A flash of anger through his chest, but again, not aimed at Owain. Aimed at the world that makes him think that he needs to ask Poe's permission for something like this.
"Look- just- 'Poe, I need to get some things from my room'. Okay? That's all you need to say. And yeah. We'll grab whatever you need."
He repeats the words he's been given - replacing Poe with Lord Dameron - but he hesitates before leaving. He's supposed to walk behind Poe, at all times, unless he's acting as a bodyguard and putting himself in harm's way. He again doesn't know how to navigate etiquette here, with a master who flies so violently in the face of everything he ever learned - but they figure it out, one way or another, and end up in Owain's room.
It seems shockingly small, less because it's a tiny room and more because it's shared with four or five other servants. His bed is the most bare, a single with white sheets pushed under the window so he can read with the best lighting, and he takes everything he owns from under the mattress he'd stashed it all. It's all he has to his name - it's obvious, in the fleeting look he takes over the pathetically bare bed and the lightly stained wall - that he's saying goodbye, sentimental, like he never expects to sleep here again.
The ring and the splinter of wood he puts away in his pocket. The sword, he straps to his back. Only then does he look at Poe.
He doesn't argue the name, even though he makes a face. He can argue it later. He stops before they leave, though - his unwillingness to see his father not extending to the servants he grew up with - and he has a few brief conversations as they leave the house. He stops at his father's office, motions for Odin to wait, and strides up to the man's desk. Two minutes later, he and Owain are leaving the house, and there is a letter waiting for Kes.
You had a chance to make this right, was all it said.
The Palace itself isn't a building - it's a complex. An entire wing set aside specifically for the military. So though they go through the main gate, they take a sharp right afterwards - walking for several minutes until they reach the part of the complex that houses the Palace's military barracks. It doesn't take much, to get them seen to. Poe pulls the chain around his neck, flashing the silver medallion of his rank and station, Shara's ring clinking quietly against it. His audience is scheduled - 9 am the following morning - and they are shown to their rooms. There is one main bed, and a cot, and almost as a point of pure rebellion, as soon as they enter, Poe goes straight for the cot and throws his bag onto it, claiming in.
"When did you eat last?" He asks, not even turning around as he moves to undo the clasp of his cape.
Owain had kept his head down, through most of the trip. He'd never really left the walls of the house, other than to sit in the yard and draw or write - he had everything he needed there, with tutors and training and a small, surrogate family. He's actually kind of scared to be away from the tiny portion of the Dameron estate he remembers most clearly as home, because he is, at the end of the day, a pledge. Well-respected and treated with dignity, but a second class citizen with a target on his back. He's terrified he'll do something wrong, this far into the Palace, bump into the wrong person, say something stupid, and--
He thinks of his mom and his dad and he keeps walking.
He looks between the bed and the cot once they're given a place to stay, and he realizes pretty quickly what Poe's done, flushing a little red. He sits on the very, very corner of the bed he's been given and figures he'll sleep on the floor once Poe passes out and try to wake up before he does so he doesn't know - it's better that than risk being seen in the sleeping quarters reserved for nobility.
When Poe asks him a question, a few words run through his head pretty quickly - two square meals a day, dawn and dusk, snacks at noon - a schedule he had to keep when he was on cooking duty. It takes him a moment to realize he doesn't actually remember when he ate last.
"Uh." He scratches the side of his cheek. Looks to the cape, sees the brand, looks to his sleeve-covered bicep, looks away.
"I've been... excited. And nervous. About seeing you. So..."
He drapes the cloak over the back of a chair, then pulls the cloth completely free from his throat and undoes another couple of buttons loose with a sigh.
"Sorry. That can't have been-- I didn't know you'd be there." Gallant, he had not been. That was for sure.
"The mess hall will be closed, but we can probably get into the kitchens. Usually if I smile enough they let me grab a bite." He turns, finally, and looks at Owain - properly looks at him - for the first time. Not as a symbol of this world's manipulations, but as - just a man, sitting on the edge of a bed, looking nervous.
(When described that way, it wasn't even a situation unfamiliar to Poe.)
"Look, before we - anything - I'm not going to answer to Lord Dameron. At all. If we're in public and you want to be respectful, you can call me Captain Dameron, but otherwise you call me Poe. There's only one Lord Dameron, and I am not my father. Yeah?"
"No, I wasn't--" He's holding his hands up, twitchy with panic all over again. "You shouldn't apologize to me. It's not-- people might not-- I don't know how people feel about nobles apologizing to... their, uh."
He trails off. Fuck, fuck, Poe's not going to want to hear that, Owain, you fucking idiot. He starts to stumble over an apology, an acknowledgment that Poe can do whatever he wants to do and Owain's not in any place to restrict his behavior, but-- the sight of him undoing those buttons makes him nervous, and he loses his train of thought, turning his head away.
He watches the wall, for a moment, balling his fists up in his lap before he's ready to look at Poe again.
"Captain Dameron."
He has two things to ask. He swings his legs a little as he tries to decide between them, as if The Captain would only allow one question of him at a time, and he ends up just spluttering both of them out a breath away from each other.
"Why don't you like your dad?" A pause. "Isn't smiling your way into the kitchen super immoral?"
"I don't care what other people think about it. You're a person, with feelings, and I was kind of a dick. So - apology required." Maybe not given in the most graceful way possible, but. There it was.
He was about to comment that Captain Dameron was really only meant for in public and not in private, but then he was given two questions very quickly back to back. He let out a snort, and raised a finger.
"Okay, first, it's not immoral to charm the kitchen staff into letting me eat when I missed a meal. I could make it an order, if I wanted, and send some poor private to fetch it for me, but what's the point in that."
He raised a second finger.
"Secondly, I don't - not like my dad. I love my dad. But he's wrong. About a lot of things. About you. And about me. And I'm not in the mood to try to fight a battle with him I've been waging for a decade, when I know it'll end with him ignoring every damn thing I said, anyway."
Owain doesn't seem happy with Poe's apology, but he doesn't talk back. He shifts a little further off the bed until he's all but hanging off of it, bouncing his leg nervously and looking at the room to the door as if expecting someone to bust it down and imprison the fuck out of him for being an awful, awful Pledge.
"Yeah, but you'll... get. Like. Looked at. Weirdly. Or judged. Or something. If you treat me like that. I don't... I've spent the past nine years trying to think of all the ways I wanna make you happy, dude. I can't just be the reason why you're--"
--wait. He goes beet red, hiding his face behind both of his hands.
He scrubs his hands over his face, flustered. He's not... doing well. At this. His nose is sniffly and running when he puts his hands back down in his lap, leg bouncing even faster now. He wants to ask more about Poe's relationship with his father, but he knows it's not his place, and he's sure Poe doesn't want to share any more details with him. He makes a sympathetic noise somewhere in his throat (that comes out kinda bouncy and vibration-y thanks to the leg thing), but that's it. He scans around for a topic change.
"-- Dam. Dameron. Captain. You don't need to order privates to do stuff for you anymore. That's why I'm here."
Poe's eyebrows raise as Owain stumbles over his own words, watching the man flush.
... Shit.
Shit, he was cute.
Poe carefully slid a hand over his own mouth, masking the smile behind it, and looking away. Alright, not really what he'd been expecting. But he didn't... mind that. It made it easier to think of Owain as a real person rather than the personification of an institution that he hated. He gave himself a few seconds to get his face back in order.
There were a few things he could say, or maybe should, but one was most important.
"Poe. Just-- just Poe." A pause, then a smirk. "Or dude. That one is fine."
He looks for a second like he's considering calling Poe by his name, but then he's smirking and Owain's not equipped to deal with it. He covers his face with his hands again and waits for his heart to calm down so as not to say something stupid. People don't smirk at Pledges. Not like they're friends. He'd expected a lot of things, but not for Poe to treat him like a friend.
He pulls his hands away, staring cautiously at Poe. This is... difficult. Somehow, the not-treating-a-Pledge-like-a-Pledge thing was easier to deal with when Poe was angry.
"I'm not supposed to do that. You shouldn't even see me acting like-- this isn't-- I'm doing a bad job. I should be like my dad. Quiet. You're not my friend, you're-- my owner. Essentially."
He nods, as if affirming it as much to himself as to Poe. They can be friends, in time, but only after their dynamic is firmly established, and never all the way. He already feels like he wants to be total, total friends with this guy. He can't do that.
The smirk, and any trace of good humour, vanished from Poe's face. Instead, annoyance flickered there, twitching in his eyebrow.
"Yeah, no. I'm not owning anyone." He turned his back, unwilling to watch Owain make that argument - unwilling to watch how he believed it. He unclipped the Orange sash and put it beside his cravat, but undoing all the buttons of his coat, his back sill turned.
"If you stay with me, you're going to have to figure out a different way to do that."
Owain panics, again, head down, mood shattered. He shifts a little further off the bed, hesitates, then slumps down off of it entirely to sit on the floor. He curls his knees up to his chest with his back against one of the bed's legs, pointedly not looking at Poe.
"That's not what... what Lord Dameron-- said. He told me-- everyone told me-- just, I was taught to know my place. One of my tutors always said you would be proud of me for that."
He glances up, seeing Poe undress, and he realizes he doesn't have a change of clothes. He untucks his dress shirt from his belt, at least, allowing himself a modicum of comfort, taking a gamble on assuming Poe won't find that exceptionally out of turn. Maybe.
"Whoever that tutor was has definitely never fucking met me." Once unbottoned, he slid the jacket over his shoulders, smoothing it out carefully and putting it on the back of the chair as well. His shirt, underneath it all, was basically the same as Owain's - crisp and white and formal, though he undid the top few buttons at his throat as he turned around.
He stopped as soon as he saw Owain on the floor, and swore to himself under his breath. Great. Fucking great. Good job, Dad.
He stepped over, after a few seconds, before squatting down in front of Owain.
"This- Owain, look at me. This has almost nothing to do with you, alright? Well it-- no that's not true it's also pretty specifically about you-/ but not like that. We should have been-- something else. I don't know. Not this. It's not your fault you happened to get paired with the most stubborn abolishinist on the continent. Maybe this planet. That's not on you, alright? And the fact that you feel like you've failed me because I won't treat you like property--"
There's a kneejerk urge to apologize, but he doesn't, because he still doesn't understand why Poe fucking hates this so much. He's supposed to act with pride and be strong and be reliable, so tripping over his anxiety to try and make things better absolutely isn't the right thing to do - he just rests his chin on his knees and listens and tries to make sense of things.
All he takes from this is we should have been something else. Cuts through him as easily as a knife through water. Nine years, he'd spent waiting to find the validation he was promised. The purpose. The way to make his parents proud. Nine years of being told he would be loved, and he would love back, because that's what happens, when you're branded with someone's crest on your arm. He swallows and nods, even though he's not sure what he's agreeing to, if anything.
When he interrupts Poe, it's to change topics. He doesn't know how to confront this yet - Poe throwing so much of Owain's life away with a few clumsy words carrying so much more weight than he realizes.
"Can you show me the smile you use to get stuff from the kitchen?"
Poe sighs, immediately feeling bad, and reaches out to push his fingers into Owain's hair like he did the last time he saw him. Even that feels different, though, as Poe's finger nails graze the man's scalp, and something hitches in his chest. Ignore it, Dameron.
"Yeah. Being a dick again," he murmured, as a half apology. He couldn't find it in himself to apologize for wanting Owain to be a person, but he's not callous enough to be able to ignore how this is affecting him.
He offers a small smile, slightly sad. "Can only manage that one with the distant promise of brownies, I'm afraid."
Edited (Pushing a single finger into Owain's hair would be really really weird) 2018-01-21 14:09 (UTC)
Owain's eyes fill with stars the second Poe touches him.
He's nine years old again, terrified of a life he's not equipped to deal with, looking up at someone tall and strong and determined and put-together and perfect. He's slack jawed and weak kneed and he's idolizing Poe, looking at him like he's his own, personal savior, divinity gracing him with something unknowably wonderful. It might be sweet, if it wasn't so sad. Desperate for touch, desperate to be noticed, he leans into that hand like a neglected puppy finally getting adopted. Blind to Poe as a man, after nine years of learning to put himself so, so far beneath him.
"I like your smile. I'll make you brownies. If you keep smiling for me." He grins, but it dies, because he remembers himself, and he remembers what he's doing, and-- while he doesn't pull away from Poe's hand, he stops showing that he wants it, and just stays there, passive. "If-- that's okay for me to ask. Being--"
A pledge. It's funny, how fast he's forgetting the rules, when he's so scared of Poe breaking them and he spent so long learning them.
It breaks his heart, the expression on Owain's face, the way the man leans into his hand. He doesn't pull back, though. Instead his thumb brushes a few loose strands from Owain's forehead as he continues to gently rub his head.
The smile twitches a little wider, but the sorrow in it only intensifies rather than dissipates.
"Yeah, it's alright."
There's a brief pause, as Poe makes a decision he didn't really expect himself to make. But he's already speaking before he has time to double think it. "If we're going to do this-- to be able to do this-- I need this to be a two way street. I need you to be able to ask me, for anything, and I'll do everything in my power to give it to you."
There are two things he wants to ask for, and despite being assured otherwise, he's afraid he'll only be allowed one of them. There's a split second of indecision clouding his expression, but he's not surprised with what he asks for.
"Okay. Then - please don't call yourself a dick. Or - anything else like that. Anything disparaging. Please."
He shifts his weight, leaning into Poe's hand again. Not even realizing he's doing it. If he did, he'd stop.
"I know you-- hate this," he says, quickly speeding over the word like he just wants it done with. "But-- I've spent half my life waiting for you. You've been the better part of days you didn't even know were passing. I thought about you so much-- I asked so many people so many things about you. Little things. Your favorite color, your favorite food. I asked for stories - things you did when you were younger, before you went away."
He tucks his knees in a little tighter, makes his voice a little softer.
Poe gives a sigh, his shoulders sinking slightly. The hand in Owain's hair slips down to gently rest on his cheek.
"... Alright, no self name calling. But I..."
He paused, brows knitting, trying to find the right words even though he was never very good at them.
"... I'm not - the person I was, before I left. It's been nearly ten years, Owain. The- things you know, the stories - they aren't me. And if I'd known that leaving would have just- done this to you anyway--" He cut off, letting out another hard breath. "... Look, it doesn't matter. Just - we'll figure it out. Okay?"
Owain's young and incredibly inexperienced, especially when it comes to matters of personal growth - he hasn't ever undergone any huge, regret-riddled personality shifts, because he was young enough when it all happened that his parents deaths and his training formed him like this - so the idea that the Poe he knows could just change doesn't make much sense to him. People don't just... become different people.
"Okay," he says, slowly, and he trips over almost making another apology, wanting to just acknowledge he's a burden even if he doesn't know why. He doesn't - just looks at Poe a little too deeply for a moment before moving on.
Big question time. He takes a breath.
"Can I--" He reddens, feeling like a fucking idiot. "Can I have my own clothes?"
Poe scrubbed Owain's cheek with the pad of his thumb after he said 'Okay', preparing to let go and stand back up when--
He blinked. And then immediately looked incredibly sheepish.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course, that's not - That shouldn't even be a question--" He was an idiot? He was an idiot. He had seen how little Owain had brought with him. Why hadn't it already occurred to him...?
"Okay. Clothes. And a few other things, yeah. Alright. We've got a few hours until sunset, we can get you sorted out now. Did you - the uniform, if you want it, will have to wait. They tailor those to the house. But we can get you some civilian dress tonight." He stood up, giving Owain's jaw a quick squeeze before turning his heel and going straight for his bag, pulling it open. He was travelling light, too, but at least he had a thin jacket that wasn't his ceremonial uniform. He held it out to Owain. "Here, for now."
Owain mnnphs, bashful, when Poe squeezes him before heading out, and he relaxes, the tight coil of his body starting to loosen. He lets his legs stretch out on the floor and watches Poe's back, and he considers just staying quiet, but the tutors were always mad at him for not being able to do that very well.
"I don't need anything else." He's not self aware enough to know he's using that tone of voice to remind Poe that despite everything, they have an image to uphold, but that's what he's doing. "I'll wear whatever uniform you give me - it doesn't, uh, have to be tailored, unless that, like - like, helps, because you shouldn't be seen with a Pledge who isn't - like, wearing -"
But then Owain's eyes settle on the jacket, and again, it's like he's made of stars. His slender fingers hesitate before curling into the fabric, almost as if Owain's afraid of hurting it, and any protests he was trying to make about second-hand uniforms being alright have totally swept from him. He treats this jacket as if were made of finest silk, the fine vestments of a king, and he just keeps staring at it with something close to awe.
"You didn't--" His hands are trembling, a little. "You didn't have to give me something of yours. This belongs to you. Even if it's just-- just a for now thing, that's kind of-- impermissible? We can just-- buy something tomorrow."
"Owain." The word was half an admonishment and half a helpless sigh, as Poe stood, watching him fiddle with the jacket like it was spun from gold.
"I'm the best swordsman we have. No one is going to give me shit for what we're wearing. But you'll need the house uniform, or I won't be able to keep them from separating us, if they want to. So we'll get one tailored." It didn't even register, how possessive that might have sounded. In his mind, it was just for Owain's sake. If Owain wanted to be by him, then he would make sure no one could tell him otherwise.
"And it's yours, now. There's no judge who's going to suddenly appear and tell me that I can't give you my clothes. Pretty sure my family owes you a hell of a lot more than that. Put it on, we can still catch the daylight."
The thought of being separated from Poe fills Owain with dread, and he clings to the jacket just a fraction tighter as he nods. He doesn't hear it as possessive, exactly - he just hears someone looking out for their Pledge. Okay, then. Okay. House uniform it is.
He wants to argue about how Lord Dameron gave him everything, but he knows it's an uncomfortable conversation and that's not what he wants. He carefully slips his arms through the jacket as if they're dirty and he doesn't want to stain it by wearing it, but it fits him well, if not slightly loose and slightly short. He stands to his feet and he keeps looking down at himself like he's just-- an entirely different person, or something-- and then he's grinning at Poe, ear to ear, even as he tries to pretend like he isn't so fucking god damn happy.
"Now? You had a really, really big day - are you sure you don't want to relax and catch an early night? I really don't mind waiting until tomorrow, you didn't have to do this at all-- though," Okay, the grin falls. "We should talk about the bed thing, too."
The grin catches him off guard, a smile pulling at his lips almost instantly in return - a completely unconscious response. But then he catches himself and smothers it down, wetting his lips as he steps over to Owain and pulls a bit on the jacket to make sure it's sitting properly. The sleeves were far too short, but otherwise...
Yeah. It suited him.
"Yeah, now. Honestly, if it was up to me? I would be heading straight for a pub and probably a fight, so let me take care of you instead and maybe I'll come out of tonight without a black eye."
At the last, he gave a firm, unwavering smile. "And we're not talking about the bed thing."
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"Look- just- 'Poe, I need to get some things from my room'. Okay? That's all you need to say. And yeah. We'll grab whatever you need."
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It seems shockingly small, less because it's a tiny room and more because it's shared with four or five other servants. His bed is the most bare, a single with white sheets pushed under the window so he can read with the best lighting, and he takes everything he owns from under the mattress he'd stashed it all. It's all he has to his name - it's obvious, in the fleeting look he takes over the pathetically bare bed and the lightly stained wall - that he's saying goodbye, sentimental, like he never expects to sleep here again.
The ring and the splinter of wood he puts away in his pocket. The sword, he straps to his back. Only then does he look at Poe.
"... To the Palace, then."
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You had a chance to make this right, was all it said.
The Palace itself isn't a building - it's a complex. An entire wing set aside specifically for the military. So though they go through the main gate, they take a sharp right afterwards - walking for several minutes until they reach the part of the complex that houses the Palace's military barracks. It doesn't take much, to get them seen to. Poe pulls the chain around his neck, flashing the silver medallion of his rank and station, Shara's ring clinking quietly against it. His audience is scheduled - 9 am the following morning - and they are shown to their rooms. There is one main bed, and a cot, and almost as a point of pure rebellion, as soon as they enter, Poe goes straight for the cot and throws his bag onto it, claiming in.
"When did you eat last?" He asks, not even turning around as he moves to undo the clasp of his cape.
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He thinks of his mom and his dad and he keeps walking.
He looks between the bed and the cot once they're given a place to stay, and he realizes pretty quickly what Poe's done, flushing a little red. He sits on the very, very corner of the bed he's been given and figures he'll sleep on the floor once Poe passes out and try to wake up before he does so he doesn't know - it's better that than risk being seen in the sleeping quarters reserved for nobility.
When Poe asks him a question, a few words run through his head pretty quickly - two square meals a day, dawn and dusk, snacks at noon - a schedule he had to keep when he was on cooking duty. It takes him a moment to realize he doesn't actually remember when he ate last.
"Uh." He scratches the side of his cheek. Looks to the cape, sees the brand, looks to his sleeve-covered bicep, looks away.
"I've been... excited. And nervous. About seeing you. So..."
So, he hasn't eaten.
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"Sorry. That can't have been-- I didn't know you'd be there." Gallant, he had not been. That was for sure.
"The mess hall will be closed, but we can probably get into the kitchens. Usually if I smile enough they let me grab a bite." He turns, finally, and looks at Owain - properly looks at him - for the first time. Not as a symbol of this world's manipulations, but as - just a man, sitting on the edge of a bed, looking nervous.
(When described that way, it wasn't even a situation unfamiliar to Poe.)
"Look, before we - anything - I'm not going to answer to Lord Dameron. At all. If we're in public and you want to be respectful, you can call me Captain Dameron, but otherwise you call me Poe. There's only one Lord Dameron, and I am not my father. Yeah?"
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He trails off. Fuck, fuck, Poe's not going to want to hear that, Owain, you fucking idiot. He starts to stumble over an apology, an acknowledgment that Poe can do whatever he wants to do and Owain's not in any place to restrict his behavior, but-- the sight of him undoing those buttons makes him nervous, and he loses his train of thought, turning his head away.
He watches the wall, for a moment, balling his fists up in his lap before he's ready to look at Poe again.
"Captain Dameron."
He has two things to ask. He swings his legs a little as he tries to decide between them, as if The Captain would only allow one question of him at a time, and he ends up just spluttering both of them out a breath away from each other.
"Why don't you like your dad?" A pause. "Isn't smiling your way into the kitchen super immoral?"
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He was about to comment that Captain Dameron was really only meant for in public and not in private, but then he was given two questions very quickly back to back. He let out a snort, and raised a finger.
"Okay, first, it's not immoral to charm the kitchen staff into letting me eat when I missed a meal. I could make it an order, if I wanted, and send some poor private to fetch it for me, but what's the point in that."
He raised a second finger.
"Secondly, I don't - not like my dad. I love my dad. But he's wrong. About a lot of things. About you. And about me. And I'm not in the mood to try to fight a battle with him I've been waging for a decade, when I know it'll end with him ignoring every damn thing I said, anyway."
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"Yeah, but you'll... get. Like. Looked at. Weirdly. Or judged. Or something. If you treat me like that. I don't... I've spent the past nine years trying to think of all the ways I wanna make you happy, dude. I can't just be the reason why you're--"
--wait. He goes beet red, hiding his face behind both of his hands.
"-- Captain. Captain. Not dude. Sorry. Captain. Captain Dudema-- am-- Dame--"
He scrubs his hands over his face, flustered. He's not... doing well. At this. His nose is sniffly and running when he puts his hands back down in his lap, leg bouncing even faster now. He wants to ask more about Poe's relationship with his father, but he knows it's not his place, and he's sure Poe doesn't want to share any more details with him. He makes a sympathetic noise somewhere in his throat (that comes out kinda bouncy and vibration-y thanks to the leg thing), but that's it. He scans around for a topic change.
"-- Dam. Dameron. Captain. You don't need to order privates to do stuff for you anymore. That's why I'm here."
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... Shit.
Shit, he was cute.
Poe carefully slid a hand over his own mouth, masking the smile behind it, and looking away. Alright, not really what he'd been expecting. But he didn't... mind that. It made it easier to think of Owain as a real person rather than the personification of an institution that he hated. He gave himself a few seconds to get his face back in order.
There were a few things he could say, or maybe should, but one was most important.
"Poe. Just-- just Poe." A pause, then a smirk. "Or dude. That one is fine."
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He looks for a second like he's considering calling Poe by his name, but then he's smirking and Owain's not equipped to deal with it. He covers his face with his hands again and waits for his heart to calm down so as not to say something stupid. People don't smirk at Pledges. Not like they're friends. He'd expected a lot of things, but not for Poe to treat him like a friend.
He pulls his hands away, staring cautiously at Poe. This is... difficult. Somehow, the not-treating-a-Pledge-like-a-Pledge thing was easier to deal with when Poe was angry.
"I'm not supposed to do that. You shouldn't even see me acting like-- this isn't-- I'm doing a bad job. I should be like my dad. Quiet. You're not my friend, you're-- my owner. Essentially."
He nods, as if affirming it as much to himself as to Poe. They can be friends, in time, but only after their dynamic is firmly established, and never all the way. He already feels like he wants to be total, total friends with this guy. He can't do that.
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"Yeah, no. I'm not owning anyone." He turned his back, unwilling to watch Owain make that argument - unwilling to watch how he believed it. He unclipped the Orange sash and put it beside his cravat, but undoing all the buttons of his coat, his back sill turned.
"If you stay with me, you're going to have to figure out a different way to do that."
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Owain panics, again, head down, mood shattered. He shifts a little further off the bed, hesitates, then slumps down off of it entirely to sit on the floor. He curls his knees up to his chest with his back against one of the bed's legs, pointedly not looking at Poe.
"That's not what... what Lord Dameron-- said. He told me-- everyone told me-- just, I was taught to know my place. One of my tutors always said you would be proud of me for that."
He glances up, seeing Poe undress, and he realizes he doesn't have a change of clothes. He untucks his dress shirt from his belt, at least, allowing himself a modicum of comfort, taking a gamble on assuming Poe won't find that exceptionally out of turn. Maybe.
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He stopped as soon as he saw Owain on the floor, and swore to himself under his breath. Great. Fucking great. Good job, Dad.
He stepped over, after a few seconds, before squatting down in front of Owain.
"This- Owain, look at me. This has almost nothing to do with you, alright? Well it-- no that's not true it's also pretty specifically about you-/ but not like that. We should have been-- something else. I don't know. Not this. It's not your fault you happened to get paired with the most stubborn abolishinist on the continent. Maybe this planet. That's not on you, alright? And the fact that you feel like you've failed me because I won't treat you like property--"
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All he takes from this is we should have been something else. Cuts through him as easily as a knife through water. Nine years, he'd spent waiting to find the validation he was promised. The purpose. The way to make his parents proud. Nine years of being told he would be loved, and he would love back, because that's what happens, when you're branded with someone's crest on your arm. He swallows and nods, even though he's not sure what he's agreeing to, if anything.
When he interrupts Poe, it's to change topics. He doesn't know how to confront this yet - Poe throwing so much of Owain's life away with a few clumsy words carrying so much more weight than he realizes.
"Can you show me the smile you use to get stuff from the kitchen?"
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Poe sighs, immediately feeling bad, and reaches out to push his fingers into Owain's hair like he did the last time he saw him. Even that feels different, though, as Poe's finger nails graze the man's scalp, and something hitches in his chest. Ignore it, Dameron.
"Yeah. Being a dick again," he murmured, as a half apology. He couldn't find it in himself to apologize for wanting Owain to be a person, but he's not callous enough to be able to ignore how this is affecting him.
He offers a small smile, slightly sad. "Can only manage that one with the distant promise of brownies, I'm afraid."
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He's nine years old again, terrified of a life he's not equipped to deal with, looking up at someone tall and strong and determined and put-together and perfect. He's slack jawed and weak kneed and he's idolizing Poe, looking at him like he's his own, personal savior, divinity gracing him with something unknowably wonderful. It might be sweet, if it wasn't so sad. Desperate for touch, desperate to be noticed, he leans into that hand like a neglected puppy finally getting adopted. Blind to Poe as a man, after nine years of learning to put himself so, so far beneath him.
"I like your smile. I'll make you brownies. If you keep smiling for me." He grins, but it dies, because he remembers himself, and he remembers what he's doing, and-- while he doesn't pull away from Poe's hand, he stops showing that he wants it, and just stays there, passive. "If-- that's okay for me to ask. Being--"
A pledge. It's funny, how fast he's forgetting the rules, when he's so scared of Poe breaking them and he spent so long learning them.
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The smile twitches a little wider, but the sorrow in it only intensifies rather than dissipates.
"Yeah, it's alright."
There's a brief pause, as Poe makes a decision he didn't really expect himself to make. But he's already speaking before he has time to double think it. "If we're going to do this-- to be able to do this-- I need this to be a two way street. I need you to be able to ask me, for anything, and I'll do everything in my power to give it to you."
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"Okay. Then - please don't call yourself a dick. Or - anything else like that. Anything disparaging. Please."
He shifts his weight, leaning into Poe's hand again. Not even realizing he's doing it. If he did, he'd stop.
"I know you-- hate this," he says, quickly speeding over the word like he just wants it done with. "But-- I've spent half my life waiting for you. You've been the better part of days you didn't even know were passing. I thought about you so much-- I asked so many people so many things about you. Little things. Your favorite color, your favorite food. I asked for stories - things you did when you were younger, before you went away."
He tucks his knees in a little tighter, makes his voice a little softer.
"You're not a dick. Is all."
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"... Alright, no self name calling. But I..."
He paused, brows knitting, trying to find the right words even though he was never very good at them.
"... I'm not - the person I was, before I left. It's been nearly ten years, Owain. The- things you know, the stories - they aren't me. And if I'd known that leaving would have just- done this to you anyway--" He cut off, letting out another hard breath. "... Look, it doesn't matter. Just - we'll figure it out. Okay?"
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"Okay," he says, slowly, and he trips over almost making another apology, wanting to just acknowledge he's a burden even if he doesn't know why. He doesn't - just looks at Poe a little too deeply for a moment before moving on.
Big question time. He takes a breath.
"Can I--" He reddens, feeling like a fucking idiot. "Can I have my own clothes?"
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He blinked. And then immediately looked incredibly sheepish.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course, that's not - That shouldn't even be a question--" He was an idiot? He was an idiot. He had seen how little Owain had brought with him. Why hadn't it already occurred to him...?
"Okay. Clothes. And a few other things, yeah. Alright. We've got a few hours until sunset, we can get you sorted out now. Did you - the uniform, if you want it, will have to wait. They tailor those to the house. But we can get you some civilian dress tonight." He stood up, giving Owain's jaw a quick squeeze before turning his heel and going straight for his bag, pulling it open. He was travelling light, too, but at least he had a thin jacket that wasn't his ceremonial uniform. He held it out to Owain. "Here, for now."
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"I don't need anything else." He's not self aware enough to know he's using that tone of voice to remind Poe that despite everything, they have an image to uphold, but that's what he's doing. "I'll wear whatever uniform you give me - it doesn't, uh, have to be tailored, unless that, like - like, helps, because you shouldn't be seen with a Pledge who isn't - like, wearing -"
But then Owain's eyes settle on the jacket, and again, it's like he's made of stars. His slender fingers hesitate before curling into the fabric, almost as if Owain's afraid of hurting it, and any protests he was trying to make about second-hand uniforms being alright have totally swept from him. He treats this jacket as if were made of finest silk, the fine vestments of a king, and he just keeps staring at it with something close to awe.
"You didn't--" His hands are trembling, a little. "You didn't have to give me something of yours. This belongs to you. Even if it's just-- just a for now thing, that's kind of-- impermissible? We can just-- buy something tomorrow."
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"I'm the best swordsman we have. No one is going to give me shit for what we're wearing. But you'll need the house uniform, or I won't be able to keep them from separating us, if they want to. So we'll get one tailored." It didn't even register, how possessive that might have sounded. In his mind, it was just for Owain's sake. If Owain wanted to be by him, then he would make sure no one could tell him otherwise.
"And it's yours, now. There's no judge who's going to suddenly appear and tell me that I can't give you my clothes. Pretty sure my family owes you a hell of a lot more than that. Put it on, we can still catch the daylight."
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He wants to argue about how Lord Dameron gave him everything, but he knows it's an uncomfortable conversation and that's not what he wants. He carefully slips his arms through the jacket as if they're dirty and he doesn't want to stain it by wearing it, but it fits him well, if not slightly loose and slightly short. He stands to his feet and he keeps looking down at himself like he's just-- an entirely different person, or something-- and then he's grinning at Poe, ear to ear, even as he tries to pretend like he isn't so fucking god damn happy.
"Now? You had a really, really big day - are you sure you don't want to relax and catch an early night? I really don't mind waiting until tomorrow, you didn't have to do this at all-- though," Okay, the grin falls. "We should talk about the bed thing, too."
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Yeah. It suited him.
"Yeah, now. Honestly, if it was up to me? I would be heading straight for a pub and probably a fight, so let me take care of you instead and maybe I'll come out of tonight without a black eye."
At the last, he gave a firm, unwavering smile. "And we're not talking about the bed thing."
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