[short story] I (Do Not) Trust

Heello, everyone! 

It's 4 AM again, but I managed to finish it this time! ♥♥♥ 

This one was kinda hard to write, tbh (I actually wrote two short stories that, together, are >5k long xD). 

What I write in these short stories is ALWAYS canon, so I have to be very careful about who does what and when. We know that some archetypes haven't yet slept with Mathias, so I had to be careful writing this one... as hard as it was to stop writing it. XD As I mentioned, it's only slightly NSFW, but I hope you'll have fun all the same.

I really liked this poll thing, btw, so I'll definitely repeat it next month! If you want to see content about a specific character, please feel free to leave a comment or send me a DM, and I'll add it to the poll. ;)))

This short story is 2410 words long, with a little angst, a little fluff, and some steam. I hope you enjoy the read!

I (Do Not) Trust

8:40, the Opalean Castle, after a birthday dinner.

The moon is closer to the horizon, whispering to Mathias how late it really is. He had enough time to think again and again about the conversations during dinner. To be angry at Mandreis for not respecting other people’s personal spaces. To admire Yulie’s ability to shift the mood of the entire room with nothing but a gesture and a single sentence. 

And finally... to worry about his Guard.

Mathias grimaces and lowers his eyes to the edges of his blanket, twisted and knotted around his shoulders by his nervous hands. They only had a few months now; he didn’t think time would pass so quickly.

“They’re not coming, are they?” The question, although said aloud, is meant for no one. He’s alone. 

Mathias sighs, rubbing his face with a handful of spun wool. He thought he and his guard could rest and just relax together, something they hadn’t done in months—since his Guard decided to become General Yulie’s Warrior—but maybe Mathias just didn’t understand how serious a situation this is. He thought this after-party would be a good idea. 

Maybe he was wrong.

The mood must be terribly somber after that dinner. With the date of his guard’s departure so close, maybe it’s time to admit that he lost his chance. Maybe his guard won’t even show up. 

Maybe Mathias will have to keep his words stuck in his throat for yet another twelve years, give or take.

The door at his back opens with a loud creak, and his shoulder jumps. His eyes go wide when the scent of his favorite perfume—their perfume—reaches his nose. Mathias turns around, still not quite capable of schooling his expression. 

“Shit. Sorry, did I scare you?” his guard says. They stand at the doorstep, their silhouette cut against the strong, yellow torchlight at their back. 

“I—!” Mathias breathes out a smile; then, when words fail him—and his ears start to heat up—he shakes his head.

“Good. Ah.” They snap their fingers. “I know. You thought I’d forget our promise, right? Tsk. Do you have so little faith in me, My Liege?”

Mathias blinks. What. “No! I trust you.” 

“Do you really?” the guard teases with a tiny smile, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind their back. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

“I do! I…” he trails off, eyes narrowing, lips curling downward. 

Oh, that face. His breath catches, and he has to make a conscious effort to pull air into his lungs. 

“Mathias?”

Instead of answering, he reaches for his expensive wine, tugs the cork out, and downs one, two, then three big gulps despite his guard’s attempts to stop him.

“Whoa, what—”

With his guard’s hand still clasping his arm, Mathias puts the bottle down with a delicate clink and cleans his lips in the expensive silk of his shirt. 

Mathias saw it. 

In that split second that had his guard leaving the strong light inside the castle and stepping under the weak light of the moon, Mathias read the worry in his guard’s face.

They are trying to comfort me. To calm me down, even in a moment like this.

His guard kneels at his side. “Mathias, what’s wrong?” 

It feels bitter, this concern for him, the future king, the man who will, one day, be the most powerful in the land. Can his guard not focus on their own well-being for once? Don’t they know that Mathias will stay behind, comfortable and protected in his own castle?

“Are you mad at me because I was late?” the guard asks. The worry fades a little, giving way to excitement—but even this feels a little forced, a little performative. “General Yulie started to tell stories about her travels with a Peregrine.” They scratch the back of their neck. Performative. “I lost track of time. You know how much I love those stories. She really has a way to inspire people, doesn’t she? I’m sure our time with her will bring the best in all of us.”

Performative! To placate him! To make him believe their experience won’t be bad!

Mathias lets out a very deep sigh and shakes his head.

“My Liege?”

He stands, his nervous energy too much to stay still. With large steps, he walks away, pacing left and right. Do they think he’s too weak? It’s no surprise that some people think that—Mathias knows himself and his strengths, and he understands that some of them might not be obvious to everyone.

But would it be so to them? Mathias thought his guard knew him just as well as he knows them! 

“My Liege, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.”

His guard’s voice cracks just a little at the end of that sentence, and that gives him pause.

A moment, that’s all he has to make a decision and set a course of action. 

He has no right to force a conversation out of his guard, but he should be able to help them. Mathias will have to lie. He will have to pretend he believes them, so his guard won’t worry about him while they’re on the front. That should work.

“Mathias!”

“Hm?” He manages a courtly smile that seems to placate his guard a little. “Yes, I’m sorry.” His empty chuckle sounds pretty close to a genuine one, and he brushes a lock of light hair behind his ear to appear bashful. “It’s just—you mentioned the Peregrine, and I remembered that book. What is it called? The one with the game we used to play? It doesn’t matter. We just have to see how close you’ll let me get to you. I won’t touch you as long as you trust me not to. Whoever gives up first loses. Simple, right? But very fun.”

His guard seems so relieved, it’s almost funny. “That does sound fun. But are these really the only rules? What if—”

From where he stands, a couple of meters away, Mathias puts simply, “Do you trust me?”

The guard must see the somewhat mirrored situation they’re in, but instead of confusion, they narrow their eyes with a tinge of mischief. They cross their arms and stand a little straighter.

“Yes, My Liege.”

“Really?” With a dry chuckle, Mathias studies his guard’s face. When did they become so good at hiding their worries? At shutting him out? Are they doing this to everyone, or is there someone being let in? Mathias takes a wide step forward, leaning down to get his bottle of wine. “Do you trust me?” Eyes still on the guard, he brings the bottle to his lips and takes another swig. A cold drop slides down the corner of his lip and runs down his neck to stain his shirt.

The guard blinks and looks away when Mathias sets his eyes on them again. They clear their throat. “Yes.”

Another wide step forward. He’s not so much afraid of losing his guard in battle—Mathias has seen them fight, and he’s aware of how careful (how skilled, how precise, how incredible) his guard is. 

No. Mathias is worried about what the distance and the fighting can do to their heart, in more ways than one.

He holds the bottle by its neck—long fingers, the tinted glass resting against the side of his thigh—and smiles. There’s some bitterness in his voice when he asks, “Do you trust me?”

This time, something changes. Mathias doesn’t know what kind of expression he’s making, but he sees the impact it has on his guard. A flicker of surprise; widened eyes that jump between his and settle in the distance in avoidance.

Shit. 

Mathias does his best to school his expression, then lets out a soft laugh. He does his very best to make it sound natural.

“Tired of playing?” Mathias says. “We still have wine and cheese. Maybe we can—”

“No.”

His guard sighs and moves to the side, stepping closer to the wall. They prop their elbows on the stone and run a hand through their hair.

What happened? Did Mathias… fail to pretend that everything was okay?

“I guess you can see right through me, huh?” his guard whispers. 

“…” Mathias lets out a mirthless chuckle. Goddess, he couldn’t believe this. “And you through me, it seems.”

“You were mad, weren’t you?”

“Of course I was mad! You dare worry about me when you’re the one who’s about to fight a war thousands of kilometers away from me.”

“Away from you,” they echo. The corner of the guard’s lips quirk up; the tips of Mathias’s ears feel warmer. Mathias’s guard glances at him, then away again. “I didn’t want you to worry, is all,” they say.

“I know that, which is even more frustrating.”

The guard can’t stop a little laugh. They don’t answer at first, kicking the unevenness between two blocks of stone on the floor. “What a pair we make, huh?” 

Mathias nods, one of his hands running up and down his other arm. 

“Are you cold, My Liege?” With incredibly dexterous fingers, the guard unties their cloak, takes it off, and offers it. 

“I have a blanke—”

“Take it. All that early-morning training made me quite resistant to the Opalean chill.”

Mathias smiles—this time, it’s genuine. He takes the cloak, but his guard doesn’t let go of it. They narrow their eyes when they say,

“I trust you, Mathias.” They pull on the cloak, slowly bringing him closer. “Do you trust me?”

Mathias stops so close to his guard that the tips of their boots almost touch. He sighs, but a breathless laugh manages to escape his lips, too. 

“Shouldn’t you step toward me rather than bring me to you?” He chuckles, lets go of the cloak, and leans even closer, placing his arms around his guard, his hands on the wall behind them.

“I’ll always bring you with me—no matter where I go, My Liege.”

He tries not to smile, but fails. “Then…” When he lowers his head, it’s to hide the flush on his cheeks. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Mathias sighs, biting hard on his lower lip. He moves one foot forward, and his guard slides one of theirs to the side. They open their legs, and Mathias steps between them, their thighs almost touching.

“I’ll miss you,” the guard whispers.

“Do you trust me?”

The guard laughs. “Yes.”

He lets out a sound—a mix of sigh and chuckle that rumbles low in his chest. Mathias searches for his guard’s eyes as he leans even closer. Their breaths mix, Mathias’s lips only millimeters away from touching theirs. He swallows hard, frozen—burning—in place, feeling his heartbeat tight in his throat, in his chest, between his legs. Goddess. Another very small step forward; the little gasp from his guard almost makes him lose control. 

This is torture. 

He loves it.

Mathias lifts his lips to his guard’s ear. Their perfume. Their breath hits his neck. Goosebumps. 

“Do you trust me?”

Silence. And then,

“I do not.”

Crack. 

Mathias’s eyes widen. Whatever spell has kept him in place is broken, so he lets out a huff, many of his muscles uncomfortably stiff, the tension starting to go. “Right,” he mumbles. He tries to push away, but a hand grips his collar and brings him close again.

“Those are the rules, right?” The guard offers him a sweet smile, eyes narrowed, cruel promises behind them. They wrap an arm around Mathias’s neck and pull him close again. 

They wait a heartbeat, only until realization dawns on him. When it does, when Mathias’s heated gaze finds theirs, the guard says,

“Touch me, Matt.”

Mathias blinks. 

And without thinking twice, he dives into a kiss. Not a chaste one… those they shared too many times already. It’s one with tongue and only a little experience, but a lot of warmth and a sense of belonging. A kiss he’s been waiting for a long time. 

With a sharp, precise movement, he twists the guard’s wrist. Not to hurt, of course, but to make them let go of his collar—one of the few techniques he actually remembers from training. He then repositions their hand, leaving it on the very edge of his shirt.

The guard smiles against his lips. “Oh, that’s what you want, is it?”

Mathias shakes his head, his tongue sliding down the corner of his guard’s mouth and up toward the lobe of their ear. “I only want you,” he whispers.

The second kiss is better. Fuller, wetter, noisier, with breaths that come out as sound; with a desire that has him sucking on his guard’s lips while wanting to suck every part of them. 

The very thought makes him moan into his guard’s mouth. 

He opens his eyes, startled. Mathias reels back in surprise, but the guard follows, pulling him close again and slipping both hands under his shirt. The air feels hot in his chest, but the guard’s tongue feels hotter in his mouth, and their nails create burning trails on his chest. He shivers.

And moans again.

Their thighs touch as he tries to regain his balance, not so gently moving forward. 

He doesn’t think this time; he’s so tired of it, so sick of debating, fearing, questioning, regretting. The one person he wants is here. 

The guard takes a breath—and lets a small, very low moan when Mathias’s thumb slides to the side, his forefinger slowly sliding into their pants. “Is this okay?” he whispers. 

His answer comes when the guard’s fingers find his nipples. A shiver. Mathias smirks against moist lips, hot skin underneath a layer of thin fabric. His heart is racing, his patience ending. He has dreamed about this way too many times, he wouldn’t— 

“Brother!”

Fuck.

Mathias’s eyes go wide, and he jumps back as the door to the stairs is slapped open. His guard jumps down from the wall and turns around to fix their clothes, to dry their lips, and to peek over their shoulder at Mathias, giving him a wink.

“There you two are.” Mandra invades their space, laughing, completely drunk, and stumbles. With a giggle, they bash a deck of cards atop the forgotten blanket. They snatch the bottle of wine, take a few swigs, and gesture to the cards. “Let’s go, Brother. Let’s see who wins in the end, c’mon!”