Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/611549.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Original_Male_Character/Original_Male_Character
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Falling_In_Love, Red_String_of_Fate, Explicit_Sexual_Content,
      Underage_Drinking, High_Fantasy, Knights_-_Freeform, Love_Confessions,
      Drunken_Confessions
  Series:
      Part 2 of Dragon_Knights_[OLD]
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-27 Words: 4953
****** They Will Write Ballads About Us ******
by deathwailart
Summary
     Hákon is sparring with Brynjar one day when suddenly it hits him
     right there in his chest that he loves his fellow knight-in-training.
     He looks at Brynjar and there is a seizing agony that renders him
     unable to breathe allowing the other young man to knock him to the
     ground, blade to his throat, victorious.
     Or the story of Hákon and Brynjar and how they fell in love. Prequel
     to Dragon's_Teeth,_Shallow_Water_Steel and Girl_From_the_North
     Country. World info here
Hákon is sparring with Brynjar one day when suddenly it hits him right there in
his chest that he loves his fellow knight-in-training. He looks at Brynjar and
there is a seizing agony that renders him unable to breathe allowing the other
young man to knock him to the ground, blade to his throat, victorious. But
there is no smile or good natured taunting. Brynjar knows something is wrong as
he pulls Hákon to his feet, Hákon unable to meet his eyes. He needs to get
away, needs to run. He's fast even after taking a beating on the training yard
and he makes for the hills at the edge of the village until he can no longer
hear his friend shouting his name but the look in those eyes stays with him.
His lungs burn and his legs are screaming once he finally clatters to a halt
with an old oak tree the only thing keeping him upright.

He's in love with his best friend, the boy he grew up alongside, the boy he got
into trouble with a thousand times over. He can't be in love with his best
friend and potentially ruin everything but he knows what the feeling is. So
rare that it only stays in legends from the old days before the elves and
dwarves drove the dragons from their lands but Hákon is well versed in old
stories of how they once would find a person they would defend against all
others. However it was so seldom returned that it makes him feel sick to think
about confessing to Brynjar only to be rebuffed, to make things between them
tense and uncomfortable for who would want to be alongside someone who will be
pining for you until death parted them? He shakes his head and lets out a noise
dangerously close to a sob. He is a noble son, a dragon knight-in-training, he
does not cry over love like a maiden.

Footsteps sound and he tenses, turning sharply with red eyes, scrambling for an
excuse but it isn't his best friend who has followed him, it's his training
master, Gunhild, stern and grey but loving too. She treats him like he is her
own flesh and blood, indulgent when it can be allowed. Embarrassment courses
through him even as he inclines his head respectfully to her, sniffing hard so
that she won't think him a silly boy. Instead of saying anything she sits,
leaning back on her elbows with her face tipped up to enjoy the weak warmth of
late autumn sun. Hákon hovers because he doesn't know what he's meant to do and
he's trying to piece together an explanation and apology in one when she
finally sighs.

“Sit down lad,” she begins, waving him over until he does so and then she hauls
him close to her side. “You've caused quite the ruckus.”

“Apologies,” he offers quickly, shamefaced. “I-”

“Hush and let your elder speak, save the apology for dear Brynjar. I want to
know what has you running off so far and so suddenly – you are special, Hákon,
you cannot forget that.”

Hákon pulls a sour face but says nothing. Sometimes he wishes he were a common
boy no different to the rest of them instead of being one of the few remnants
of their shattered noble lines. “I know that Gunhild, I know.”

“I am not here to lecture you boy, I want to know what that look in your eyes
then meant and why you look as distraught as you do now.”

“Gunhild-” it is as far as he gets before his throat constricts painfully,
wrenching a sob from him. Her arm squeezes him tight as he breathes and he is
grateful for the time she gives him to collect himself. “Do you believe in
fate?”

“Aye boy, I do.”

“There's an ache,” his hand forms a fist that he brings to his chest once,
“right here.”

“Solace save me,” she mutters under her breath but she allows him to tuck his
head beneath his chin, this closest thing that he has to a mother in his life.
“It could only be you and him causing such trouble recalling bygone days.”

Hákon says nothing in return. Instead he sniffs and starts to dry his eyes,
peeling himself from her side to begin composing himself anew. Her sharp eyes
watch him but he pretends not to notice until he thinks he can trust his voice.
“How was he?”

“He made to come after you but I said it was not his place.” He can picture
Brynjar's eyes wide, bottom lip being worried between his teeth. “What will you
tell him?”

“I can't tell him anything,” Hákon snaps and pushes himself to his feet. He
squares his shoulders as he was taught, stands straight and tall. “He's my best
friend, we're only fifteen, I can't destroy that.”

“Hákon,” she warns but he shakes his head.

“This is my choice Gunhild. He'll be my friend and that's all there is to it, I
can learn to live with it. I can devote myself to my duty.”

When they return Brynjar grabs for him with fingers twisting tight in leather
armour and all Hákon wants to do is kiss him and bury his hands in his hair but
he shrugs him off and lies about why he ran. It's a poor lie, they both know it
but Brynjar seems relieved enough to have him back and he lets himself be
dragged off to eat with everyone in the main hall. It's hard to swallow past
the hurt but he manages. Sleep doesn't come easily that night, lying so close
to Brynjar but he thinks of duty, of friendship, of how rare this was in the
days when they were many. He looks over at his best friend's sleeping form with
guilty eyes and wakes with that same pain in his chest. He is my friend, he
tells himself, that is enough for anyone.

The weeks stretch and he finds himself avoiding Brynjar. He asks to do more
drills with other instructors and older trainees or knights, spends time on his
reading, goes hunting alone. Brynjar's hurt eyes follow him. He wants to say
yes every time there's a suggestion of how to spend time together but he says
no, hurries away and pretends to be asleep if he is the first of them to bed.
One night he hears Brynjar strip and sit on his own bed with his eyes on
Hákon's form and it takes so much effort and restraint to hold himself still
and maintain the lie until there's a huff and the rustle of blankets and
sheets.

“What's wrong with you?” Brynjar demands after three months of Hákon avoiding
him. He's just dragged Hákon from a tavern, drinking and laughing with a wench
almost on his lap. Hákon is so drunk he can't stand, swearing and trying to
stagger away from Brynjar but he will not be deterred and when he looks up,
Brynjar's lips are in a thin line of disapproval, worry and annoyance. “Hákon
what did I do wrong?”

It's so plaintive that Hákon feels sick in a way that has nothing to do with
too many ales sitting uncomfortably in his belly. Even drunk he doesn't confess
and lets himself be hauled off to where they sleep, stripped of his boots and
clothes down to his smallclothes. It's a wrestling match to get into the bed
but Brynjar is strong and used to Hákon and so he manages, pulling the covers
up to Hákon's chin.

“Big mother hen,” Hákon grumbles.

Brynjar sighs and cups Hákon's cheek. “I love you too.”

Hákon jerks and before he knows what he's doing he's punching Brynjar in the
face as hard as he can. Unsurprisingly Brynjar is furious.

“You're a stupid sack of shit, you know that don't you?” Brynjar spits and
Hákon can feel his hackles rise at that but before he can fire back at him, he
is shoved hard enough that he staggers, hitting the wall hard enough that he's
winded for a moment. “You are my best friend Hákon! Why are you doing this to
me? Can't you tell how much I care for you? I. Love. You.” The words are
punctuated with a sharp jab to the chest, right above where he aches and has
ached for long months. He thinks oh and I really am stupid and then a near
hysterical laugh escapes him with a sob tumbling after.

“Bryn,” he cries, “Bryn, Bryn, Bryn I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-”

Brynjar kisses him fiercely, no technique whatsoever but it's not like Hákon
knows any better, both of them fifteen and it's their first kiss, tears and
snot, clacking teeth and split lips. Hákon keeps apologising until there's a
warm body fitted against his under the covers. Everyone gets a good laugh out
of a fully clothed Brynjar (in his coat and boots) next to Hákon in just his
underwear when they find them in the morning and Gunhild folds her arms,
silently glad but still furious at the sheer level of idiocy two teenage boys
can muster between them.
===============================================================================


“My king,” Brynjar breathes as he removes Hákon's armour, making him laugh.

“I would not be king, my line was only noble, not royal,” he teases, nipping at
Brynjar's lips between kisses.

“Will you allow a man his fantasies when he's spent a whole day hammering metal
at a forge?” But Brynjar's laughing too so Hákon doesn't feel guilty in the
slightest, in fact he twists so that it is Brynjar with his back to the wall,
sweaty and rumpled with streaks of soot on his cheek and across his nose.

“Why wasn't I informed you were in the forge?” Hákon demands and he is not
pouting, he is a noble and a potential dragon knight and he does not pout
Brynjar jerks his head back to peer down incredulously. “Perhaps because the
last time you were in the forge with me I got caught bent over the anvil?”

“They should think themselves lucky they got to see such a show.”

“What am I going to do with you?” It's said with exasperation and fondness and
Hákon knows he will never love another soul as he loves Brynjar even though
they're only seventeen. They are shield-brothers, best friends, lovers, like
the heroes of so long ago that they are taught about, Áki and Stígandr.

“I could think of a thousand things,” he retorts with a thrust of his hips
against Brynjar's, delighting in the ragged moan it prompts.

“Haven't even shown you a hundred,” Brynjar returns as Hákon starts to lead him
to the bed.

“Well then perhaps you should show your king a thing or two.”

He sounds bold but they haven't gone all the way yet. They're not ready because
they have at least discussed what they are to one another and Hákon knows that
as far as he is concerned, he enjoys the slow discovery of Brynjar's body and
what he likes. The way he looks on his knees between Hákon's thighs with
swollen lips, how he curls his fingers in Hákon's hair when it's Hákon on his
knees, the sound he makes when he comes with his thighs trembling. It's not
just sex related but Hákon is seventeen and head over heels as well as being
full of hormones, they tend to be the things he focusses on most. The rest of
his armour is removed slowly, methodically and long teasing fingers slide up
the tunic he wears beneath and then Brynjar is pushing for him to lie flat on
the bed with that wicked glint in his eyes that promises slow, sweet (fumbling)
torture. Hákon would have it no other way.
===============================================================================


After the loss of damn near everything to the elves and dwarves during the
great purge their lives are never easy. There is so much to learn, so much
weight placed upon their shoulders and no guarantee of success but they are
lads from the south, one of the last nobles and another young man of great
promise. Here they are trained hard but with love. They are allowed moments to
be boys for brief moments and they are told how special they are with the older
men rolling their eyes as they tell them to stop slobbering all over each
other. Sometimes it scares Hákon when he thinks of how fast they grew up with
any seeking to be knights considered men and women by thirteen and now here he
stands so close to all he has struggled for especially the past four years of
brutal training. He knows what is expected of them soon and he clings all the
tighter, teetering on the brink where his life will be forever altered. Gunhild
and their other elders watch but do not intervene, only the others who share
the barracks do with pillows, shouts or groans.

“Wait until they're back from up north,” one calls out after jokingly dumping a
glass of cold water on them. “They'll have thrice the stamina.”

Hákon and Brynjar join in with the pillow throwing and inevitable sparks of
magic, laughing breathlessly. It might be one of their last chances to indulge
in such silliness for a long time. All too soon they are on the road, staying
in a tent or the odd inn or house that will take them, elder knights as
chaperones and a band of nomads too for company. The companionship is a welcome
change and distraction as is the chance to explore and go hunting although they
watch for elven raiding parties always and have to hide more than once in the
hollows of trees or ditches or caves. There are breathless kisses stolen when
they can, a quick squeeze of the hand or a nudge from an elbow, shoulder or
hip. It can't last though and distance begins to set in as they withdraw into
themselves, no longer running off together, no longer kissing and touching. In
the end they hardly speak until Gunhild cuffs them both around the ear and
tells them they'll be sharing a room at the next inn and that they'd better
bloody sort themselves out before she drowns them in the nearest river.
===============================================================================


It all comes to a head as soon as they're unpacked. The argument begins over
who will have the first bath, a passive-aggressive piece of nonsense over who
by rights gets to go first and of course it turns into a fight about Hákon's
nobility until he's seething and desperate. A little part of him hates Brynjar
for acting as though he can control this but he knows that it's his way of
reacting to the fact that neither of them have any choice in what's about to
happen and that they will be stuck in Jormsen for long months with strangers
and perhaps no privacy, their training on hold until they have played a part in
bringing a new life into the world each. The argument becomes more and more
vicious until Hákon's voice aches from shouting, his cheeks hot.

“You know I have no choice! My blood was noble and I will father no children
once I am knighted. And your blood will be another healthy son or daughter
because none of us can afford to be selfish.” Solace help him but his heart is
breaking. This is Brynjar whom he has loved since boyhood as his best friend
and he knows that Brynjar is lashing out because he has to bed a girl who will
by all accounts be as unwilling about it as he is about the whole thing,
waiting around until her belly starts to swell before his life can continue on.
“Bryn,” he uses the nickname sparingly, only for when he's drunk or panting in
bed barely able to remember more than yes and please, “it is what I must do.
What we must do.”

“Why Jormsen? Why so far from all we know?”

“It's where our last remaining castle is up there carved into the mountain,” he
replies, taking a seat next to Brynjar on the narrow bed and he wants to sit
shoulder to shoulder but he doesn't know if that's allowed until Brynjar sighs,
shifting closer. “At least we'll be there together.”

“I hate what they've done to us. The arrow tipes and cave rats,” the words are
said the way one spits the foulest of curses, “they strip all choice from us.”

“One day it will be different,” Hákon vows fiercely. “One day we will be strong
again, strong enough to reclaim what was once ours.”

“What is there to reclaim Hákon? They burned and smashed all that they could
and drove the dragons away or killed them,” Brynjar opines with a cynical lilt
to his voice. “You know as well as I what they have done.”

Hákon nods miserably. He isn't exactly enamoured by the idea of having to do
this even if the girls they go to are willing although he likes the idea that
there will be some other part of him out there hopefully with his way of being
able to smile and endure no matter what.

“This is our duty Brynjar and we will perform it as best we can for our people
so that one day we might grow strong again.” A wistful smile finds it's way to
Brynjar's face, a quiet laugh following. “What?”

“You correct me when I call you king in jest and love yet you speak as one
without even thinking. By Confgra's flame I want you.”

“You have me Brynjar, always.” Brynjar flushes at the declaration, Hákon
waiting for the kiss that always follows such words but it is not forthcoming
and he wonders if it's still too raw – his heart shouldn't clench with love but
it does because it reminds him that they belong only to one another – until
there's a hand upon his thigh, rubbing circles that move higher and higher.

“Oh you mean! Really? I mean-”

“I want you to be the first in all ways,” Brynjar explains not meeting Hákon's
eye until Hákon brings their foreheads together, breathing heavily. “We have
this room, we have each other and I intend being selfish for this moment.”

“Do you know what to do?” Hákon has no idea why he's whispering but he can't
help it, turned on at the very thought but nervous too.

“I...” Brynjar shakes his head suddenly, ducking his chin to his chest until
Hákon directs it up so they're looking at one another. “I asked...oh for the
love of Solace I asked some of the other knights before we left.”

“Who did you ask?”

“I'm not telling you that Hákon no matter how much you beg,” Brynjar scoffs,
running his hands from Hákon's thighs to his sides.

“Do I beg often, dear Brynjar?”

“Everyone knows you beg Hákon, you're hardly subtle or quiet when we're
together.”

“Take it as a compliment.”

Brynjar laughs fondly and as he pushes Hákon down onto the bed he says, “I love
you.” Hákon replies in kind as he starts on the ties of Brynjar's leather
travelling clothes letting his thighs fall apart, arching up into the hips
above his. This is familiar, one of the first things they did together but
before he can build up any sort of rhythm he is being held down – and isn't
that something from his dreams and fantasies? - with a wicked leer. They share
a look and hurry to undress, cursing boots, belts, buckles and straps until
they're naked at last, everything in a pile on the floor. Hákon is hard already
and this time when he moves Brynjar doesn't try to stop him. No, he goes one
better this time by aligning their cocks, taking them both in hand and Hákon
makes a noise he didn't know he was capable of producing. Heat coils in his
belly and he wants the hand to move faster, wants to come so very badly but he
wants to push Brynjar back and settle between his thighs to drive him mad
slowly with a teasing tongue but he wants what Brynjar wants and so he pushes
at the chest above his, shaking his head.

“I'll come if you-” he inhales shakily, “Bryn.”

“Right, right.” The words Brynjar says are not for him, not said so quietly
with his eyes closed so Hákon lies back, chest heaving like a bellows as he
tries to think about something else to pull himself back from the edge.
“C'mere,” Brynjar urges and then he's kissing Hákon, swallowing the needy
noises, slow and sweet, exactly what they both need to take the edge off. When
Brynjar pulls back so they can breathe his eyes are dark, pupils wide and he
looks so fierce and wild; only Hákon will ever see him like this, he realises,
only Hákon will be looked at with such hunger, want and love. He grabs Brynjar
by the back of his neck and pulls him down again to mouth at the skin of his
throat, biting down until he feels the whine more than he hears it, soothing
the marks with his tongue. Brynjar touches it gingerly the way he would a
bruise or welt left behind from training and everything he receives, he returns
twofold so Hákon gives him the cheekiest smirk he can muster, shrugging before
he stretches out in a way he hopes is alluring. It's probably not because he
feels ridiculous but Brynjar isn't laughing, he's still touching the red mark
at the base of his throat and trailing his fingers back and forth over the soft
skin where hip and thigh meet.

“Well?” Hákon asks when they seem to have stalled, reaching for Brynjar to see
if that will spur him on. Brynjar just smiles and rises from the bed to reach
for his pack and Hákon whines missing the warmth of his touch already. He's
afforded a fabulous view of Brynjar's shapely arse but he would really much
prefer for it to be in the bed with him and with his hands on it if at all
possible.

“Greedy,” Brynjar scolds once he returns with a small vial in his hands,
rolling it between his palms. Hákon pouts (he might have admitted to pouting a
year or so ago when he found out just how much Brynjar liked it) and huffs
expectantly. “You'll want to give me a minute so the oil isn't cold, I doubt
you'd enjoy that much.”

“You're not cheating and using magic?” Hákon asks because they've found all
sorts of uses for the spells they know, frost and lightning being particularly
interesting and worthy of follow up studies.

“I'd set the bed and this room alight if I tried.” There's a roughness to
Brynjar's voice that's entirely new sending a shiver down his spine. “You have
no idea how you look right now,” he continues, shifting the vial into one hand
so he can thumb one of Hákon's nipples until it's peaked, giving the other the
same treatment. “You're so fucking beautiful like this Hákon.”

“Less talking, more action.”

“I should put you over my knee and teach you some manners.”

“Fuck yes,” Hákon breathes then laughs at the startled look on Brynjar's face,
“I'd let you do whatever you wanted to me,” and he spreads his legs shamelessly
wide, feet planted flat on the bed, knees bent.

“This is going to feel weird, or I'd imagine it would,” Brynjar warns having
finally decided the oil is warm enough or maybe he can't wait any longer as he
uncorks it, pouring a liberal amount over his fingers. Hákon would be lying if
he said he wasn't nervous but he wants this more than he's wanted anything else
in so long, right up there with being a Dragon Knight alongside the person he's
in bed with. “Are you ready?” He doesn't trust his voice enough to speak so he
just nods, watching intently.

Brynjar's free hand comes to lie on his belly, a reassuring weight and anchor
as he kneels between Hákon's open thighs, directing him to move forward, arch
his hips a bit more until a finger brushes his entrance. Hákon doesn't squeak
and he will swear that until the end of his days but it breaks the tension,
Brynjar kissing the inside of his thigh as he spreads oil, working his finger
inside as Hákon grunts and tries to relax when he's told to.

“How does that feel?” Brynjar asks.

“Like I've got a finger up my arse.” Brynjar turns his head and nips sharply at
Hákon's thigh. “Oi! You asked.”

“I meant does it hurt idiot.”

“Um,” he considers that then shakes his head. “No, it just feels- fuck!”
Brynjar is working another finger into him and while it doesn't hurt exactly –
their training involves brutal testing of their endurance and physical limits –
it still stings, foreign and uncomfortable and he whines high in the back of
his throat.

“Sorry, do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Hákon responds quickly and reaches to squeeze the hand on his stomach as
confirmation and reassurance.  “Just a moment?” Brynjar's dark head nods and
Hákon focusses on his breathing, on relaxing his muscles until he tries moving
experimentally. Still odd but he tells Brynjar to keep going, clenching his
teeth as his fingers move until they brush against something that has him
gasping and shouting.

“You good there?” He doesn't know how Brynjar can look and sound so innocent
from his spot between Hákon's thighs, two fingers inside him and so close to
Hákon's cock but he manages it somehow. Hákon can only nod as those fingers
start moving again until suddenly they're gone and then he's watching Brynjar
grab for the oil again but he can't watch or this will be over far too soon so
he closes his eyes, breathes deeply and waits until there's a hot hand curling
around his hip. “Ready?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, leaning up for a kiss that catches only the
corner of Brynjar's mouth.

“If it hurts-” Brynjar begins before Hákon interrupts.

“Then I'll tell you and you'll stop.” He smiles. “I trust you Bryn, I trust you
completely.”

Brynjar offers a quick smile and then he's moving, the slow burn of his cock
where his fingers were as Hákon tenses then remembers not to, gritting his
teeth and clutching at Brynjar's back.

“Is this-”

“Ow can you-”

“Sorry, how about-” Brynjar withdraws slightly, pushes back in and all the
breath leaves Hákon's lungs as he clutches the hands on his hips.

“Just a moment, I need-”

“Ssh, it's okay, tell me when.”

It's Hákon who moves and something about the change of angle has him moaning
loudly, abandoning all pretence of staying quiet, his cock hard and leaking
against his belly. Brynjar understands whatever it is that Hákon is trying to
say because he finally starts to move, slowly at first until they find a rhythm
that works. Brynjar is gasping with his forehead pressed into Hákon's shoulder,
words in the common tongue and the old dragon tongue falling from his lips as
Hákon meets every thrust, clenching his muscles just to hear the ragged gasp it
gains him. It's too good to last and when the head of Brynjar's cock brushes
against whatever it was that made him arch and gasp earlier he comes with a
keening moan, every muscle tight. Brynjar lasts a few moments longer before his
hips falter, his groan muffled by the way he bites down on Hákon's shoulder,
both of them gasping for breath.

“We need to do that again,” he says when he can finally breathe again, tilting
Brynjar's chin up so he can kiss him. “Multiple times.”

“You can be on top next time,” Brynjar replies, kissing the bruise he's left on
Hákon's shoulder.

“Which way?”

“You will be the death of me.”

Hákon knows he's grinning smugly, the cat that got the canary but he doesn't
care, running his hands through Brynjar's damp hair as they lie still, his
heart still racing. It's when they start to cool down that he gets
uncomfortable, grimacing at how sweaty and sticky he is with Brynjar collapsed
on top of him, seemingly not intent on moving very much until Hákon is forced
to give him a hard shove to the side.

“Romance is well and truly dead with you, isn't it,” Brynjar comments around a
yawn before he bothers to really look down at Hákon, a blush spreading down his
chest. “Sorry, I'll...” He trails off, staring as Hákon stretches and makes
himself comfortable, moving away from the wet spot which is about as much
movement as Hákon is capable of at this moment in time. He's dozing when he
feels the touch of the cloth on his skin, content to let Brynjar take care of
them both. Before long there's a weight draped over most of Hákon's body in the
form of Brynjar, the way they usually end up whenever they're sharing a bed or
bedroll.

“Whatever happens,” Brynjar murmurs into Hákon's shoulder, “we'll be together
throughout it all.”

“They'll write ballads about us,” Hákon declares drowsily, “like Áki and
Stígandr.” Brynjar scoffs and makes himself more comfortable, Hákon stroking
his back as he draws the blankets over them both. There is grumbling the next
morning when they emerge, Gunhild calling them wild beasts when she spots the
marks on their necks but there is a smile in her eyes and a nod of approval
that means the world to both of them.
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