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Prince may not be the one of them who had to eat, but he still had a sense of smell and dignity both. He’d paid enough attention to learn how to cook from the others: they had books as well, more than enough to reference, and the time. He could even taste his own work, for all eating did little for what he was. It wasn’t food he needed to survive, but energy, and he could get that from other beings: human best. Magical creatures moreso.
The main issue was that cooking for Dire was a bit more of a delicate balance, seeing as he wasn’t exactly invested in the idea of cooked meat or utensils. They’d come to a tentative arrangement so Prince didn’t have to deal with dishes of raw meat around, and Dire did enjoy other things. He was much more human than Prince himself; enough that, absent the rest of their Chain and Ganon’s heavy hand on their lives, Prince worried sometimes. He knew humans got sick if they didn’t eat enough, or get enough of the right things so…
The door opened and shut. Prince didn’t bother looking up: he called out instead.
“Dire, dear, you’re back?”
The mind at the door opened readily to his voice. Dire had no resistance to him, because he had no wish to resist him. Prince’s charm washed over him like a warm bath after being away for some time. He’d ridden out to check on the traps around the house where they now lived. It was a half-day’s ride from a nearby city, set far off the road behind a trail Dire took care to make look overgrown and out of sight. They had two horses and some chickens with them, but mostly the meat Dire ate was hunted by him.
And most of the time he managed to come back from hunting without being covered in blood now, too.
It was a compromise. Prince might have worried about how Dire felt about it, but he could see for himself he was happy as long as Prince was happy; and Prince mostly just wanted the house and the two of them to stay clean and stay well. A house that drew attention was bad; clothes that did so were worse. He liked remaining anonymous if strange to the city nearby for when he wanted new books or new clothes or to check for mail from the others. Dire did not enjoy letting him out of his sight, not after everything they’d been through, so having Dire keep his pelt and tunic and hair clean as a matter of course helped.
Dire couldn’t touch his mind in return, not the same way, but he had his own way to check Prince was alright. He took a brief moment in the entry to clean up: he knew Prince did not like to get messy, not even for him. Prince didn’t bother to turn at the pad of bare feet on the tile floor.
“It’ll be a little while yet before this is done. You got meat?”
He knew he’d gotten meat; he’d heard the process outside of cleaning it, from knife work to clean up after but still looked over to see. Rabbit.
“How about stew, then?” Prince reached over to take the meat, already recalling a recipe from one of the books they had and comparing it to the stock of vegetables and spices in the cupboard. Rabbit had to cook to be safe to eat, but cooked slow the texture changes bothered Dire less.
Dire readily handed over the rabbit but Prince paused, because a soft brush of something had touched his mind with the words and the magic he gained from them—something not quite right.
Often when he returned from a hunt, Dire had satisfaction settling deep into his bones, some of his most carnal desires finally surfeited. Through his memories and feelings, Prince understood how much Dire enjoyed the feeling of fresh air on his skin, the rush of a chase, the gratification of blood on his hands and bones in his grasp. He generally did a better job of bringing home his kills intact since Prince had complained they were too hard to work with if the bones broke or bits of the forest got under the skin. Cleaning meat he'd already torn his teeth into was a long, annoying process.
That satisfaction, the pleasure of blood and bone, was present in the pages of the open book that was Dire’s mind, written in a language that Prince knew more intimately every day. He could taste the relief, but something else had been etched on those pages. Something no less familiar, but a little more primal, a little darker.
Memories and feelings often went hand-in-hand, in Prince's experience. He knew the feeling that Dire was trying to push away, and he knew the memories: ones that stuck like a burr. The reminder brought some of his own to the surface, different ones with somewhat similar emotions attached: where Dire was terrified of what he'd do when unshackled to his humanlike relationships, Prince was terrified of losing control over his own body.
Both had happened. Neither incident had been isolated. Despite all the cracks in their bodies and their souls, Prince knew that these specific feelings had risen to the surface time and time again, like foam atop a stew. He wasn't sure either of them would ever escape them, although perhaps the frequency might fade with time.
Speaking of which—rabbit meat would take time to cook. Prince set down the carcass, careful to touch just the string holding the legs together, and reached up to take Dire’s face in his hands.
“Dire, dear. I know how you're feeling.”
Now that Prince acknowledged it, Dire stopped trying to hide it, and his expression sank into something far more unhappy.
“Shh, it's all right.” Let me talk that unhappiness away, he nearly said, but the words stuck on his tongue as he—for once—thought before he spoke. Dire’s increasing gloom tasted like ash, the specific feeling that had set him off lost in the hundreds of time it had risen before. “What do you want, Dire? You need food, I won't budge on that, and I know it'll help, but. What else can I do?”
Dire’s face twisted as he thought, and his hands, cool from the wash outside, rose. One covered Prince’s hand on his cheek, but the other rubbed at his collarbone, as if missing the metal collar he used to wear there. Nothing but a faint scar of worn skin remained, there and on his wrists.
The remains of that collar and the cuffs from his wrists lay deep in a box, tucked in some closet in their cottage, half-rotted magic that were no longer usable. They'd replaced those with other items, when Dire wanted it.
Prince gave him a moment, then spoke to him again to run his finger down the metaphorical page. “Any ideas?”
The answer leaked in through the magic and through the wrinkling skin beneath Prince’s fingers. Dire felt his emotions like weight on his mind: sometimes that weight became suffocating when too many struck at once. It was what made them such a perfect fit, Dire's mere presence enough to feed Prince everything he might need… but Dire's own needs were not so simple. The fog that descended from his words could only master so much.
And certain feelings were not so easily pushed aside. Some things were not complex at all, and fear and horror, blood lust (and other kinds) still stirred no matter how distinterested they both were. Dire was alive; Dire had blood and nerves and sometimes they frayed to the point of madness and few things could put them back together.
Blood could; a kill, but only things larger than a rabbit. When they were with the others, sometimes sex had been a balm, but they weren't with them, not anymore and Dire would sooner rip Prince's lungs bare-handed from his chest than ask such a thing.
They'd found a workaround for that long before this in fact, and the collar had once been part of it. It had almost been an accident then, but Prince had his own pleasure here: Dire wanted a master, and Prince wanted control.
"I think you want me to go get the rope again, then," Prince said, and Dire's heart and shoulders both lifted at once. "Good. I'll get the food started and we can sit together while it finishes. That sounds like a lovely way to spend the rest of the night. Settle yourself and pick a spot; I'll join you once I'm ready.”
Prince was glad he'd chopped extra onions yesterday. He scooped a handful of them into the dark iron pot with a square of golden butter, turning the flame enchantments beneath on a low setting. He didn't want to scorch anything.
After glancing at Dire to confirm that he was, indeed, settling down, Prince retreated into the bedroom. He took stock of his own emotions. The perils of being so deep in another's head was that their feelings could sometimes unsteady him, too. He didn't feel as shaken as Dire, but he would also benefit from doing this properly. He tried not to smother Dire's will most days, but the temptation was always there: the dark urge to master another's will until they did nothing but what he allowed. While Dire in theory wanted it and enjoyed it, it could never last.
They both still had to be people at the end of the day, separate and free. They'd worked hard for it, and Prince had no desire to become like Ganon, not truly.
There was no rush. The only timer was the food which would take hours to cook nice and slow, and Prince liked the way that performing this care could weave into taking care of that at the same time. Dire would fill his stomach with something hearty and warm, either by his own hand or Prince’s depending on how he felt once it was done, and they'd retire for the day before the sun rose on the other side of their heavy, dark curtains.
It did mean he didn't wish to delay beginning. With an almost ceremonial mood, Prince swapped out his long, flowing shirt with something slimmer, a little less likely to get caught, and he tied his hair back more securely. He took a moment to check on himself in the mirror, unsatisfied with a blemish near his eyebrow but otherwise quite pleased with today’s clean face.
And then, with a continued sense of weighty purpose, he slid open the bottom drawer of the dresser in the room. This one was new enough to still smell of sawdust, the carved handles done in intricate knot shapes by Lost in his own little apartment woodshop a few towns over. He liked doing those details, and Prince and Dire had enough to properly pay him from the game pelts Dire spent his days working with: both in coin, and in deerskin for Lost to try new trades with in turn.
A little basket in this drawer held several carefully wound bundles of different ropes: a selection of colors, textures, and lengths to choose from. Each had a different personality, and it was Prince's opportunity to pick the one that best matched his intentions tonight. He already had an idea of which he wanted, but he let his fingers feel each option, just to be certain and give each a fair chance.
Much of his rope was hemp. It was a local fiber, common and well-loved and, when broken in, was gentle to use. He had several lengths and more colours, a few that were thicker or thinner—but Dire preferred a thicker tie when his moods were dark, something he could press against at need and fight without breaking.
Blue today, Prince decided. He had the right number of lengths for it as well, long and short, bundles he could tuck into his arm and carry out with him to the main room. He grabbed a blindfold too, just in case, but he didn't think Dire needed that, not today: he just didn't want to leave him if he changed his mind.
Dire had settled down in the sitting room to wait. He knelt on the floor, barefoot in his pants and nothing more. Tunics and shirts could get tangled too easily in the ties, so he wore enough to be modest, no intentions towards each other's bodies that weren't within mutual arrangement but nothing extraneous. Dire did not get cold easily, and he'd knelt close to the fireplace if he did. Prince could grow chill more easily, and he lit the fire there with a brief fiddle of enchantments, and trailed fingers along Dire's hair.
"Wait a moment longer," he said, and smiled at the banked pleasure and relief in Dire's mind. Dire would wait for him for hours if he asked (and had, in the past.) Prince tried not to abuse it: anticipation was only pleasant for so long.
But he had the stew to check on, first. The fragrance of onion had well filled the cottage by now, and Prince gave it a stir with a wooden spoon just to be sure. He tossed in some garlic, then double-checked the recipe in an old, thick book full of ways to cook game. A spot of gravy stained the cover from a previous experiment.
This one was easy—the hardest part was, as many things, getting everything cut up into pieces. Luckily, Dire wasn't particular. With the occasional comment or question tossed over his shoulder to check on Dire, Prince was quick about dividing the rabbit up into rough pieces and dressing them for the oven: flour, salt, some dried rosemary because Prince enjoyed the smell. He added some of the rosemary to the pot, as well, along with a cup of wine, some leftover stock from the last stew, and a few other little spices. He turned the heat low on the pot and on the oven, and once it was all in place, he let his mind turn once again to his upcoming responsibilities.
“That will soon have the loveliest smell you can imagine,” Prince said with a bounce in his step, heading to the shelf to pick out three particular volumes and the shears in the drawer beneath.
In return, Dire opened to him with a feeling of anticipation, comfort, and beneath it all, the same unsettled feeling that Prince aimed to excise from his heart tonight. It was muted now, waiting to be spent and eased some by simply watching Prince work. The calming effect of simply being close to someone, someone he knew wanted to take care of him was already present. The smell of cooking food (of Prince's care when cooking food, compared to Shackle's lack thereof) had become a comfort in itself.
He set both the books and the shears down in front of Dire, then sat on the short table in the sitting room and took some time to check the shears were sharp and the blades in good condition.
It wasn't just to feel Dire's eyes on him, the intensity of his focus. The shears were their safety, in case anything went wrong. If Dire were to get distressed (or, frankly, Prince himself, as had happened before) they did not need to spend another half hour unravelling rope to get him free. The book wasn't strictly necessary; they'd done this a few times before but it had diagrams he liked to check if he wasn't sure of his choice. He didn't want Dire to be hurt or in distress. It was, frankly, unpleasant to skim a mind unsettled when he meant to have a calm evening and wasn't that a wild change from his earlier life? To live now without fear…
To have a life now where he knelt and touched Dire's jaw and watched with fond amusement as he blinked from patient stillness to look alive again, brown skin flushed in anticipation, as though focused on something far more intimate than intended.
Perhaps he was. Prince didn't check. There were some moments he'd realized Dire deserved privacy in his own mind, and he had other ways to express himself were he to need Prince to change something: position or tie.
But right now he just had to start.
Prince gently tapped Dire's arms and had him move, folding forearms over each other behind his back with his hands on his elbows in turn. The rope went around the middle then around itself, doubled back on its own length to create a wider bite: first on his wrists, then up and around his shoulders and the top of his chest. The blue was almost glowingly warm against Dire's skin: it had been an expensive dye to purchase, one he kept as safe from the sun as he kept himself to preserve that rich colour. It was a worthy goal, to keep it so pure when it looked so lovely on Dire's skin.
Prince could feel the tension leave Dire's body without even needing words to check his progress. It was present in his slowing breaths, and in the softening of his muscles as Prince made coaxing noises as he tucked rope under each arm before coming around lower on his chest. He kept the wraps slow, and his hands close: closer, sometimes, than he'd come even in their shared bed at night. Some days, bare skin was still too much even as he knew how much that touch mattered to Dire.
(Some days, Prince could still barely stand to touch his own bare skin, the memories of lost control and a body he could not protect sharp as knives in his mind.)
But now… Now, he paused as he passed over Dire's shoulder and dropped his cheek to his skin as he breathed out a question. "You can get so worked up, Dire dear. You should ask for this sooner, you know. It's quite alright."
He knew why he didn't. He could hear and feel it in his mind why Dire had not done this, the itching energy and scraping anxiety too much and too focused, indeed, on Prince to push it away. Dire had a painful awareness of just when and how much had been done to harm Prince in the past and a fear of being that agent himself… As if Dire feared something about himself was wrong.
It was an old fear. Prince knew it like the back of his hand, the terror of being a monster that turned against people he wanted to protect. Dire had nightmares of his own, of blood in his teeth that smelled and tasted familiar. Sometimes the fact Shackle and Madness, Lost and Nothing had travelled away bothered him: sometimes he feared they avoided him, as if the dresser in the room and the seashells on the windowsill were mere indulgences and not affection.
"Rest," Prince said, and crossed over his forearms twice more to lock them in place before finishing off the tie on top. Dire's head sagged forward with something like relief and stayed there for several long seconds before Prince tapped the soles of his feet with his fingers.
Without him even needing to ask, Dire shifted himself onto his toes, kneeling with legs wide enough Prince could wrap the rope around his thighs without any incidental touch to somewhere he had no interest in going. These ties were much faster, looping over top his thigh, under and over again until he could split the rope and close the loop in the gap of thigh and ankle, holding his legs closed on one side, then the other. His pants creased, but the fabric was soft and easy to coax into laying smooth under the neat, parallel lines of hemp.
And with that done, Dire could finally settle in his skin. Prince's murmured words gave him the sensation of Dire's knees pressed firmly into their soft rug. He watched him tilt his face to absorb more of the heat from the small sitting room fireplace. Dire rarely spoke even now, and he couldn't quite make noises like a true beast but he could and did hum, and he did so now as Prince knelt next to him. Dire’s warm mass drew him in, and since Dire did not have the use of his arms at the moment, Prince touched him instead—laced his fingers over Dire’s far shoulder in a loose hug and leaned his head down, nose against skin, heat soaking into him, too, as if by proxy from the fire.
With Dire clean and bound, it was comforting in a way Prince had rarely known before. He smelled still a little of animal, the trace scent of his pelt still on his skin and sweat from the hunt. Dire protested the perfumes Prince enjoyed, but he'd accepted being a muted version of before and his presence had long ago become a thing of safety.
They stayed like that for Prince didn't know how long, leaning on each other, the sediment of troubled thoughts and emotions finally allowed to sift to the bottom. Dire’s breath evened out, his heartbeat strong beneath Prince’s fingers.
When Prince began to feel a little too warm between fireplace and Dire's skin, he released his hands, and Dire sat up better, something in his neck clicking when he stretched it.
“I believe it—” Prince began, then paused when a small sliver of anxiety wormed its way in through Dire's mind. He gave a short smile. “Never fear, Dire dear, you don't have to be done, yet. I simply do not wish your dinner to burn. Give me just a moment, and I'll be back.”
To that, he got a reluctant acceptance and a heavy sigh, as if Dire said something like Fine, if you have to.
“I do.” Prince stood, and left Dire with the feeling of fingers brushing his scalp. "I won't ask you to eat burnt meat, I'm not Shackle."
After so long focused on the ropes, Prince blinked himself back to a bit of reality as he returned to the kitchen. He checked the recipe he'd left open, then removed the baked rabbit from the oven with a billow of savory scents. The wine and stock had cooked down, so Prince went ahead and dropped the cooked rabbit and grease into that, stirring in a few more spices as he did so.
He thought to fill a cup with clear water, cool against the pleasant stuffiness of the room, and took it to Dire, who readily drank as prompted. Prince was careful about the amount, allowing Dire to decide when he was done.
To his satisfaction, Dire drank it all and another, and Prince made sure to praise him for it.
Dire occasionally pushed at the ropes that held him in, arms caught behind his back and legs trapped kneeling, but Prince had done a rather good job, if he did say so himself, and while that lovely blue rope stretched just a little, it didn't do so in a way that would tighten the knots or pose any threat. He wasn't really trying to get out, either—just making sure that he could be present, without his fears even having the opportunity to come true.
Since the rabbit needed a bit more time to cook, Prince sat down on the short table again to idly flip through the books of ties he'd brought over before. He sat close enough that Dire was able to lean his head into his knee, just the single point of contact enough for both of them. From past experience, Prince knew that Dire’s knees would be the first to complain. They both knew about how long it took to pull the ropes off, and Dire had practice getting Prince’s attention before things became painful (and experience of how grieved they both were if he failed.)
The reading was pleasant. There were more complex ties he might want to do in the future, longer ones that took more effort and might best need longer lengths of rope or furniture to attach to. Prince hadn't quite wanted to ask Lost to make them anything for that, specifically—not yet. While Lost and Dire liked each other in such a way, Prince had never quite brought himself to bring up the idea with him himself. He wasn't sure Lost would understand the distinction, between doing this for carnal need versus the strange satisfaction he felt instead.
Prince let one hand fall to Dire's hair against his leg again and dug his nails in. There had been many taunts about what Prince wanted Dire in his bed for in the past, but escaping Ganon and his control hadn't changed what they actually felt.
“I think dinner is just about done,” Prince said idly, turning another page. “Are you hungry yet, dear?”
He got an immediate complaint from his mind, a resistance to the idea of being free quite yet… but the strain on his knees was already growing clear. Prince didn't quite cluck his tongue at him like a misbehaved horse, but he did hum as he put the thought through his head for options. If his arms were still alright…
"Move your fingers," Prince commanded, and Dire did it without even the slightest compulsion from his mind. His hands moved fine, the feeling clear and Prince reached down to cup his face. "I'm going to untie your legs, then get you dinner. You need to move now. Once you've eaten, I'll untie your arms. Alright?"
Dire pressed his face into Prince's hand, no objection in his mind. The spike of unease faded, the reluctance to be free calmed under his hand. He trusted Prince with himself in ways that filled him with more than just energy but warmth: trust had taken them a long time, and that feeling carried him through unwinding the ropes and folding them on themselves to set aside, first one, then the other. Prince coaxed each leg to straighten out and left Dire leaning his head back against the cushions while he retrieved the food.
The stew ladelled easily into a bowl, the vegetables soaked in a broth heavy with meat and fat: food that would keep Dire full and content for some time. The smell was like a pleasant perfume: Prince enjoyed having picked up the hobby, not least of which because it meant when the others came to visit he could escape what Shackle thought was good food. (Although if he was honest, Shackle had gotten at least a little better over time with some help…)
But for now, he set aside the other stew to cool enough to go into storage for later and took the bowl with him to the living room where Dire waited, white eyes shut and calm, legs tucked up against his chest.
Prince nudged him to wake and turn. He sat down, and got Dire's head once more leaned against his covered knee, cheek pressed into the linen and eyes only half-open. His greeting was just a soft hum of pure contentment without another thought or wish in his mind.
"Dire, dear," Prince said, his voice soft. "It's time to eat. Focus."
Dire made a small face, but he opened his mouth in soft compliance and ate as it was presented to him, a slow dance as Prince alternated flipping through his book and offering the food. He offered praises too, but rarely. He had a pretty good sense of how much Dire needed at any given time, how much he would take, and as he slowly subsided against his legs he knew that the day was near a close.
It was when Dire was barely responding to words that Prince knew they were done. He gently pushed him off his leg and back against the couch, rising to secure the unfinished stew in the cold box for another day with quick, efficient hands. The magic would see it was safe to reuse, and Dire was too sated for more.
When Prince returned to him, he was still where he'd left him against the couch. He coaxed him to sit up, hands on his face and sweet words so he could reach around his body to the chest tie. The knots unwound, soft against his hands and leaving light red marks and little dents in Dire's skin from the constant gentle pressure. He dumped the rope on the table to be sorted later, and gently pulled each of his arms forward and down to massage feeling back into the dull skin.
"You did so well," Prince murmured. "So patient. You ate well, too, and I hope you enjoyed the fruit of your hunt today, small as it was. I know you wish it was a larger kill but there's always tomorrow after all. You willl do just as amazing then, won't you?"
The words were mostly meaningless, simply there to fill the gaps. He watched Dire's mind as the ropes came off and, as he knew to expect now felt the drop in his stomach as once more Dire was faced with his greatest enemy: freedom.
A life where he had to choose. Where he might choose wrong.
Prince eased his own words over the sore spot and pulled him gently back to his feet. "Come with me," he said. "Let's go to bed, now. You've done enough for one day."
It was easy to lead him. Dire followed, because he had no wish to do any less and lay on the bed where Prince put him, waiting for him to join. Prince traded his tighter shirt for a loose one, meant for sleeping him: nothing to confine him but still with no skin exposed. He was still sheltered, still had control over who touched him… and when he lay down Dire, despite all his fears, turned over and pressed his face into the corner of Prince's neck and shoulder.
He was still trembling. The calm of the tie would steal over him again in time, Prince knew, but the return to reality was sharp: the return to choices and risk, a world where they were their own masters and Dire sometimes did not want to be…
But he hadn't liked Ganon's control anymore than Prince did, and with a slow sigh Prince carded his fingers through his hair, over and over and hummed his own words in return.
"I'm here," he murmured. "You won't hurt me."
"We're safe."