Chapter Text
Lyonel Baratheon was at his wits’ fucking end.
It was his own fault. Most agonies in his life were. This, however, was a deeper ‘new low’ than he’d reached in some time.
He’d kept the same set of rules, the same routine, for the last six years. It was shortly before then that Lyonel had his most recent cup of coffee. Tea, too, had been banished from his life, as had heavy meals before bed, late nights at work, any alcohol besides a glass of wine with dinner, and using his phone in bed.
He had abided by those rules out of necessity, because if he didn’t, his insomnia would put him to bed in a grave instead of the ten-thousand-dollar mattress he had back in the penthouse.
Half his life, he'd struggled against the diagnosis. It's not really something you cure, it's something you manage, the doctors all said. He hadn't taken them seriously until a bout of terrifying arrhythmia and a psychotic episode had left him hospitalized: eighty hours without rest, and his sleep had almost become permanent. That had been—ironically—the wakeup call he needed.
So he had his rules, and he followed them.
Six years, he'd teetered on the edge of episode after episode, paranoia creeping in whenever he got even the slightest hint of sleeping poorly. He'd memorized the symptoms chart with as much intense devotion as he'd memorized business skills and courtly protocol, though this was a lesson learned out of desperation, and not duty.
His eyes burned as he paced in front of the coffee shop, pretending to be taking a phone call but in actuality working up the nerve to step inside. He'd left his building that morning buzzing with manic energy, knowing what he was going to do. Dunk's voice in his ear kept him grounded to the pavement.
"I'm just back from the gym, I was wondering if you wanted to browse that new toy site together tonight? And before you ask, no, I am not avoiding texting this to you because I'm too shy to read it back to myself; I just know I won't remember this thought if I don't get it down now, and it's faster. Okay. Bye, daddy."
He tapped over to the next one, forcing himself to do a round of box breathing before holding it up to his ear.
"F-fu—hi, daddy. You're at work, and you're going to be so annoyed when you can't listen to this right now. Ohmygods, ohh that's deep, hah. This is—I was organizing again, and I found the double piece you got me. Your favorite one, right? The one you said you'd—oh, oh, I'm riding it the other way for you now. Riding you—"
Someone shoulder-checked him on their way into the coffee shop, some ridiculous place named MuudWater. He nearly swore at them, especially when his phone fell out of his hands.
Fine motor skills will start to fail after about thirty hours—
"Fuck," Lyonel cursed to himself, picking up his phone off the sidewalk and looking it over.
He'd gotten a rather bulky phone case some months ago, from a company whose hubristic advertising tickled him. They claimed that the phone case would withstand any amount of human force applied against it, or your money back.The company Lyonel chaired was one built on more careful claims. Still, he was a little morbidly curious about what that breaking point would be, so he'd bought the case.
But the phone hadn't cracked where it'd fallen, and the company remained unchecked. He opened the messaging app and despaired to see that his scrolling progress had been lost. He'd spent most of the morning before he'd even gotten here relistening to all of Dunk's audio messages in an effort to calm his anxious heart, but with how it presently raced, his efforts felt rather in vain.
Might be a sign to just go inside, he hedged, looking over at the door to MuudWater. It felt like staring down the gates of hell.
Maybe after one more message.
He scrolled around and selected one at random, trying not to shake apart at the seams on a very public sidewalk.
Oh. This one was new.
"Hey, Lyonel, I know it's super late but I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you. Not just… not because of the money, but because I feel like you really listen to me. You see me in a way nobody else does, really. And not just because I've got no clothes on, mind. Hah. Maybe it's silly of me to feel like that, and sillier of me to say it. But I regret not saying a lot of things to people I—to people I should have said things to. I just wanted you to know that. So… thank you."
Lyonel felt short of breath for a much different reason than before. He certainly felt calmer and more level-headed, but his heart was likely to explode at any second.
Dunk had sent this message quite late last night, around three in the morning. He'd assumed Lyonel would be asleep. Lyonel had been awake when the message came in, but had kept himself from listening to the memo, feeling guilty over being awake at all.
Feelings of shame about your sleep problems are easy to give in to, but if you are having difficulties with your insomnia, you should never punish yourself for—
Well, he was past that point, wasn't he? It certainly wasn't a conscious choice to wear his least favorite suit today (ironically, the black one with the bold golden pinstripes—his house colors, but undeniably prison chic), but subconsciously? His mind had told him you didn't sleep, so you can't have nice things, you can't wear nice things, you can only wear ugly things, ugly like you, unwanted like you, disappointing and uncomfortable and stupid things like you.
He pocketed his phone after a notification came in, warning him of the morning meeting fifteen minutes from now. If he delayed any longer, he'd be late to work, and Rowan would know something was the matter and fucking Damon Lannister would know something was the matter because he was here today and—
If he only had a coffee maker, he could hide his shame, but he no longer owned one, and the one at the office was a bit too public for him to use without being noticed. He didn’t even have a mug at work. His assistant would have flat-out denied him a cup if he’d asked for one, since she was well aware of his condition.
Six years without coffee, meet three days without sleep.
He'd already broken a thousand other rules he'd set for himself this year alone. He couldn't make himself feel bad breaking those rules, however—it had brought him closer to Dunk and made him happier than anything else in this fucking world.
Discipline is weathering the storm long past the point of losing your heading, boy, his father's voice said in his head, stern and disapproving.
Yeah, well. Fuck you, dad.
"Fuck it," he muttered, heading for the front door.
It'd been so long that he nearly made a pissy little sneer at the earthy scent of fresh coffee grounds. He schooled himself and queued with the rest of the dreadfully undercaffeinated, not even bothering to look up at the strange-named drinks on the board behind the counter. The screech of the espresso machines and the steamers grated on his skull.
Migraines will come on much easier when you're sleep-deprived, and migraines lasting multiple days can indicate an acute insomnia epis—
Nope. He wasn't thinking about that. He balled his hands into fists in his pockets and tried to remember the nice things Dunk had said, the sound of his moans, the way his lilting accent curled around alright, daddy, and all other sorts of nice and lovely words. When the tightness in his chest did not abate, he nearly turned on his heel and left the shop screaming.
But then he heard the voice.
“…looking forward to this for a while, I never manage to get it while it’s in season, hah…”
Lyonel wondered if he’d skipped a few symptoms on the sleep deprivation timeline, going straight to auditory hallucinations. They were normally much meaner, crueler phantoms that haunted the corners of his mind. He'd just imagined his father's voice a moment ago, hadn't he? So this couldn't be real, either.
So there was no possible way that Dunk, his Dunk, was standing just ten feet in front of him, ordering the most atrocious-sounding seasonal gimmick drink Lyonel’s ever heard of.
But he knew that voice. He'd just been listening to it outside on the sidewalk.
His eyes now burned for another reason, tears springing up in his lash line as a wave of fear hit him. No, I can’t be hallucinating, that’s a stage-four problem, and if it’s stage-four, then I need to go in and if I go in I can’t ensure the Lannisters don't try to fuck us on this deal and if I can’t ensure the deal is sound I’ll—
“You buying for the office, then?” the barista said.
“No, they’re just for me. Treatin’ myself.” Gods, he sounds so proud.
“Ah, well, you look like you deserve it. Hope you enjoy. The cherry’s a favorite around here.”
“Cheers, thanks.”
The man turned, and now Lyonel nearly did weep, because there was no mistaking who was in front of him. Dunk was smiling softly to himself, presently laden with a half-dozen pastries in crinkly bags. He shuffled over to where a handful of tired business professionals waited for their drinks. He looked distinctly out of place, not only a full head taller than everyone else but also dressed down, in a hoodie, jeans, and work boots.
He was the most beautiful thing Lyonel had ever seen in his life.
Dunk took a glance around the coffee shop, still smiling faintly. Lyonel tensed, holding his breath, ready for that moment where their eyes would lock, the rest of the room would fall away—
That sky-blue gaze drifted right over him like a passing cloud.
Stupid fucking suit, boring ugly suit just like any other corporate drone in this place of course he'd ignore you. And your hair is terrible today.
He shook his head and tucked his head down, blinking rapidly against his stinging eyes as the line shifted up.
Stage-three symptoms can include heightened emotional reactions, such as acute anxious fits, thoughts of negative self-worth, and—
“Hi, good morning, how can I help you?” said the cashier at the front of the line. He hadn’t even noticed they’d moved up.
While reaction time is heavily impaired after more than 24 hours without sleep, severe cases often result in moments when a patient feels as though time is skipping—
“Yeah, hi, just a black coffee. A small one.”
Caffeine intake will greatly impact your ability to fall and stay asl—
“Alright. And the name?”
Depersonalization and periods of disassociation can—
“Er, Lyonel.”
“Would you like room for cream and sugar? The station’s over there.”
“No, thanks.” He dropped a large bill on the counter. “You can keep the rest.”
“Thank you, sir! Have a nice day!”
He could hear the smile in her voice, the gratitude, but didn't allow himself to witness it. He just nodded tightly and walked toward the other waiting patrons like a man with an appointment at the gallows.
The incessant symptom-ticker in his head ceased the moment he laid eyes on Dunk again. Dunk, who had put his pastries into a tattered brown backpack that Lyonel recognized from the background of their video calls. He recognized the hoodie he wore, too.
It was one Lyonel had bought for him, in the roundabout way Lyonel bought him anything. The wishlist situation had worked for them for a while, but that list had run dry by the time Lyonel bought him the apartment in Highharvest. He'd simply had to get creative, which was made much easier by having his exact address rattling away in his skull at all hours.
He'd not sent Meryn over for any errands after the first time. Meryn, the blessing, hadn't inquired further after passing the remote over to him that day in late summer, but Lyonel could tell he wanted to. Knowing his nephew had met Dunk—had fucking seen Dunk—before he'd even asked to meet him in person had filled him with weeping jealousy for a long while, but a trip to Dream's End had righted him, had put things in perspective again.
Or so he thought.
He's wearing my clothes, the clothes I bought him. He appreciates me, and wanted me to know that at three in the bloody morning. He thinks I see him like nobody else does. He's wearing—
Gods, he smells nice.
Lyonel tried not to stand too close to him and failed when the same shoulder-checker from before jostled him close. His heart raced as he caught his balance, nearly stepping right on Dunk's foot. He gulped a little, looking up at Dunk…
Who was still zipping up his backpack and paying him no attention.
Lyonel sighed again, stretching his neck side to side and trying not to agonize over the whole thing. Part of him wanted to take out his phone and snap a stealthy picture of the moment, to have something to remember this by, to remind him that it was real, that Dunk was real and not just a beautiful part of his life he experienced through his phone.
He couldn’t.
Not only because that was objectively creepy behavior, but they had a boundary drawn between them about saving photos and videos, even though it was pretty vague and more a promise on Lyonel's part than an agreement, and so much had changed since then. Lyonel had never saved any of the photos Dunk had sent, and had to scroll back ages to find certain ones to stare at. All he had was his phone's cache and a paranoid amount of system backups saved to the cloud. He wished he could have a photo in his pocket, something he could keep on his nightstand to look at before seeing him in his dreams. Hell, he just wished he had some part of Dunk that he could hold.
Time was ephemeral and as tangible as smoke. Yet it was all he could ask of him.
He’s not your boyfriend, he reminded himself bitterly.
Dunk stood broad-shouldered and beautiful beside him all the same, completely unaware that Lyonel was there at all. Maybe he had noticed him and was simply handling this whole thing a lot better than Lyonel was. That wasn’t outside the realm of possibility; Lyonel was a huge fucking mess at present, sleep-deprived and still partially convinced that this whole thing was just a hallucination. He probably looked like a particularly subdued maniac at present.
Or maybe the suit is just so ugly that you disappear from view entirely.
“I have a Festive Autumn Frap with oat milk for Duncan?” the barista said at the counter.
Dunk left his side, and Lyonel was shocked at just how greatly it made his heart ache.
Hypertension is common in men over forty with chronic insomnia—
“And a drip with no room for Lyonel?”
Dunk's head snapped up, shoulders tensing. From here, Lyonel could see the tips of his ears going as red as his hair. As if drawn by a string tied round his heart, Lyonel drifted forward, one step, then another. Then Dunk suddenly turned, and—
“Oof,” Lyonel grunted when a large work boot stamped inelegantly on his fine leather shoes. The pain made his vision white out for a second, but just the one. His hands came to rest on Dunk’s chest for stability as they stumbled together. Then his head lifted—
Time slowed.
The rest of the cafe fell the fuck away.
Gods, he’s tall. And so much lovelier up close. Lyonel knew he likely looked a mess in comparison, all dark circles and shit hair and the fact that the undertone this suit doesn’t make him look so much olive-skinned as green—
“Oh,” Dunk said. The word, just a sound, really, was knocked out of his lungs like he’d been the one getting his foot crushed. His eyes were round and wide as the sky, and Lyonel wanted more than anything to dive in, like a free and feathered thing. His lips, plush and pink and a little chapped, were still wrapped around the word when Lyonel straightened himself up again, swallowing roughly and allowing a bit of distance between them.
All he wanted was to crawl inside Dunk's chest and never leave. Now he knew how warm Dunk was, it felt like dreams waited right at his fingertips, singed with everything he ever wanted but could not hold onto.
They hadn’t talked about this. He wanted nothing more than to simply speak as they already did, every day and night, but he could not find a single word. For all the things Lyonel Baratheon knew to say, all the sultry come-ons and delightful phrases that could make Dunk blush and smile, none came to mind. Gods, he could feel his breath from this close, warm and a little sweet-smelling from the single sip he’d taken of his ridiculous drink. Apples and cinnamon and vanilla, just as sweet as he thought he’d be.
Even sweeter to taste such a thing from his lips, Lyonel’s traitorous, bothersome heart said.
His eyes dropped back to Dunk’s mouth, and he felt he couldn’t breathe at the very sight. Soft and plush and a little pouting. He’d shut his mouth since that single oh, but Lyonel remembered the glint of crooked white teeth and a red little tongue. Wet and warm and good fuck, he wanted to kiss him so badly it nearly made his chest ache—
No, that was because he wasn’t breathing.
He sucked in a breath, shuddering and too cold for the warmth stoked in his chest. Everything looked brighter, sparkling, and smelled sweeter, apple cinnamon vanilla and what else, and Lyonel knew he was about three seconds from doing something completely rash in a very public coffee shop. Coffee shops had bathrooms with locks, didn’t they?
Lyonel leaned closer, around Dunk’s stock-still frame, to grab the little cup of black coffee. Their chests brushed again, and he had to crane his head to see where he was grabbing, which made the soft puff of breath against his neck stand out all the more. He could have moaned. The cup wasn’t half as warm against his palm as Dunk’s chest had been, even through the hoodie. He let himself pretend that the prickling burn in his hand was enough.
He withdrew, putting a whole step between them. The sounds, scents, and details of the coffee shop faded back into his awareness. Nobody around seemed at all interested in their little moment; everyone was sucked up in their own little worlds, while Lyonel was currently having his own rocked to tiny pieces.
I still want to kiss him. I could grab his sweater and—
He’s not your boyfriend.
Irrational decisionmaking increases the longer a patient goes without sleep. With your position, Mr. Baratheon, I recommend you remain vigilant in keeping track of your symptoms, and follow your routines to the letter as much as is possible.
Lyonel broke the connection their eyes had taken up, quickly taking in the rest of Dunk’s body with an intensity he normally reserved for work-related tasks. Might not see him again like this. King’s Landing is not as small a place as you’d like it to be.
His gaze snagged on the drink Dunk was holding. It looked so small in his hand, an adorable sort of juxtaposition that drew a smile to his lips. He aimed that smile at Dunk and allowed himself a single sentence. “I hope it’s as good as you wanted it to be.”
Dunk’s brows shot up, a look of open surprise on his face. Confusion, too, until he looked down at his drink and back up again. “Oh,” he said again. Just a soft noise, hardly a word, a sigh, a kiss of air, but even the smallest wind could push a seasoned sailor on.
Through the storm, don't lose your heading, his father's voice intoned. Lyonel gave a little nod and forged his way out of the shop.
He dropped the full, untouched coffee in the trash just before he got to work, but did not drop his smile for the rest of the day.