He almost corrects him. Of course it's your business, right on the tip of his tongue. But he swallows the thought back, a worrying thought breaking into his mind and cutting it off. He doesn't know what they are. This isn't... this isn't a lover, he's talking to, exactly. He swore an oath - impulsively or not - and that's the underline of their relationship. Not... what happened last night.
He cleared his throat, frowning.
"... Don't worry about me. I can deal with it. It's just a few days. Once we're back on the frontier, keeping up appearances won't matter."
He's the closest thing Owain's ever known to a lover. He wouldn't be able to tell the difference between whatever he and Poe have to what an actual relationship might be, because, well - it's never been his lot in life to date. All he can say, with certainty, is that he and Poe did something pretty fucking impulsive based on some pretty huge emotions, and now Owain's chest hurts every time they're together.
He doesn't like it when Poe frowns.
"I'm gonna worry." It's hard not to, after everything. He runs his hand through the spikes of his hair and looks out over the courtyard. He wonders, again, if anyone heard them last night.
Despite what Poe said about keeping up appearances, he 'forgot' to re-bandage his hand, the dark stain in his palm a fairly easy signifier for what had happened the day before. Also any time Owain dropped to walk behind him, he would drop back himself and start talking to him about something - anything - just for the excuse to walk side by side. The first stop was ordering Owain's uniform - he was measured in eight hundred ways - but for the clothes for the ball, they had to go out. There was no point going back to the family manor - any formal wear Poe had was a decade out of date and wouldn't fit Owain anyway. Poe would wear his dress uniform - which he carefully left with the laundry on their way out (along with the sheets) - but Owain would have to dress to match.
Fashion for Pledges ran a wide gamut, as some Masters used their Pledges as glorified symbols of their own status, and others wanted them as mute and out of the way as possible. Poe - Poe wanted something else.
The outfit they ended up purchasing was very similar in style to Poe's uniform, though obviously in a far more civilian style. The fabric was a deep navy blue - for his father - with gold embellishments, for Lissa.
Poe fussed over it, for a while, while they adjusting the tailoring for Owain, but eventually he was satisfied. It was actually an incredibly handsome outfit, but. It wasn't for him. It was for them - the judging eyes - and he couldn't help but feel slightly bitter about that.
There was a little more shopping to do - Owain needed some small clothes if Poe was going to be able to keep himself from continuously crouching at the man's crotch, as well as other toiletries - and during the luncheon Poe had to go speak at a Pub to potential recruits. He did so with a passion and vigour he reserved for these things - his stories growing far larger than him. Three men came to him afterward to declare their intention to sign up.
The shops were still open, when they were headed back to the palace, and Poe stopped - packages under his arm.
"... We should get you something," he said, out of nowhere.
He notices everything Poe does, from forgetting his bandage to keeping their paces even, and while Odin's acts of rebellion aren't anywhere nearly as decisive, they're still there. He keeps the conversations dragging on, the ones they have while they're shoulder to shoulder. He comments on things, quietly, under his breath - little things, like the sound of a bird or the smell of food they pass by, thoughts he should be, by all rights, keeping to himself. Every time they get a look, he falters and steps back out of line, hiding behind Poe and keeping his mouth shut, but every time Poe steps back to be with him, he tries a little harder.
He loves the suit, and it's his, even if it was never designed to be. Poe picked it out, Poe did everything, and this is his because Poe gave it to him. He's brighter than the fucking sun when they leave the tailor, talking louder, faster than before, forgetting himself just to go on and on and on about how much fun they're going to have at the ball and how much he's going to love dancing with Poe and how everything they do they're going to do it together, equal.
His heart moves in a weird way during recruitment, but he's uncharacteristically quiet during the whole thing. It's a reminder, maybe, more than the looks and more than the fear, that this is what their life is. Poe's a fighter, he's going to war. The gravity didn't mean much, when Owain was just waiting to die. He's still so, so willing to throw himself in the way of a blade to keep Poe from harm, but it's-- different, now, in a way he can't place. The vows, maybe.
He's a little stunned when Poe says to get him something, and he gestures at pretty much every package the both of them are carrying.
"I'm pretty sure we just got me about ninety thousand things. You've already done far too much for me."
Poe glances down at the packages in his arms before offering a rolling shrug.
"There are all necessary things. Things that you need to have. I just mean - like - something that's yours, to enjoy for yourself, I guess. Like a set of cards, or a book, or something. Obviously we can't take a lot with us to the front, but--"
His instinct is to argue, and he's been learning, slowly, that his instincts aren't necessarily right. He looks down at himself and tries to work out if he's resistant because he doesn't want something or if he feel he's not allowed something, and it's... pretty clearly the latter.
"... Okay. Okay, no-- yeah. Yeah, I'd love that. I used to read all the time, so that might..."
He trails off.
"We need something that we can do together. When we're out there."
"Trust me, we won't have a lack of things to do together," he says mildly, and though it could have been a euphamism, it wasn't. They would be plenty busy. But he gets what Owain means.
"You read, huh? Well why don't we start there, then. I know almost nothing about books, but I like hearing the stories." He's not a big reader, sorry Owain.
He turns around, looking for a bookshop, before heading in the direction of one.
Shit, they're doing this? Owain grins and picks up the pace as they walk, sticking to Poe's side like glue. He can see the bookshop in the distance and the noise he makes is somewhat reminiscent of a strangled seagull, because he's fantasized about going to a store like that, and now there's one right there, and he has to do everything in his power to not just break into a sprint.
"Yeah! Yeah-- but-- I mean, it's more of a means to an end than anything? I like to write, but I never thought I'd ever be allowed. I'm supposed to mind my words, not... elaborate on them. I'm not supposed to have enough free thought to make art, or create, I'm--"
He swallows, hesitant to talk about all of this. His parents were lucky, to have Lord Dameron and The Lady Commander afford to them as many freedoms as they did. He kicks at the ground and keeps walking.
"Just-- yeah. Books." He nods. "I like-- fiction. And records of history. I like learning about people from the past and the amazing things they did, and I like reading about heroes who do everything in their power to save or change the world." Very, very quietly, he adds--
"That's what I would want to be. If I could be something. A hero to the people, changing things for the better."
He tries to smother she smile that raises to his lips in response to Owain's energy. He really does try. It's tempered, though, as Owain continues, a flicker of a crease in his brow.
"We should get you a journal, then. I don't really tend to carry anything for writing on me, but - I know a lot of the men do."
He stops, though, fully, when Owain finishes, a far more intense expression settling on his face, brows pulled together and his eyes sharp.
"You can be something. Owain. You can be anything you damn well want - I'll make sure of it."
He sinks back and looks up at the sky, thoughts of all the things he could write in them just-- flooding through his head. Stories, memories, everything. It's such a small, small thing to own, but it's a token of something, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he focuses too hard on how much he wants it.
"You gotta, uh..." He grins at Poe, then, feeling tiny and small even as he has to look down to catch his eyes.
"You gotta come with me. If I do that. Become big and strong and have everyone know my name. I'm not gonna be able to do a damn thing in my life without you."
Poe looks like he was getting geared up for a fight, though a fight against what and who is not at all clear.
"You won't need me," he assures him, with all the bullheaded assuredness of the righteous. But after he a second, he adds, "But I'll be there anyway."
He doesn't wait to let Owain start questioning it - or, really, to let him point out why Poe is wrong - instead he just heads straight into the bookshop without another thought, and right up to the seller.
"Travel journals? A good leather binding, if you have them, something sturdy."
Poe bails on the conversation before Owain has a chance to respond-- he would have drowned out the voices in his head and said I think you're right, rather than argue-- and he follows him into the bookshop. Everything smells like leather and paper, and he feels like he's in Kes's library, back home, only now everything here is actually something he can keep.
It's dangerous, when he speaks up, but he interrupts Poe to do it.
"-- Wait. Two? Get two. So Poe can-- write. With me. Can you bring us two?"
The man behind the counter looks at Owain with something close to disbelief, then back to Poe, as if expecting him to speak up. Apologize for his Pledge's impropriety, maybe scold him for talking over his master - but Poe's position in the military prevents him from actually saying anything, and he leaves him and Owain alone.
He only brings back one journal, and it's beautiful, leather-bound and sturdy as Poe asked, a dark brown with a gold butterfly pin latching it shut. Owain says nothing, but his head is bowed, slightly. Fucking idiot.
Poe is not a large one. He is not tall - his stature is not imposing in of itself. But the way his spine straightens and his eyes narrow into sharp dark points makes him seem approximately three feet taller than he is.
"Two, he said." His voice is disturbingly calm - even and deep - and he doesn't even blink at the man when he says it.
The man straightens his own posture and Owain finds Poe's hand, taking it with his own, his bandage over Poe's fresh scar. He doesn't want this to escalate, and he's fine with just going or taking one or whatever, it's fine-- but the man buckles under Poe's projected authority and leaves, coming back with a second journal.
Owain pays for them. He pays, just so he can have the satisfaction of looking the clerk in the eyes when his order - the order he placed - goes back to his hand. He's terrified the whole time and he refuses to let go of Poe, but he does it, and they leave without a fight breaking out.
He puts his hands on his knees and just sort of breathes once they're back on the streets. Fuck. He got carried away.
"What a prick," Poe is muttering, standing next to Owain and glaring back at the store for a while. "Didn't even manage to get you a book, I was too angry."
He paused, turning to look down at Owain, the frustration melting into worry.
Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It wasn't his place, he shouldn't have said shit, this is already getting carried away far too fast, he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have done half the things he's done, he should have just stayed quiet and kept to himself and been a good b--
He stands up straighter and scrubs his free hand through his hair, roughing it up and chasing thoughts from his head. He finds the journals and holds them both tight to his chest, looking down as he starts walking dead ahead, directionless. Doesn't know where to go next, just doesn't want to be here.
"I didn't need a book. You don't have to get me a book. Like I said-- means to an end. I'm a writer, I write, I want to write and I want you to write with me and I want-- to write."
"You know I don't even like writing my reports, right?" He asked, trying to joke, but he was too obviously concerned for it to come out with much humour.
"But you said you wanted to do something together, so - sure. For you, I'll try it. Gods know you are taking enough shit for my sake."
He trailed off, before reaching out and squeezing Owain's arm.
"Come on. The ball starts at midnight - we've got a little time, and I'm more than ready to say good-fucking-bye to the Capitol."
The lack of humor and the tension in his mind makes Owain take that as a rejection, and he flinches, up until Poe clears up his meaning.
"No, I-- it'll-- I'll teach you. Okay? It doesn't even have to be anything, it's just-- pen on paper, the feel of seeing something in your head come to life, it's-- you'll see. Okay? You'll see."
He's anchored, by the squeeze on his arm. Looks to Poe like it hurts, for a second, but the longer he looks at Owain, the more obvious it is that he's just really, really fucking hurting from whatever it is that's going through his head and he needs to look at Poe to be reminded that he's okay, he's safe, he's not doing anything wrong.
He takes a breath and nods. Ball. Midnight. Capitol. Okay.
"We'll--" He swallows. "We'll be okay. Through this. Yeah? The dance."
"Hey." He lets go of Owain's arm, reaching out with both hands to cup either side of his face, instead, tilting him down so that he has to meet Poe's eyes. They're still in the middle of the street, but Poe doesn't seem to give a shit - even as his left hand leaves a smudge of blood on Owain's cheek.
"We're alright. You're alright. We'll be just fine. Trust me."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He cleared his throat, frowning.
"... Don't worry about me. I can deal with it. It's just a few days. Once we're back on the frontier, keeping up appearances won't matter."
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He doesn't like it when Poe frowns.
"I'm gonna worry." It's hard not to, after everything. He runs his hand through the spikes of his hair and looks out over the courtyard. He wonders, again, if anyone heard them last night.
"Let's go, then."
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Fashion for Pledges ran a wide gamut, as some Masters used their Pledges as glorified symbols of their own status, and others wanted them as mute and out of the way as possible. Poe - Poe wanted something else.
The outfit they ended up purchasing was very similar in style to Poe's uniform, though obviously in a far more civilian style. The fabric was a deep navy blue - for his father - with gold embellishments, for Lissa.
Poe fussed over it, for a while, while they adjusting the tailoring for Owain, but eventually he was satisfied. It was actually an incredibly handsome outfit, but. It wasn't for him. It was for them - the judging eyes - and he couldn't help but feel slightly bitter about that.
There was a little more shopping to do - Owain needed some small clothes if Poe was going to be able to keep himself from continuously crouching at the man's crotch, as well as other toiletries - and during the luncheon Poe had to go speak at a Pub to potential recruits. He did so with a passion and vigour he reserved for these things - his stories growing far larger than him. Three men came to him afterward to declare their intention to sign up.
The shops were still open, when they were headed back to the palace, and Poe stopped - packages under his arm.
"... We should get you something," he said, out of nowhere.
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He loves the suit, and it's his, even if it was never designed to be. Poe picked it out, Poe did everything, and this is his because Poe gave it to him. He's brighter than the fucking sun when they leave the tailor, talking louder, faster than before, forgetting himself just to go on and on and on about how much fun they're going to have at the ball and how much he's going to love dancing with Poe and how everything they do they're going to do it together, equal.
His heart moves in a weird way during recruitment, but he's uncharacteristically quiet during the whole thing. It's a reminder, maybe, more than the looks and more than the fear, that this is what their life is. Poe's a fighter, he's going to war. The gravity didn't mean much, when Owain was just waiting to die. He's still so, so willing to throw himself in the way of a blade to keep Poe from harm, but it's-- different, now, in a way he can't place. The vows, maybe.
He's a little stunned when Poe says to get him something, and he gestures at pretty much every package the both of them are carrying.
"I'm pretty sure we just got me about ninety thousand things. You've already done far too much for me."
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"There are all necessary things. Things that you need to have. I just mean - like - something that's yours, to enjoy for yourself, I guess. Like a set of cards, or a book, or something. Obviously we can't take a lot with us to the front, but--"
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His instinct is to argue, and he's been learning, slowly, that his instincts aren't necessarily right. He looks down at himself and tries to work out if he's resistant because he doesn't want something or if he feel he's not allowed something, and it's... pretty clearly the latter.
"... Okay. Okay, no-- yeah. Yeah, I'd love that. I used to read all the time, so that might..."
He trails off.
"We need something that we can do together. When we're out there."
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"You read, huh? Well why don't we start there, then. I know almost nothing about books, but I like hearing the stories." He's not a big reader, sorry Owain.
He turns around, looking for a bookshop, before heading in the direction of one.
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"Yeah! Yeah-- but-- I mean, it's more of a means to an end than anything? I like to write, but I never thought I'd ever be allowed. I'm supposed to mind my words, not... elaborate on them. I'm not supposed to have enough free thought to make art, or create, I'm--"
He swallows, hesitant to talk about all of this. His parents were lucky, to have Lord Dameron and The Lady Commander afford to them as many freedoms as they did. He kicks at the ground and keeps walking.
"Just-- yeah. Books." He nods. "I like-- fiction. And records of history. I like learning about people from the past and the amazing things they did, and I like reading about heroes who do everything in their power to save or change the world." Very, very quietly, he adds--
"That's what I would want to be. If I could be something. A hero to the people, changing things for the better."
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"We should get you a journal, then. I don't really tend to carry anything for writing on me, but - I know a lot of the men do."
He stops, though, fully, when Owain finishes, a far more intense expression settling on his face, brows pulled together and his eyes sharp.
"You can be something. Owain. You can be anything you damn well want - I'll make sure of it."
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He sinks back and looks up at the sky, thoughts of all the things he could write in them just-- flooding through his head. Stories, memories, everything. It's such a small, small thing to own, but it's a token of something, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he focuses too hard on how much he wants it.
"You gotta, uh..." He grins at Poe, then, feeling tiny and small even as he has to look down to catch his eyes.
"You gotta come with me. If I do that. Become big and strong and have everyone know my name. I'm not gonna be able to do a damn thing in my life without you."
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"You won't need me," he assures him, with all the bullheaded assuredness of the righteous. But after he a second, he adds, "But I'll be there anyway."
He doesn't wait to let Owain start questioning it - or, really, to let him point out why Poe is wrong - instead he just heads straight into the bookshop without another thought, and right up to the seller.
"Travel journals? A good leather binding, if you have them, something sturdy."
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It's dangerous, when he speaks up, but he interrupts Poe to do it.
"-- Wait. Two? Get two. So Poe can-- write. With me. Can you bring us two?"
The man behind the counter looks at Owain with something close to disbelief, then back to Poe, as if expecting him to speak up. Apologize for his Pledge's impropriety, maybe scold him for talking over his master - but Poe's position in the military prevents him from actually saying anything, and he leaves him and Owain alone.
He only brings back one journal, and it's beautiful, leather-bound and sturdy as Poe asked, a dark brown with a gold butterfly pin latching it shut. Owain says nothing, but his head is bowed, slightly. Fucking idiot.
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"Two, he said." His voice is disturbingly calm - even and deep - and he doesn't even blink at the man when he says it.
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Owain pays for them. He pays, just so he can have the satisfaction of looking the clerk in the eyes when his order - the order he placed - goes back to his hand. He's terrified the whole time and he refuses to let go of Poe, but he does it, and they leave without a fight breaking out.
He puts his hands on his knees and just sort of breathes once they're back on the streets. Fuck. He got carried away.
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He paused, turning to look down at Owain, the frustration melting into worry.
"... You alright?"
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Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It wasn't his place, he shouldn't have said shit, this is already getting carried away far too fast, he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have done half the things he's done, he should have just stayed quiet and kept to himself and been a good b--
He stands up straighter and scrubs his free hand through his hair, roughing it up and chasing thoughts from his head. He finds the journals and holds them both tight to his chest, looking down as he starts walking dead ahead, directionless. Doesn't know where to go next, just doesn't want to be here.
"I didn't need a book. You don't have to get me a book. Like I said-- means to an end. I'm a writer, I write, I want to write and I want you to write with me and I want-- to write."
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"But you said you wanted to do something together, so - sure. For you, I'll try it. Gods know you are taking enough shit for my sake."
He trailed off, before reaching out and squeezing Owain's arm.
"Come on. The ball starts at midnight - we've got a little time, and I'm more than ready to say good-fucking-bye to the Capitol."
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"No, I-- it'll-- I'll teach you. Okay? It doesn't even have to be anything, it's just-- pen on paper, the feel of seeing something in your head come to life, it's-- you'll see. Okay? You'll see."
He's anchored, by the squeeze on his arm. Looks to Poe like it hurts, for a second, but the longer he looks at Owain, the more obvious it is that he's just really, really fucking hurting from whatever it is that's going through his head and he needs to look at Poe to be reminded that he's okay, he's safe, he's not doing anything wrong.
He takes a breath and nods. Ball. Midnight. Capitol. Okay.
"We'll--" He swallows. "We'll be okay. Through this. Yeah? The dance."
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"We're alright. You're alright. We'll be just fine. Trust me."