YourMonarch
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The first day, its fingers caressed him more delicately than the whisper of its wrappings. Soft, softer; less than a newborn. He loved it then.
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A lopsided smile had stitched itself across his brother's mouth. It was a subtle mutation of Aegon's usual beam—brows drawn, nostrils flared, the round shine of his eyes taking on a hidden fierceness as pricks of longing began to wet his pale lashes.
He asked for adoration as king, yet this was when he was easiest to love: supplicant and sorrowful, shedding the salt of his tears upon his brother's parched lips.
The night after his coronation, Aegon comes to Aemond for comfort.
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From Paul’s height, he watched as his lovers melted together, like two souls damned and dripping in the flame from a hell of his own making. They morphed for him, stretched and presented themselves for him, twisted together inseparably in their mutual craving of love from a damaged god.
They did not know it, but they were tragic lovers in their own right, and only Paul could see the strings that he had tied between them—like tangled marionettes, like flies in a web.
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“Tell me your name,” Paul coaxed from their guest, speaking just as gently as before.
In truth, he knew this man's name. He knew his name, and his father’s name, and all the names that came before him. He knew the story of his birth and the fierceness of his conception. He knew his end. But to give this man personage and identity, a distinctive oneness in Feyd-Rautha's mind as he stood there with his submission on display, was something he would not pass by.
Paul and Feyd have a quiet moment. They get interrupted.
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"You're just looking for a fight."
"Maybe I am. I'd like to bloody myself with you."
This thing between them—it had only just started, but Paul knew a game when it was set out before him. He liked games.
Under imperial law, the Atreides are required to hold court for the Harkonnens after the official surrender of Arrakis. Paul is immediately intrigued by the second in line for the throne, Feyd-Rautha, and it doesn't take long before the two are colliding, stealing away to hiss over cracked ribs and covetous breaths.