this smooth. He used to be this smooth all the time. Apparently, trauma and PTSD aside, he could still be smooth every once in a while. A pleased little smile tilted beautiful Steve’s beautiful lips. He said, “That would be awesome. Do they have pride ones, too? Like your rainbow?” Does Steve like men? Steve might like men. Be cool, Barnes. Don’t be weird.

🌈Wholesale Change | biblionerd07 | Mature | 83,320 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

You know how sometimes you're the captain of an NHL team, and you're very talented, but over the years you've gained a bad reputation? And so your people all but force you to do a The Bachelor-esq dating show? And you've been having a terrible few years and feel like your life is falling apart? And also you're bisexual and closeted because of the whole NHL thing? And also the camera guy on that dating show is your long-lost very attractive best friend? Who also used to play hockey? Look, this fic has a ridiculous premise. In the best possible way. It's a delightfully ridiculous premise. It's so much fun. There's literally a dating show. Steve gets mad about dating show manipulations and lies! And, you know, Steve definitely ends up selecting one of the dating show contestants. Steve definitely does not fall for Bucky instead! Steve definitely does not purposefully out himself on live TV. Steve absolutely follows the rules and sees the dating show contract through! Because as we all know, Steve Rogers follows rules and does what people with authority tell him to do. Always and at all times. So much fun. So delightful.

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“I’m so tired of lying,” Steve says. He almost sags with the weight of it all, now that’s admitted it. He was trying so hard to outrun it all. Outskate it all, maybe. But he’s been losing for a long time now. “I know,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think letting him tell the world is going to make you feel any better. You need to tell the truth on your own terms.” Steve sighs and leans his shoulder against Bucky’s. “I’ll talk to whoever I pick,” he says. They deserve that, at least. He doesn’t want to pick someone under false pretenses. Falser, anyway. “You won’t get much alone time,” Bucky warns. “But I’m sure you can find a way.” “Nothing gets in Captain America’s way when his mind’s made up,” Steve says in his cheesy commercial voice. It was a line from some ad campaign he did for a sports drink he didn’t even like. Bucky snorts. “I was thinking more about Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. “That asshole’s unstoppable.” And after a line like that? All Steve can do is kiss him.

🌈Songbird | chicklette | Explicit | 70,843 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

I am very fond of this fic. It's music industry closeting -- but then planned sexuality revealing. Through lies. This is a fic that starts off with what should have been a one-night stand -- a great one, as one-night stands go, but a one-night stand. Except, pictures are taken of them very early the next morning, hugging, in front of Steve's apartment. And Bucky is very famous and very not out. Bucky's already got a damaged reputation and a host of other problems, and so his team decides that, actually, Bucky pretending to date some non-famous, pretty-faced, nice boy for a couple months might do his reputation some good. So, then, as you can imagine, being Steve and Bucky, the two of them spend the fic doing a very excellent, really great, just super good job, at sticking to having a formal arrangement. A no sex, no feelings, totally-just-a-business-deal-smile-for-the-camera-thing. They're total pros at it, okay? It goes so well for them. They definitely succeed. Just because, whatever, they quickly become friends and get close, it's totally still fine. They're definitely still doing really amazing at this, alright? They've got it under control. They're not going to crack on any of this. No sex. No not-for-the-cameras-kissing. No feelings. No one will cry at any point. Nope. They're So Good at this. Like I said, I'm super fond of this one.

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Steve smiles, his face going all soft and sweet, and it’s like a knife to Bucky’s heart. Ten more weeks, and someone else gets all those smiles. It’s a Goddamned shame, is what it is. His thoughts are uncomfortable enough that Bucky gets up and goes to the railing, looking back out over Manhattan. All the people there, living their lives, day in and day out. How many broken hearts is he looking at right now? How many people starry-eyed with new love? How many people, he wonders, comfortable in an old love, one that’s solid and still growing, deeply rooted, secure enough to be safe, but fresh enough to still bloom? “Penny for your thoughts,” Steve says, and Bucky tilts his head to look at him. “There’s a million love songs happening right now, just waiting for someone to write them.” “That’s awful hopeful, coming from you.” Bucky chuckles. “Nah, I was just wondering how many people we’re looking at right now with broken hearts.”

🌈Strong Saftey | queenmab_scherzo | Mature | 23,043 words

As a first note here, I will point out that this fic is a sequel to Targeting, and it is probably most satisfying when read with full context. But I really do think it can absolutely be read on its own. I really, really appreciate and love the way this fic handles Bucky and trauma. (the Targeting 'verse mirrors canon very closely, re: bad things happening to Bucky. Except that it's about college football.) Bucky's headspace here, and the way that then translates to his actual dialogue/actions is so, so well done. Plus, Steve and Bucky are preestablished in this fic, and it's healthy and lovely and romantic and makes me emotional-- Bucky is so hard on himself about everything, all the time, but he's got Steve, who is wonderfully loving and supportive. Also! Bucky befriends a cat. Also! Bucky legitimately has Steve saved in his phone like this: "Punk ❤️."

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"Vanilla latte, no whip?" the barista calls. Steve goes to the counter for his drink, but keeps his ears open. "I just wanted to tell you—I came out to my high school team last week. And, um. It's gone really well actually." "Wow," Bucky croaks. "Yeah, it just, I've been scared about it for a long time, but then you told the whole NFL, so I thought—yeah. I just wanted to say … thanks." From the corner of his eye, Steve can see them shake hands. "Wow," Bucky says again. He clears his throat a little. "Thank you. I mean, thanks for telling me." "I'm headed out to visit Oregon now, actually." "Football?" "Yeah." "Holy shit," Bucky says, candid as ever. "That's legit, man. Good luck." "Thank you." The kid starts to turn away, then adds: "For everything." When Steve goes back to Bucky's side, Bucky is staring into the paper bag at his donut. He sniffs, audibly.

"Are you crying?" Steve asks quietly. "No." Steve can't see his eyes through the sunglasses, but his nose is really red. It makes Steve smile. He doesn't press the issue.

🌈Rough Edges | sparkagrace @sparkagrace | Mature | 33,278 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Showmances and Rivals-to-Lovers on the Stars on Ice Tour! There's a lot to be excited about here. This fic is such a delight, truly. I love it. You know that post that goes, "What is a rival other than a crush you're mad about having?" Steve spends the first chunk of this fic so disproportionately angry at Bucky for incredibly minor things. Like standing in rooms or... skating. It's amazing. But then there is bonding and heart-to-hearts. Often on skating benches! And, as it turns out, those two being around each other a lot is, as always, a very, very good thing, in the long run. One that helps them both. Also! Becca texts Bucky lots of pictures of Alpine -- pictures from Alpine. Also! Bucky and Nat have a somewhat frighteningly intense friendship/skating partnership and it's all just so, so great.

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Bucky continues on the corner edges while Steve sorts through one of the color groups. He thinks he has enough to make up branches of the tree that was displayed on the front of the box. He likes it when he finds the pieces that fit together, it’s like his brain fires little electrons of glee when they slot into place perfectly. He tries not to think about the fact it’s the same feeling he gets sometimes when he and Bucky execute their twizzles in perfect synchronicity. The same way he likes the sound of their prop swords clashing when they’re choreographing their throne number. Everything seems to feel matched when he’s around Bucky lately, like they’re synced partners as much as he is with Maria or Bucky is with Natasha. Puzzle pieces. Bucky seems to be enjoying it too. The quiet as they work together to put together this puzzle that neither of them would have looked twice at if they weren’t desperate for a distraction. A distraction from his heartache, from Bucky’s boredom… from the way that Bucky keeps looking over at him, from how he wishes they were doing this under different circumstances.

🌈Right where we are | steveandbucky | Teen | 10,395 words

This is actually the first fic in a whole 'verse, and they're all super sweet and super lovely. I really enjoy the way this Steve and Bucky build their relationship. I love seeing them get to have happier lives where they just get to be good for each other and good to each other, and this 'verse's Steve and Bucky, who do their best to communicate and who are so so cutely smitten from the gate, are great for that.

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“Hi,” Bucky smiles again, wider this time and the effect it has on Steve is embarrassing, since he can barely get out a greeting in response. Bucky looks ten times better in person. His now longer hair parted in the middle, and he has a two-day-old stubble, looking gorgeous in a navy blue shirt and dark form-fitting jeans. “Fancy running into you here,” he says as he leans closer to be heard above the music. Steve gets a waft of cologne, a sharp and somewhat sweet scent that draws him in as he briefly leans in to speak close to Bucky’s ear. “I’m just here with some friends, I swear I’m not stalking you.” Bucky laughs heartily, ducking his head and crinkling his nose as he does. It’s the cutest thing Steve’s ever seen, and fuck if he wouldn’t spend every minute of every day trying to get Bucky to laugh like that again. “Didn’t think you were stalking me. But what a coincidence, huh?” Bucky says, still grinning. “Nice to finally meet you, Steve Rogers.”

Bonus:

So, this is WIP, and I haven't started reading it yet. But! From everything I know about it, it absolutely fits what I'm going for on this rec list. Also, I've loved every other fic by @zenaidamacrouras1 that I've read. So while I can't actually rec something without reading it, I did feel like this should be in this post somewhere:

Unpredictable Synchronicity | Zenaidamacrouras1 | Mature | 106,788 words (WIP)

Second bonus:

These are fics that 100 percent should/would be on this list, except that I literally just rec'd them in my Brooklyn stories post. They are wonderful for all reasons described in the Brooklyn post:

Three White Horses | magdaliny | Mature | 16,601 words

Not In The Answer But The Question | aimmyarrowshigh @aimmyarrowshigh | Teen | 27,382 Words

Ill With Want | thedoubteriswise | Mature | 26,999 words

This turned into a very long post, but that feels fitting. Happy Pride! 🌈

Like I said, next up will be dystopias, apocalypses, etc.

More Recs

225 notes · View notes

kuthuhal · 25 days ago

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Screaming and grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking cause whatttt

you can only remember (what you want to forget) - T - 2.5K

Ramil/Paytai - Episode 4 Coda/Deleted Scene

“Your highness, you shouldn’t be the one to do this,” Paytai softly chides, a familiar refrain. “It’s beneath you.”

In the aftermath of Ramil's stunt and his father's rage, Ramil tends to Paytai.

Read on AO3 ~*~

The duality of skin has always amazed Ramil. No one tells you that a whip can leave clothing perfectly intact and leave the skin beneath with bruises, welts, and places where the skin has literally popped open. Then it heals, raised and stronger somehow. Frankly, Ramil is surprised that there are still places on Paytai’s back where the skin will still pop open under clothing rather than just a myriad of welts and bruises.

But here they are, red and raw with trails of blood weeping down Paytai’s back.

The feeling of sick begins to rise in his throat, and the tremor in his hands won’t stop. Ramil closes his eyes and forces a deep breath in through his nose and curses internally about how unsteady it is. He should be better than this, stronger at least. Ramil certainly isn’t the one who was beaten.

“Your highness, you shouldn’t be the one to do this,” Paytai softly chides, a familiar refrain. “It’s beneath you.”

His eyes snap open; they're still in Paytai’s room that holds all the signifiers of a man of Paytai’s station and nothing truly visible of the man Paytai is. They’ve never known anything besides the opulence of his father’s palace, with the brocade walls and ornate furniture. There are hints of Paytai’s choices, if you know what to look for, a rose from Prince Khanin’s coronation drying on a shelf, a rapier that Paytai took to be repaired months ago that remains. There’s a framed photo of the parents that gave him over to the Bhuchongpisut family and seemingly never looked back. He wonders if the land and additional title they received in exchange for their son’s life was worth it to them.

Ramil forces his attention back to the situation at hand. The silver tray beside him is set up the way it always is: a silver bowl with fresh water in one corner, green cloths freshly laundered and carefully folded, to their right a bundle of antiseptic swabs, further right still sit two pots of salve: one for bruises and one for open wounds, and then finally bandages and a fever patch.

Twenty years. It’s been twenty years since the first time his father made Ramil stand and watch as he beat Paytai. When he was little he wondered if it would ever get easier. Somehow, for Ramil, it’s only ever gotten worse.

The crack of the whip is still a shock every time. And now Paytai doesn’t cry like he used to, somehow holding back the pain. His hands aren’t even shaking as he sits between Ramil’s thighs and carefully launders his blouse in his own bowl of water, a drying rack to his left, in an attempt to keep the blood from setting.

“You’re my responsibility,” Ramil snaps, the imperiousness a replacement for his impotence.

And it’s a lie. Paytai has been responsible for Ramil their whole lives.

Ramil is however responsible for the damage done to Paytai. It is, as his father likes to remind him, entirely his fault Paytai is like this. So he clenches his jaw, takes his shaking hands and picks up a clean cloth and dips it into the warm water. He slides a long, gentle stroke down Paytai’s back, listening for any hint of pain. The only thing he hears is the soft sluicing of water as Paytai continues with his task.

So Ramil continues with his own. Gently wiping away the blood, leaving the bowl of fresh water tinged with pink.

The first time his father had deemed them old enough and the infraction serious enough to warrant the bullwhip, Ramil had wailed in concert with Paytai demanding that someone, anyone, help him. When the nurse had apologetically said they were forbidden from helping as this was Ramil’s punishment, he had ordered her to bring him the proper materials and tell him what he needed to do.

This is his karma.

“How did you envision this ending, your highness?” Paytai asks, as he sets the blouse aside on the rack and begins working on his undershirt.

Even now, Ramil doesn’t think he ever envisioned the ending. Not really. He knew what he wanted them to feel: lost, alone, helpless, terrified.

“You weren’t supposed to be home!” Ramil snaps, instead of answering, because the only thing he could actually envision as the end was this. And how he might avoid it.

“He would have just picked someone else,” Paytai reasons. Before Ramil can point out that was his hope, Paytai whispers, ”or waited.”

The ill feeling comes back. Ramil forces it back down while opening an antiseptic swab with more force than is necessary, and the swab nearly flies out of his hands. Clenching it and his jaw, Ramil narrows his eyes and starts on the first wound.

“What were you thinking?”

“Clearly, I wasn’t,” Ramil grinds out.

It’s a familiar question and again the answer is always the same. He’s been called thoughtless his whole life. Any time Ramil attempts to try to think how his father might, what his father would expect, it always ends the same.

There’s a loud hissing sound and a splash. Ramil pulls back as if burned. He hadn’t even realized how hard he was cleaning the wounds.

A hand covers his own, and Paytai is looking at him with those dark eyes. “Talk to me.”

The request is softer and kinder than Ramil deserves. Feelings threaten to choke him and Ramil breaks eye contact.

“Turn around,” he orders, forcing the feelings away. “You know the longer we wait the worse the chance of scarring will be. I had the doctors at the medical center work on a new formula.”

“P’Ramil,” Paytai says, dropping the formality required of their divergent ranks.

And to that, Ramil has no defenses. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and lets it out. When he opens his eyes, Paytai is still looking up at him with a love Ramil has never deserved.

“Turn around, please,” Ramil asks, gentling his voice from a command to a request.

Paytai gives him a nod and turns back around, but doesn’t pick up his washing. Instead he pillows his chin on his knees. The price of Paytai’s acquiescence is of course that Ramil also complies.

Ramil forces himself to be gentle as he resumes cleaning the open wounds. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just…”

The rage is still there, simmering under the surface. It’s not even that Khanin’s arrival means that there are more ways for him to fail to live up to his father’s expectations and no guarantee of the Bhuchongpisut family reascending to the throne.

“He was raised outside of Emmaly with no idea of his station, or decorum, or proper etiquette, and everyone thinks the sun shines out of his fucking ass.”

“You’re jealous,” Paytai translates.

And why the hell wouldn’t he be?! He’d spent the entirety of Prince Khanin’s coronation dance, as he had the dozens of official events that had come before, watching for any glimpse of Paytai. And then not only had Khanin dared to grab Charan but they had stayed in that damn embrace forever. As if they belonged together, center of attention.

And then—

“I can’t even brush up against you in public and they got a whole damn publicity campaign after that fucking dance?!” Ramil asks, trashing the last of the swabs. It falls softly and not with the clatter he had wanted.

The unfairness threatens to choke him. Ramil would give anything to dance with Paytai, except the one thing it would likely cost them—their ability to be together. If he had embarrassed his father on such a large scale, Ramil doesn’t know how his father would choose to torture him: would he just send Paytai away? Kill him and make Ramil watch? Or just go to his favorite long-term punishment of spacing the whippings out every three days so that Paytai would just start to heal before reopening the wounds. Sometimes he would lock them in separate rooms, afterward. His father particularly enjoyed leaving Paytai in a room with cameras so Ramil could see him but couldn’t get to him.

Ramil picks up the fresh pot of salve and begins to carefully apply the new formula to the wounds across Paytai’s back.

“Prince Khanin wasn’t raised as royalty,” Paytai reminds him, ”He doesn’t understand.”

“That’s not what bothers me!” Ramil yells, knowing he’d pointed out Khanin’s naivitate moments ago. “It doesn’t matter if he understands or not. It matters that he is allowed. That it was encouraged by the palace. That he is praised and called benevolent and kind and warm.”

When Ramil was young, he used to think it would have been better if he was the prince who had died. He could never be the son his father wants, no matter how hard he tries. Ramil had been certain that Prince Khanin would have been a good prince, one that made his father proud, the right sort of child to ensure his father’s legacy. The world might have been better off if Ramil had been the one to die, as he’d never been quite right as a prince of a royal house of Emmaly. Besides, Father considered Uncle Tharin soft. Chances were a child raised by Prince Tharin would have been given the grace to be a child.

Now faced with the reality of Prince Khanin, Ramil hates it even more. Because they’re the same, Khanin and him. Except Khanin is free. He’s allowed to be loud and himself and touch a man that he shouldn’t and he shines when he walks into a room. And Ramil is aware that he is considered cold and remote, but what could he have been if he didn’t have to be exactly what his father expects at all times?

“That’s not his highness’s fault,” Paytai reminds him, generous to a fault.

“I know.”

“It’s not yours, either,” Paytai adds.

Ramil drops his hand from Paytai’s back.

“Do you know what I would do to be able to dance with you in public? To hold your hand? To add food to your plate at a formal dinner? To merely be allowed to stand side by side rather than have you remain a foot behind?”

“But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do that won’t end up…here.”

With a whip in his father’s hands landing across Paytai’s back. In this room that Ramil sneaks to through the servant’s passages with the fresh wounds and scars crossing Paytai’s back. This space is the only place they have to actually spend time together out of the surveillance of his father. And while Ramil tests the boundaries of what his father knows of and doesn’t speak on, he knows that if his father felt publicly humiliated it would be a different story.

Nothing he can do that doesn’t end with fresh scars across Paytai’s back. He’s tried to be the son who wasn’t a disappointment. To be someone who his father saw as worthy and spare Paytai the pain of bearing the weight of Ramil’s failures.

“It’s not fair,” he grumbles mostly to himself.

“It was never going to be.”

And just like that the rage he’d banked down to embers rages into a full fire again. Paytai’s words are true. Their lives were never going to be fair. But oh, watching Prince Khanin be offered even the illusion of choosing his fate when Ramil has known for years he will have to marry the wife of his father’s choosing, someone in whom Ramil will have no real interest or care in, and betray Paytai to bring fresh heirs to the Bhuchongpisut line.

“How the hell can you be so damn accepting? Aren’t you furious?”

Ramil swallows the rage down every day, so much that it threatens to choke him. But the rage has become what he lives on. It sustains him in the moments he thinks about giving up. He cannot give up before his father dies and Ramil is able to spit on his grave.

“What should I do?” Paytai snaps back, turning his head to look at Ramil. “Rage about the room? Lose people in caves in a fit of pique?”

“Maybe!”

Paytai sniffs before turning his head back. His voice turns remote as he says, “You’ve got that quite covered for us, then.”

The rage gives way to shame again, in this endless cycle Ramil is impotent to escape.

“I’m sorry. I’m no good at any of it.”

Not at being the Bhuchongpusit heir. Not at finding clever ways to outflank his enemies. Not at being able to envision the end from the beginning. Not at preventing the inevitable future for himself and Paytai.

“You’re good at plenty of things, your highness. You just let your emotions get the better of you.” Paytai leaves off the word <i>again</i> but Ramil still hears it.

“Sometimes,” Ramil says, picking up the bandages to begin the final phase of tending to Paytai’s back. “I think my father would have preferred you as an heir to me.”

“No, your highness, I’m still the wrong sort entirely.” His voice has taken on a hint of amusement that Ramil has no idea where Paytai has pulled that emotion from.

“Phi,” Ramil insists, brain snagging on an entirely different problem in that sentence. “In here it should be phi.”

“Unless you’re cross with me and then it’s always your highness.”

“You really should leave.” Ramil does not add: me, this castle, the kingdom.

The bandages cover the wounds that will soon become scars, but it doesn't cover what has happened. Instead it’s another reminder of what is and what has always been.

“There’s nowhere for me to go, phi. I’m just as trapped as you are.” Which hurts even more. Ramil can never be certain if Paytai would actually stay with him if they were to be freed. “I just wish you wouldn’t swipe at anything that reminds you we’re in this cage.”

“I really thought you would be out of town. That this one wouldn’t touch you.”

Paytai’s head sags further onto his knees as a shiver begins to take over his body. “I came back when I realized Prince Khanin would be staying with us. I knew how you felt,” Paytai slurs, voice becoming heavy with sleep. “I didn’t want you to have to face his royal highness and Charan alone.”

Paytai remains better than Ramil in every way, and Ramil will never actually deserve to have this man by his side.

Ramil places the last bandage and cups his hands under Paytai’s elbows to support his companion to his feet. “The fever is starting to set in. Let’s get you into bed.”

The familiar cadence of wrapping Ramil in his night clothes, handing him some paracetamol, and putting a fever patch across his forehead take no time at all. He’s pliable now as Ramil ushers him under the covers. Paytai whines as Ramil steps away to ready himself for sleep. When he crawls under the covers, Paytai finds his way into Ramil’s arms in a way that belies how tired and vulnerable he is at the moment. Ramil cannot hold him back, though, for fear of touching the wounds he’s just dressed.

And in the dark of a lower bedroom, Ramil stares at the ceiling while Paytai shivers, and dreams of a world where they win, just once.

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