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The first thing Baelor does upon finding himself alone with his brother is to grasp his neck and pull him down into a fierce, biting kiss.
Maekar rears back. The maesters had declared him as hale as possible, after injury and long sleep, but the mind is a fickle thing, and the thought of looking into Baelor's eyes and seeing a stranger sends a cold lance through his heart. "It is me. Maekar. Your brother."
"I know who you are," Baelor says, and his voice is so heart-wrenchingly familiar, so sure.
For all of Maekar's lustful boyhood thoughts, though, his Baelor had never returned anything but brotherly affection. If this is a new malady of the mind-
"Dismiss it as my addled mind, if you must, and we shan't speak of it again." Baelor says, as though Maekar was speaking his thoughts aloud. His hand is warm at Maekar’s nape, gripping with a strength that he'd feared lost. "But I would not meet our ancestors without indulging in their ways at least once."
"But we never - you never," Maekar stutters. The apologies, the promises he'd crafted in preparation for this moment fall away, leaving him adrift and uncertain in the way so few can.
Baelor's face is gaunt from nearly a full moon's inactivity, but his eyes are bright with the same keenness as he'd had before the trial. He blinks, slowly, in the way he always has when measuring his words. "I have oft set aside desire for duty, as an heir must," he says slowly, deliberately. "But I have had very little to do but dwell in my regrets, these past few weeks. No, do not apologize. Long have I relied on your strength to clear my way."
"You must rest," Maekar chokes out, but he does not pull away. Cannot.
"Tell me if my eyes were mistaken, the day I wed Jena. Tell me that your eyes were not, for one night, green as a summer pasture."
Maekar is many things, but he is not a liar. "The maesters said you were to rest," he says, instead of a denial.
Baelor's hand slides off Maekar's neck. His eyes glint, with calculation, with a long-restrained joy. "And if I swore not to exert myself? To allow my sweet brother to be my Hand?"
"I would. For the rest of my days, I would."
"Then for all my days, I do so swear," Baelor pledges, dark and serious.
Maekar's hand shoots out, almost of its on accord, stopping Baelor's as it moves to pull his sleep clothes down. "You - I would have you. Inside me."
Baelor lifts a dark brow. "Would it not be simpler for me to play the maiden, passive as I am to be?"
"I would not see inside you ever again," Maekar bites, baring his teeth, and Baelor's eyes soften.
"Allow me at least to ease the way, then," he says, tugging his hand from Maekar's now-lax grip.
Beside the bed sits a small pot of balm, for when Baelor's lips had grown cracked and dry as he slumbered. Maekar is well familiar with its smell, its consistency, having oft chased the maesters from Baelor's sickroom the moment their work was done, intent on being the first face his brother saw upon waking.
It seems strange that Baelor, for the many nights he has spent with the concoction upon his face, dips his fingers into the pot for the first time for a different kind of anointing.
He warms it between his fingers as Maekar finishes divesting himself of his clothing, methodically circling his fingertips until it has softened almost to liquid. The honey and rosewater scent blooms in the air as Maekar, nude as the day he was born, settles himself atop his brother. Baelor's hipbones, protruding as they are from his long convalescence, grind into the inside of Maekar's knees as he settles himself, kneeling, atop his brother.
The first intrusion of Baelor's finger is strange but not painful. Maekar can feel his brow furrowing, but does not force it smooth - Baelor will read his stoicism as pain, and stop before they have begun. The second finger brings with it a burn and a strange ache, muscle stretching in a way no other muscle has stretched itself in his battle-scarred life.
The third punches a groan from his chest, and he must lean forward to bear some of his weight upon his arms. When he cannot bear Baelor's searching gaze for a moment longer, Maekar lets his eyes slip closed, fingers kneading restlessly at Baelor's shoulders even as he pushes himself backwards, into the sting and the ache and the burn.
Baelor's hand comes up to grip at Maekar's chest, feeling the muscle bunch and jump. It is good that he does, as in that moment, his hand inside Maekar brushes something that weakens him in the spine, almost sends him crashing down if not for his brother's bracing hand.
Baelor's eyes twitch upwards, and he strokes again, consideringly. "You feel different, inside, here."
"I - ah! I can feel it too, you bastard," Maekar groans, his flagging cock roaring back to life. He works himself as far down Baelor's fingers as he can, even as Baelor focuses careful attention on driving him mad. "Ah-hah! Stop! Stop," he pants, grasping at Baelor's wrist.
The fingers still, and Baelor's brow furrows with worry, but before he can say a word, Maekar has released him and is fumbling at his bedclothes, freeing his cock to spring proudly to attention.
"I would not spend before you were- inside me," Maekar grits, feeling heat travel down his neck.
Baelor's eyes darken, and he pulls slick fingers from Maekar's body, slicking his length and settling at the bottom to steady it. "Come take me, then," he breathes, and Maekar is powerless to disobey.
It hurts, being impaled upon his brother's cock. For all Baelor's careful preparation, the moment that their congress is complete brings with it an awful, white-hot sensation, searing up his spine like a brand. Maekar can no more suppress his cry than the cold sweat that breaks upon his brow.
Baelor's dry hand slides to cradle at his face, stroking softly under one eye. "I would not see you in pain," he murmurs, twitching his hips downwards, and it is all Maekar can do to shake his head, sweat-damp hair swinging in his eyes, and follow him down.
"I must," he grits out, "I must. Just - a moment. To bear it."
Baelor's had slides from his face to rest upon his thigh, soothing the taut muscle there. "If you must," he says, and stills entirely, though Maekar can feel a shudder underneath him that is not his own, and understands that this stillness, too, is a battle being fought.
His brother's body may be weak, still, but Maekar is determined to lose to it. Over, and over, until the day they are both ashes in the wind, and so he works himself down, inch by trembling inch, until he can at last rest his weight upon Baelor's legs. He is panting, beads of sweat running down his brow, the fullness and warmth in him soothing something deeper than the twinge in his stomach could ever reach.
Experimentally, he tries to loosen upon the length inside him, and cannot help but clench when unfamiliar muscles revolt. As he does, Baelor's hips thrust minutely, sharply, and he gasps apologies, the hand on Maekar's thigh fluttering.
Maekar bares his teeth again and lifts himself up and impales himself again, deep, as deeply as he can, relishing in the wounded sound that falls from Baelor's lips.
"Do not rush yourself," Baelor groans.
The humming coursing through Maekar's veins softens his face, he knows, and he lets it. "Your pleasure is mine, brother," he gasps, and knows it to be true as warmth spreads inside him, stealing his breath, tempering the pain. He sets a pace akin to a lively trot, changing the direction his hips to sway as if in a saddle rather than lifting up and down, and knows it to be pleasing to them both when he watches Baelor shut his eyes, feels his nails, overlong from unuse, dig into his skin.
He shifts backwards, leaning his hands on Baelor's knees rather than his shoulders, searching for-
"Ngh!" He jolts, his own manhood weeping, as Baelor's cock grinds upon the spot his fingers had grazed earlier, sending a different shock up his spine, something almost too intense to be called pleasure.
Baelor's eyes are dark upon him. "Does it still hurt?" he asks, but the gentleness of his words is belied by the strength of his grip, dark spots of blood beading up where his nails dig cruelly into Maekor's skin.
"Yes - hah - it does!" Maekar pants out, not slowing his pace for a second. The burn at his entrance, the ache, deep in his gut, the sparks of white-hot pleasure as raw, unfamiliar nerves grate over hot flesh, coalesce into something indescribable, something that he cannot stop himself from chasing.
His back bows with a cry as Baelor's hand releases his thigh to circle his length, thumb spreading the wetness he his leaking over the crown of it, down the length. His rhythm falters and he bucks, caught between the two pleasures, trying, impossibly, to chase both.
"Do not- lose focus," Baelor murmurs, his own breath hitching even as his thumb rubs a meticulous, frenzy-inducing circle in that sensitive spot where head meets shaft, drawing soft whines from somewhere deep in Maekar's throat.
Maekar bits his cheek, hard, tasting copper. He has entirely lost the facility for words, it seems, so focused on keeping steady the pace of his hips that he cannot bend his own tongue to his will.
He is rewarded for his focus, though, as Baelor grunts, and his hips begin moving off the bed in short, sharp jerks.
He should chastise his brother, he knows. Baelor promised him passivity, and rest, but his cock is moving deeper and deeper within him, setting a fire that is burning, burning, burning-
Baelor's hips jerk once, then stronger, then he stills and groans, and Maekar feels the slippery-hot slide of release in side him. It is this, combined with the tightening of Baelor's grip around him, that finishes him as well, grinding himself as hard as he dares into Baelor's thighs as his cock spills release over his hand, his wrist, his belly.
The room is silent save for a few panting breaths until Maekar levers himself up and off Baelor's legs with a huff of effort, his thighs burning almost as much as his arse. He cannot quite bear to set his weight upon it yet, and so he settles himself upon his stomach, heedless of his own mess, chin pillowed in his arms as he watches his brother's countenance. He feels open, soft and loose in a strange, vulnerable way, but that, too, is its own kind of pleasure.
"I have made a mess of you," Baelor comments, his eyes tracking a trail of spend down one of Maekar's splayed thighs as he clenches experimentally, exploring the new sensation.
"Good," Maekar says fiercely, and in a fit of daring, reaches over to pull one of Baelor's hands close to his chest, under his racing, clenching heart.
Baelor's face stays soft, but his hand, trapped under Maekar's weight, grips back just as hard.