Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bronte didn’t like sparks. Sparks of fire, sparks of hope, anything. It always ended in destruction. That’s what was happening now. All around him. Sure, it was actually rather peaceful in this little glade, but the world was chaos. Humans fucking everything up. Elves fucking everything up. Everything was fucked up.

The small bonfire in front of him sent up thin tendrils of flame that licked up the side of the logs. He may resent sparks, but he could appreciate the fire. It was unpredictable, yes, but so was life. As annoying as that was.

The small clearing was dark and quiet at this time of night, and the canopy overhead blocked out most of the stars but for a small patch. Bronte shivered and drew his cape tighter around himself. He couldn’t stay out much longer, there was a little voice in the back of his head that grew louder and louder the longer he did, reminding him what could go wrong if anyone realized he wasn’t at his tower.

One day Bronte would tell somebody about where he went on those times he was missing from the castle. He would have to explain to him that he was hiding in the woods like a child, overcrowded and overstimulated from all his responsibilities. He would have to tell them that the fires that so terrified everyone else, and with good reason, comforted him. He didn’t imagine it going well.

He let his mind wander, and the crackling of the campfire brought back a distant memory, something he hadn’t allowed himself to remember for centuries. Bronte’s hair was longer than he’d allowed it to grow since becoming Councillor, curling around ears that were missing the points he’d acquired over the years. He was laughing, a carefree sound, running through a forest- not so different from the one he occupied- now on light-footed feet.

The younger Bronte threw a glance over his shoulder, before speeding up, pelting towards a lush creek not far off. That's when the second boy came into view. Light blond hair that framed pale, sharp features. Bright eyes that dance with mischief.

Fintan bounds forward, racing closer to Bronte, arm outstretched to tag him. He tries to dodge, but Fintan taps him on the shoulder at the same time Bronte trips on a tree root and tumbles down, Fintan crashing down with him.

The two boys lie in the leaf-strewn grass, laughing their heads off, still half on top of each other from the fall. Eventually the laughter dies away, but they make no effort to move, pressed almost chest to chest. Bronte’s grey-blue eyes meet Fintan’s electric ones, and strangely, his cheeks heat. Fintan’s lips curl with a smirk.

“So, I win again.” He says gloatingly, flicking the tip of Bronte’s sharp nose with his long finger. Bronte narrows his eyes.
“Only because you have ridiculous alicorn legs!”
He protests, rolling his eyes.
“Oh please, I’ve always been better than you at Base Quest, you're just too arrogant to admit it.”
Fintan grins, knowing he's won, before flopping over onto his back to look up at the canopy of leaves above them. Bronte watches him as he tries to snap his fingers, without much success.

“You’re doing it wrong.”
He says gently, not wanting to upset his temperamental friend. He leans over and corrects the placement of Fintan’s fingers, pressing the pads of his thumb and middle finger together, and giving the blond boy an encouraging nod.
“Try now”

Fintan dubiously snapped his fingers for a second time, startling a little as there’s a loud sound and a tongue of fire flares to life to curl around his hand. He grins delightedly, turning to Bronte.
“Thanks!”
The two boys watch the flames dance over his fingertips, the heat of it tickling the brown haired one's nose.

Bronte’s blue-grey eyes drift back to Fintan’s face, noticing every one of the sun kissed freckles across his nose, his pointed, fox-like features, the deepness and intensity of his eyes. His hair hangs in messy golden waves over his shoulders and ears, before curling at his neck. Attractive. The thought flitted through Bronte's head before he could stop it.

He shook himself, mentally. Those thoughts were dangerous. Him and Fintan could never happen. It wasn't meant to be. How could he even think of it? He was disgusted in himself, but at the same time…

He briefly allowed himself to imagine what Fintans lips would feel like against his. He pictured him dragging those sharp teeth down to his collarbone-

“Hello? Are you listening?”
Fintans' amused voice snapped him out of the fantasy, and present-day-Bronte snapped his eyes open. He'd dozed off.

He groaned and ran his hands down his face, noticing his flushed cheeks. It was all stupid. Anything he'd had with Fintan, anything he felt for him had happened thousands of years ago. The Fintan he knew now was a hot-headed murderer who'd killed Kenric. Bronte couldn't let himself forget that.

With a groan he poured water over the fire and stood up shakily, holding his home crystal up to the moonlight shining through a gap in the leaves, and leaped away.

Chapter Text

Fintan Pyren was cold. Correction: he was freezing. Hypothermic. Even that seemed like an understatement. It felt like every one of his cells ached as though coated in frost.

The ice prison was lit only dimly, his only sign that it was night up on the surface, hundreds of feet above.

He glanced at the slab of ice on the corner. It could hardly be called a bed. A bed of nails seemed comfier. At least that wouldn't freeze the drool to your cheek and cut off your access to oxygen in the night, leaving you to wake up in a blind panic, feeling like Gisella had her hand over your mouth, ready to finish you off-

He shook himself out of those thoughts. Thoughts were dangerous here. With nothing to distract him from them, they had the power over him in this small room. Although, according to various members of the council and Black Swan who'd visited him, he was already insane.

Fintan wasn't sure they were wrong. That was the scary thing. Trapped in here alone, no fire and nothing to do but think, it was slowly driving him mad. He rubbed his arms, trying to warm himself even just a little. He quickly stopped when a sting accompanied his touch.

He looked down in surprise to see angry red scratches trailing down to his elbows. He pressed on one of them thoughtfully, wincing as the sensitive flesh prickled. His fingertip fit the mark perfectly.

He hissed in pain. When had this happened? How did he not notice sooner? Fintan leaned back in the icy chair, trying to think through the haze of frost that seemed to smother his thoughts. He was no stranger to pain, he’d faced much worse in all his many years.

Then he noticed something interesting, as well as the sharp bite of pain that he felt when he ran a slender finger down his arm, there was also a flash of heat? Had he found a way out? He snapped his fingers, cursing as nothing happened.

Fintan took a shaky breath, and before he could change his mind, scratched a deep cut across his skin. He winced as beads of blood dotted up and began to run down towards his wrist. This time the flash of heat was stronger, and when he snapped his fingers, there it was. A tiny flame. It flared to life for an instant before sputtering out again. He had found a way. A way out. He was going to escape.

Chapter Text

“Bronte!”

A tinny voice called from the armchair across from him, and Bronte set down the stack of paperwork with relief. He picked up the imparter, seeing that it was Councillor Oralie on the small screen.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He asked, slightly distracted.
“It just happened.. You need to know”
Oralie burst out, uncharacteristically flustered.
“Oralie, calm down. Take a breath, and try again. What happened? Is it the Neverseen?”
He could hear her take a shaky breath from the other end.
“Not exactly. Bronte- it’s Fintan.”
He froze. Fintan?
“What about him?”
He said, careful to keep a neutral tone.
“He’s escaped.”
“WHAT?”

He leaned back and dragged a hand down his face, causing the silver circlet he always wore to slip sideways.
“Tell me the details”
He commands after a moment, once he’s made sure that his voice wouldn’t shake.
“He disappeared some time before dawn. Melted his way right to the surface.”
That didn’t make sense. He couldn’t call on his pyrokinetic powers from the cell. None of this added up.
“How come the guards couldn’t stop him?”
He wonders aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose as a migraine comes on.

“They’re stationed at the entrance”
Oralie reminds him, worry laced through her voice.
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking about?”
She asks him, the sound of the question seeming to float from the imparter to coil around his neck like a noose. What was he thinking about?
“I don’t know.”
Bronte answers honestly.
“Well, I can tell Sophie and her friends, if you’d like a moment.”
Oralie offers kindly, and Bronte murmurs his assent distractedly before clicking off the imparter and leaning back. So Fintan had got out. Great, something else to worry about. Just what he needed.

He pushes away the half-eaten platter of food on the table before him and paces back upstairs. Before he knew it he was sitting on the edge of his bed, putting his face in his hands, and resisting the urge to scream.

“Why, someone looks glum today.”
Bronte startles and spins around to find all-too-familiar blonde locks a mere foot away from him. Fintan was lying comfortably across Bronte’s large canopied bed, hands behind his head and looking perfectly at ease. His icy eyes sparkled mischievously.

Bronte leaps back, eyes narrowed in surprise and fear.

“Aww, not happy to see me?”
Fintan says with a mock pout, lazily sparking a flame to life and letting it curl around his hand before snuffing it out.

“I should inflict on you, Fintan.”
Bronte says as coldly as he could manage. He really should, one of the Lost Cities' most dangerous criminals was lying on his bed.

“Do it, then. Or are you scared I might like it?”
Fintan teased lightly. Bronte hissed.
“Enough with the games. Why are you here?”
He didn’t really expect a proper answer, though he was curious. Why had Fintan come here? Surely he would know that Bronte would call the guards on him at the very least. Why not go back to whatever Neverseen hideout he crawled from?

“Oh Bronte, must you always be so cynical? What if I just wished to pay an old friend a visit?”
Bronte snorted at that.
“As if. You always have a motive, old friend.”
He said the last part mockingly, though Fintan’s grin only widened.

“What if I said that I knew you wouldn’t turn me in?”

“Well then I’d say you were sorely mistaken.”

“And yet here we are, talking to each other quite politely.”

“You wouldn’t know polite if it burnt your house down.”
“Darling, I’m the only one who gets to burn anything around here, though you and the rest have done more than your jobs worth trying to stop that.”

Bronte groans.
“Must you be so infuriating?”

Fintan pushes himself into a sitting position, long legs dangling off the bed. He looks up at Bronte through his long blonde lashes, deceptively coy.

“I know you love it.”
He says with mock sweetness, tucking a curl of hair behind his pointed ear and smirking pointedly. Bronte’s eyes followed the action before trailing back to the man’s eyes.

“Let’s say I don’t turn you in, though I’d be mad to do so. What then?”

“I have a few ideas.”
Fintan says slyly, without a beat. Bronte honestly wants to push him off the bed, childish as it may be.

“I’m going to call for my guards.”
Bronte decides, half turning towards the door.

“Wait.”
For the first time, Fintan sounds anxious.

“Let’s try this again. You want to know why I came here? Fine. It’s not as fun as my first reason though.”

Chapter Text

Fintan flipped over to lie on his stomach on the bed, head propped up on his elbows. His hair spilled over his shoulders.
For a moment, he allowed himself just to look at Bronte. Take in that sharp jaw and closely-cropped hair. Bronte narrowed his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Get on with it, I haven’t got all day.”
Something in Fintan’s chest twisted in recognition. He couldn’t help but remember the man before him, all those thousands of years ago, doing the exact same gesture. Some things never change.

“Okay. Well, let’s see. To put it simply, the Neverseen and the Black Swan are both out to kill me, literally everyone in the Lost Cities hates me, etc etc. Because, stupid as it is. You’re the only one who still knows me”

Fintan’s gaze flickered up to meet Bronte’s, who’s expression was unreadable.
“I don’t know you, not anymore.”
He disagrees, voice filled with badly concealed regret and nostalgia.

“We both know that isn’t entirely true. You still care for me, at the very least. I know you hate me, and rightfully so, but let’s not pretend that we both don’t wish things could be different. I came here because you’re the only person I could hope to trust.”

Fintan takes a breath. The truth of those words had hit him harder than he expected, and when he glanced up he could tell it’d had the same effect on Bronte. Both of them were silent for a moment.

Then Bronte scoffed. “That’s supposed to mean something?”

“It’s supposed to mean everything.” Fintan snapped, why didn’t he understand? “Don’t you get it? This was the only place I could go! I could’ve burned half the world by now, and instead I’m sitting in your bedroom, hoping you’ll give me a second chance.”

A beat of silence passed. Fintan resolutely held eye contact, sky to grey.
“So what? You expect a medal for that?”
Bronte says eventually, though he looks a little less hostile now.
Fintan ran a hand down his face. Stupid, stubborn man. Good to see he hasn’t changed.

“Of course not. Just… maybe some acknowledgement that I’m not here as your enemy.”

Bronte laughed shakily. “You’re a terrorist, Fintan. You murdered Kenric. You destroyed lives. Burned cities. You’re everyone’s enemy. Including mine.”

Fintan flinched. Ouch. Someone holds grudges. Fair enough, I suppose.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t deny it.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Fintan. Why are you here?”
Bronte asks, sounding a little desperate now. Fintan couldn’t blame him. He was asking the councillor to risk his life, to lie to everyone. And to what end? Protecting him? But he couldn’t back down now. Couldn’t go back to that freezing cave where his mind was his worst enemy.

“I’m here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “because you’re the last thing in this world I didn’t ruin.”

He stood up nimbly and took a soft step forward, stopping in front of Bronte, who’d frozen.

“It’s good to see I can still stand before you without wanting to turn everything to ash.” Fintan said. Another truth, this one layered with multiple meanings.

Fintan could just about hear the gears turning in the other man’s mind.
He’s going to call the guards. Turn me in.

“Okay.”

Bronte said after a long silence, pinching his nose between forefinger and thumb once more. Fintan’s heart ached at the familiarity of the motion.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can stay. Do anything suspicious, and I’ll tell the rest of the council exactly where you’re hiding, deal?”

Fintan grinned, putting out a hand to shake with Bronte.

“Deal.”

He held on just a second too long.

Chapter Text

It had been a week.
A full week of Fintan Pyren haunting Bronte’s home like some half-feral, half-flirtatious ghost with no respect for doors, privacy, or Bronte’s steadily disappearing sanity.

He was still “technically” a fugitive. Still hiding. Still very much not supposed to be here. And yet there he was, every morning without fail, wrapped in Bronte’s nicest robes like they were his birthright, eating Brontes food, and generally acting as though he owned the place.

Bronte stood at the window of his tower, while the sparkling city below blurred into morning light. He wasn’t really watching it though. His mind kept getting drawn back to a certain infuriating blond.

“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.

“You say that like it’s a new development.”

Bronte didn’t bother turning. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

“I didn’t. You’re just too busy brooding to notice anything around you.”

Now he turned. Fintan was standing there, barefoot, one of Bronte’s favourite shirts falling off his narrow shoulders. Bronte groaned internally, the man seemed to know just how to irk him.

“I thought I told you to stay out of my study,” Bronte said tightly, gesturing vaguely around the wooden room.

“You did. I ignored you.”

Bronte dragged a hand down his face. “You are the most exhausting elf I’ve ever met.”

Fintan grinned, stepping closer. “And yet... you haven’t thrown me out.”

He leaned an elbow casually on the windowsill beside Bronte, their arms nearly brushing. Bronte didn’t move away.

That was the problem.

He should. But he didn’t.

Over the past week, something awful had happened. Something that he'd resolutely been avoiding confronting for centuries. The moments like this, where Fintan got a little too comfortable around him, or walked in wearing Bronte’s fucking shirt, he felt it. A small spark, low in his chest. Proof that what he’d denied feeling centuries ago had never quite died out.

What he felt for Fintan, It wasn’t forgiveness. Bronte knew that. He hadn’t forgiven. But the hate and the unfairness of it all had dulled somewhat.

He still liked him. He could no longer deny it.

Somewhere beneath all the betrayal, beneath the centuries of guilt and silence… he still liked this man.

Disgusting.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Fintan said, nudging him lightly. “Someone burn your mallowmelt?”

“Don’t.”

“I meant that lovingly.”

“You don’t know how to mean anything lovingly.”

Fintan hummed. “Oh, Bronte. I know how to mean all kinds of things lovingly. You just never let me show you.”

Bronte’s hand twitched at his side. What did he mean by that? “Are you incapable of speaking like a normal person?”

“Probably,” Fintan said brightly.

There was a pause. Bronte studied his features, allowing his gaze to wander over the others face, which seemed to flush a little. The silence stretched.

Fintan tucked his face comfortably into the crook of Bronte’s neck, leaning against him.

“Just like the olden days, huh?”

Bronte swallowed, all too aware of how close Fintan’s lips were to his neck.

“In your dreams.”

He said finally, remembering to answer, a second too late.

“Always.”

Fintan agreed quietly, before turning and padding out of the room without another word, Bronte’s shirt slipping off his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Fintan was standing before the Everblaze. His brief joy at the success of summoning it had died out. His friends were still in there, he realized. Their silhouettes were visible through the bright flames, voices indistinguishable from the roar of the wall of fire.

His mind raced, but with it came an unshakable realization. He couldn't save them. So he did the only thing he could. Pulled out his home crystal and leaped away.

Fintan woke with a gasp, sitting up wildly in bed and looking around at the half darkness, unsure where he was for a second. Oh. Right. In the tower. In Bronte's tower.

He ran a hand through his blonde hair, disheveling it even further. It wasn't a new nightmare, it'd haunted him for centuries. But there was something about reliving it here that unsettled him.

Only one thing to do then. Go to Bronte. He remembered doing the same thing thousands of years ago, when they were young and carefree.

He slipped out of bed and padded on soft feet down the hallway, shirt slipping off his shoulder again as he did so. There were many logical reasons for this choice, of course. It would be sure to annoy him, for one, and he did let Fintan stay here. And then there were those pesky memories.

He remembered a young, carefree tiptoeing down the hall to the leapmaster, letting himself be carried away by the rush of light to appear in Bronte’s childhood home. Creeping up the stairs and slipping into his room, ignoring the muffled protests from the younger boy. In the end, he was always allowed to stay. When the call of the fire got too much and Fintan was scared of losing control, it was Bronte that grounded him.

He slipped through the doorway into Bronte's bedroom, crossing quietly over to the bed and lifting the covers. The dark lump that is Bronte muttered something unintelligible and groaned. “Shh.” Fintan whispered, sliding under the sheets to curl himself up against the other man’s back. Bronte was warm, not as warm as Fintan, but it was comforting all the same.

There was a moment of silence, then:

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Came Bronte’s voice, sharp, but still drowsy.

“Sleeping.”

Fintan smirked, his face tucked into the back of Bronte’s neck.

“You have your own bed!”

Was the hissed reply.
Fintan said nothing

Bronte cleared his throat.

“Well,” Fintan said, after a moment, “you’re not in it.”

Bronte rolled over to glare at him. “You are not staying here.”

Fintan stayed silent and wriggled closer, settling half on top of Bronte like it was routine. His head rested against Bronte’s shoulder, one arm draping across Bronte’s chest. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, the lingering panic from the nightmare finally ebbing away.

Bronte didn’t move. Didn’t push him away either, which Fintan took as a win.

Bronte sighed, his head falling back against the pillow. “You’re insufferable.”

Fintan didn’t respond, already drifting, though a smile ghosted his face. He slowly drifted back into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Bronte was awake long before the sun rose.

Still lying on his back, stiff with denial, staring at the ceiling as though it would offer some excuse for what was currently happening in his own bed.

And what was happening? The answer: Fintan was still curled against him.

He had one arm slung lazily over Bronte’s waist, his forehead nestled under Bronte’s jaw like a touch starved imp. His breath was warm and steady against Bronte’s throat. Somehow, at some point, he’d tangled their legs together again.

It was inappropriate.
Incredibly inappropriate. He was a councillor, for fucks sake! And Fintan was a convicted murderer. How does one end up in this position? He couldn't wrap his head around, and yet it brought back memories. Back when they were young and free. Kids playing Base Quest in the forest, when he was just an emissary for the original council, and Fallon had to ban relationships after him and Fintan’s increasingly flirtatious interactions. Not that it’d ever come to anything.

But now…

The old ache he thought he’d buried centuries ago was back, reminding him painfully of how often he’d fantasized of this. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

Bronte wasn’t even sure when he’d started holding him back, but his arm had ended up wrapped around Fintan’s middle, holding him loosely, palm flat against his ribs. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t want to admit how natural it felt.

Then, just as he started to convince himself Fintan might never wake up:

“Mmghhh.”
A groan.

Followed by a very quiet, very indignant:
“Why didn’t you tell me you were still a big softy?”

Bronte exhaled sharply. “Good morning to you too.”

Fintan made a sound like a cat and burrowed closer. “Mmm. No. It’s not. Morning is a social construct made up by us Ancients, remember?”

Bronte resisted the urge to push him off the mattress.“You’re in my bed.”

“Whose fault is that?” he muttered into Bronte’s chest, lips moving against his skin far too distractingly. “Maybe yours. You’re very... magnetic.”

“You climbed in.” Bronte replied, deadpan.

“And you let me stay.”

His voice was sleep-slurred and smug, like he knew exactly how unfair he was being and had no intention of stopping. His fingers twitched slightly, brushing over Bronte’s ribs like he didn’t quite realize he was doing it.

Bronte cleared his throat. “You’re insufferable.”

“Uh-huh. But warm. Admit it.”

“Too warm.”

Fintan yawned and pulled the blanket higher, clearly not planning on moving. His leg slid casually between, which Bronte tried his best to ignore.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Bronte said sharply, though his voice came out rough.

Fintan snorted, eyes still closed. “Sure. And I’m a rule-abiding council member.”

“You used to be.”

“Exactly,” he mumbled. “Terrible choice, really.”

Bronte opened his mouth. Closed it. Fintan nestled into his shoulder, voice quieter now. Sleepier.

“I could get used to this, you know.”

Bronte stared at the ceiling.

“Don’t.”

Chapter Text

heyyaaa

so I really fucking love fintan, don't get me wrong, but I'm struggling to post more regularly haha

Im still going to write this (?) I'm just going thru a really big slump when it comes to doing literally anything productive and I also have THE PLAGUE

sorta kinda losing motivation for this fic so if I end up abandoning (again, really sorry) I might make one shots because its easier

executive fuckin dysfunction strikes again

also just wanted to say: thank you so so much for supporting me!! your comments and kudos mean the world and it makes my day. I'm still in school but aspiring to be a full time writer (currently working on a full length murder mystery novel), so knowing that people enjoy my work really helps out motivation-wise. and hey! i'm a sucker for attention, so maybe if I get enough comments etc on this fic it'll help me write some more! this sounds really like guilt-trippy, and I'm so sorry for that, but its just the truth haha, I work better if I know that people like what i'm doing :3

also I'm aware that quite a bit of this may not be canon compliant, and again like apologies for that, but my stupid dumbass brain isn't letting me re-read/listen to the kotlc books so I'm basing all this off memory and random Tumblr posts that I can't be bothered to fact-check.

welp, that's it for now ig, byeeeeee and feel free to give me a follow on Tumblr! i'm @raynilikescats

Chapter Text

IM WRITING THE NEXT CHAPTER!!!
IM BACK GUYS!!!!!
also plz plz plz check out my other fintante fic <3

Chapter Text

Fintan was a menace.

It was common knowledge that he was dangerous and unstable- he’d even killed a councillor! But he also knew how to channel a different kind of insufferable.

The kind that involved Bronte’s shirts and so much flirting he wasn’t sure he knew how to talk normally anymore.

He had discovered a lovely wardrobe on the fourth floor, filled to the brim with stuffy councillor clothes. He’d nearly given up on it when he had noticed a small corner- hidden in the darkness- full of soft shirts and tunics. They smelt smoky and woody and deliciously Bronte.

He hadn’t missed the councillor’s gaze when he’d first walked in wearing his clothes. How his gaze had slipped to his bare shoulder, where the top had slipped off. It’d taken all his resolve not to come down for breakfast the next morning wearing nothing at all.

On this particular day, the afternoon sun was shining through the large windows that faced Eternalia, casting squares of light across the open room of the first floor lounge. Fintan had stretched himself out across the couch like a cat or young child, legs dangling off the armrest, lying on his stomach with a long scroll unfurled in front of his face.

Bronte was at work. Doing Councillor duties. The traitor. He’d left early in the morning, and when Fintan had snuck into his bedroom at dawn: he was gone. He was bored, but planned to make the most of having the tower to himself.

He’d spent most of the morning rearranging Bronte’s bed: Bundling up the blankets and pillows and making it into a nest of sorts. But then he’d lost interest and padded downstairs to haunt the lower floors.

He’d pulled out every scroll in Bronte “Fintan don’t you fucking dare go into my office” ‘s office. And been incredibly disappointed to find that they were all reports on the Neverseen. But there hadn’t even been mention of him. That was rude. He was the coolest psychopath in the Lost Cities, and Bronte knew it.

He’d wondered if perhaps the scrolls on him were somewhere else. He was right. Tucked in a little alcove above a bookshelf was an entire box filled with things about him.

Again, a lot of them were merely reports of how he was ruining everyone's lives, blah de dah. At the bottom were the juicy bits. Bronte’s personal scrolls. About him. About them.

Fintan told me that I was first on his match list. He’s third on mine.

Fintan grinned. He remembered that day all too clearly. They were so young, barely out of Foxfire. Everything had changed since then. Yet they were still drawn to each other.

The door creaks open and Bronte steps in. Tall- imposing, and looking weary even before he spotted Fintan.

His eyes narrowed.

Then they narrowed further when he saw the scroll.

“Fintan” he sighed, running a hand down his face and groaning. Fintan smirked, sitting up on the couch and stretching.

“I love it when you say my name like that.”

He says coyly, shifting so that Bronte’s shirt slipped down again, exposing a collarbone. How scandalous. Well- at least in Ancient standards. Bronte’s eyes followed the movement, darkening ever so slightly before he shook it off.

“I told you not to look in my office.” Bronte said, his voice low.

“And I told you that I don’t follow your rules” Fintan chirped back, putting his arms behind his head and leaning back against the sofa.

Bronte stalked closer with a glower. “Need I remind you that this is my tower?”

Fintan winked at him. “Oh no, I’m quite aware. This whole place smells intoxicatingly of you. It’s kind of sexy.”

Bronte scowls, before leaning forward and snatching the scroll out of his hands. Fintan tries to grab it back but Bronte holds it out of reach. He gave up and slumped back onto the cushions, golden hair tumbling over his cheeks.

Bronte's grey-blue eyes flicked down the scroll, unreadable emotions crossing his face.

“I shouldn't have kept these.” He said quietly, passing it back to Fintan like he didn't want to look at it anymore.

“And yet you did.” He responded lowly, accepting the scroll. His fingers brushed against Bronte’s as he took it. Bronte sucked in a breath.

Fintan smirked and tucked his curly hair behind his ear as he set the scroll down on the end table.

Bronte huffed out an annoyed breath and stepped back, shrugging off his cape and hanging it beside the door.

“Undressing for me? That's a little forward, isn’t it?” Fintan flirted shamelessly. Bronte growled and stomped out of the room.

“Oh come on! Don’t be like that!” He called after him, resisting the urge to laugh at the sound of his receding footsteps. No response. Fine then. Be that way.

Fintan pushed up from the couch with a dramatic groan, and padded after Bronte like a friendly cat.

“Stop following me.” Bronte hissed from around the corner. Fintan grinned and picked up the pace.

“Stop running away then.” He countered, before his grin flickered. Bronte wouldn’t pick up on the metaphor, surely. He smirked again and kept walking. A door at the end of the wall was ajar, and he could see the footsteps in the plush carpet led to it.

He pushed open the door, looking around with confusion. “Bronte?-”

Bronte stepped out from behind the door and pushed it shut with an echoing bang. Fintan looked from it to him, eyebrows raised.

“This is pretty forward.” He tried, though his voice was unsure. He didn’t know where this was going. But the angry, flustered Bronte from a few minutes ago had vanished, leaving one that was watching him evenly.

The councillor stepped forward, arms crossed, making Fintan take an unconscious step back.

“You need to stop.” Bronte growled, fixing him with a glare.

“You are not here to annoy and infuriate me. You are here because I’m giving you shelter. Don’t you understand? I’m harboring a known criminal in my home! And you have the audacity to push my buttons every chance you get.”

Fintan blinked slowly. Wow. Wow. Okay.

“Are you going to kick me out?” He leaned against the window. He was pretty sure he looked calm on the outside, but internally he was panicking. What if he did? What if he left him for Gisella to hunt?

Bronte sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before sitting down on the edge of the guest bed.

“I suppose not. But that doesn’t change who we are. Whatever we used to be- to each other, it’s gone now. I’m a councillor. You’re a murderer. Whatever you’re trying to achieve with all the innuendo’s will never happen.”

Fintan let his cool mask slip a little, as he stepped forward to sit on the bed too, legs folded elegantly beneath him.

“Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect it. At least you’re acknowledging that we still have this bond. Even though everything’s changed. Pretty mature of you, actually. I wasn’t sure you had any communication skills at all. I suppose being on the council must’ve helped you learn some.”

Bronte huffed out a surprised laugh before becoming serious again.

“Maybe in another life.” He breathed out after a minute of silence.

Maybe in another world, another time, it could work. They could work. Fintan thought bitterly.

“Maybe.” Then an idea came to him. A stupid, stupid idea. But perhaps. What if I made Bronte hate me? The council banned any amorous relationships- but if he could make Bronte despise him enough, just like how he used to, then that wouldn’t technically break the law, right? If he made sure they never fell in love again, it could work. It had to work.

He flopped back onto the bed, hair spread around him in a golden tangle, shirt riding up his thighs a little.

Bronte looked away so fast he appeared to crick his neck, rubbing it awkwardly.

“Stop.” He said, still not looking at Fintan.

“Stop what? I’m just lying down.”

“You know exactly what you are doing, Fin.”

Fintan sucked in a breath. Nobody had called him that in centuries. Bronte seems to realize too because he puts a hand over his mouth, finally looking at Fintan. Their eyes met for a moment, before Bronte’s gaze slowly travelled downwards, lingering on his body in a way that made Fintan flush.

His eyes met Fintan’s again, dark with desire. He swallowed, suddenly a little nervous under the full depths of Bronte’s stare. He was supposed to be the seductive one. This wasn’t fair. Fintan propped himself up on his elbows.

“Do I?” He says sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear Bronte hisses.

Fintan chuckles.

“You’re really bad at this whole not caring thing, huh?”

Bronte rolls his eyes but flops back against the bed next to Fintan, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. The silence stretches.

“So, you going to say something, or are we going to pretend you aren’t turned on by me?”

“I’m not.”

“You always were a shitty liar.”

“Thanks so much.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Bronte shakes his head, exasperatedly. Fintan turns onto his side to face him. Bronte turns over too.

“I’m a councillor.”

“I’m very much aware.”

“I’m not allowed to fall in love.”

“Then don’t.”

Bronte closed his eyes. Fintan had to resist the urge to trace a finger along his jaw. He smiled fondly as he saw that Bronte still had eyelashes longer than one would expect from someone so strict.

He opened his eyes again, looking into Fintan’s once more. Fintan gave up and raised his hand, pressing it lightly against Bronte’s cheek. Bronte stilled, but shook his head when Fintan went to remove it.

He leaned in, close enough to see every perfect inch of Bronte’s perfect face. The sharpness of his jaw, the straightness of his nose. He looked so stern and formal, but the way he seemed to be forcing himself not to melt right now proved that underneath, he was still the Bronte that Fintan remembered.

“You never could resist me.” Fintan breathed, before pressing his lips to Bronte’s. The other man froze for a second before kissing back, his mouth opening under Fintan’s, surprisingly soft despite the sharpness of his words.

Fintan bit down on Bronte’s lower lip, drawing it into his mouth with a softness that clashed with how strongly he was feeling right now. Bronte tangled his hands into Fintan’s soft golden curls, pulling him even closer- almost flush against him, and Fintan gasped into Bronte’s mouth.

Fintan’s tongue slipped its way into his mouth, exploring, hesitant at first, then more confident. He could taste Bronte’s regret slip away as they kissed, before finally drawing back.

“What the fuck was that?” Bronte laughs, untangling a hand from Fintan’s hair to press his fingers against his lips like he wasn’t sure what’d just happened.

“I think it’s called attraction, darling.”

Chapter Text

Bronte’s hand was pressed against his mouth. There was no way he had just done that- had willingly let Fintan kiss him. Had kissed him back! It must’ve been a serious lapse in judgement. Just because the man currently looking into his eyes with an expression like a thousand burning suns was acting like the boy he knew from Foxfire didn’t mean he was any less awful.

He was a dangerous criminal, responsible for multiple deaths, and ruining the lives of so many innocent elves. If Oralie ever found out- He pinched the bridge of his nose and hissed out a breath, wishing he could drag his gaze away from Fintan’s. But those unnervingly clear blue eyes seemed to catch him, not letting him move.

“I don’t care what it is. It can’t happen again.”

He responded, groaning internally as his voice shook a little. He couldn’t be weak, period. And especially in front of known members of the Neverseen. No matter how fucking hot they were.

Fintan flinched back a little, eyes clouding with hurt. Bronte frowned a little, then sucked in a breath.

“Fintan-”

“It’s fine.”

He says quickly, shaking his head. Bronte tangles a hand in his hair again, almost subconsciously.

“I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

He says quietly, as Fintan leans into his palm like a touch-starved cat. He shakes his head exasperatedly.
“I know.” Fintan mumbles, before mustering up a smile once more.

“We both know you’d never be able to stay away forever.” He says smugly.

Bronte leans back, schooling his features into something more composed as Fintan grins at him, a hint of insanity peeking through.

He hated how similar this Fintan was to his old one, however- he also hated how he could tell how he’d changed. How much he liked it.

Fintan wriggled closer, pressing himself flush against Bronte with a contented sigh. His nose aligned perfectly with Bronte's.

“Hi” He said sweetly, before pressing his lips against Bronte’s once more. Improper, foolish, words flashed through his head as he was kissed. This was a terrible idea. But he just didn't fucking care at this moment. Not when he could pretend like he was a teen once more, experimenting with new things.

He kissed Fintan back, moving his hands down to his waist and tugging him even closer. Fintan made a sound into Bronte’s mouth, and it was heavenly.

Fintan’s slender fingers were tracing Bronte’s jaw, and his leg slid between his own, pressing just hard enough to make Bronte flush to the tips of his pointed ears.

Fintan’s lips were cracked, but surprisingly soft against his own. And they felt all too familiar. Like a breath of fresh air. Like coming back to a warm home. Home. Fintan felt like home.

His fingers were splayed across Fintan’s ribs, able to feel every curve the scrawny man had. He slid those hands a little roughly under Fintan’s shirt, at a loss for what he would actually do, but desperate to touch him. Feel the softness of skin under his palms, and drown in the sweet taste of his mouth.

Fuck, how I've missed him.

Fintan pulls back a little, resting his forehead against Bronte’s and smirking, lips red.

“Is this going to become a regular occurrence? Because I have to say, I'm loving the room service in this place.”

Bronte scowls. “Are you even capable of talking normally?”

“Oh look! The main course even speaks!”

Bronte choked. The what.

“Oh please, darling. That's a pathetic noise. I'm sure I could coax out much better ones if you gave me a chance”

Bronte pushes Fintan’s face away with a long-suffering groan. The other man laughs, rubbing his cheek against Bronte's hand.

“You are so odd.” Bronte finally grinds out. Fintan peeks up at him through Bronte's hand, one eye visible between his fingers.

“And you adore it.”

Bronte drops his hand, giving up completely. Fintan nuzzles his face into Bronte's neck this time, undeterred.

Bronte rolls onto his back, looking up at the red canopy of the guest bed. What had he let himself become? First he started harboring a dangerous criminal, and now he was letting said criminal kiss his neck?

He can feel the smile on Fintan’s lips as he pulls down the fabric of Bronte’s top and drags his teeth along his collarbone.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He closed his eyes and flung a hand over his face, hoping hoping hoping Fintan hadn't heard, but: “Did you just moan?”

“No.” He lied on instinct.

“Hmmm, so you feel nothing when I do this?”

Fintan repeated the action, and Bronte shuddered.

“I knew it!” The blond elf says smugly, tracing a long finger down Bronte's neck.

Bronte sighs and turns to kiss him again, before a sound buzzes from his pocket. Fuck. His imparter was ringing.

Fintan’s eyes were wide and surprised, but he doesn't move when Bronte answers it, just sliding onto his lap when he sat up. Bronte runs a hand through his hair distractedly before focusing his attention on the screen. It was Oralie.

“Bronte! Thank goodness! I've been waiting outside your front door for at least five minutes. The goblins wouldn't let me in! Please for the love of Team Valiant, get your ass down here and open this door!”

She clicks away. Bronte stares.

“Well, shit.”

Chapter Text

Fintan blinks, and the scheming criminal was back, face wiped clean of the soft man from before. He sat up, looking at Bronte.

“Got any good hiding spots?”

He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, looking stressed.

“Still can’t believe I’m helping you.” He muttered, before rising swiftly to his feet and gesturing for Fintan to follow. “The best place is probably the wardrobe you love oh-so-much.”

Fintan follows along behind him as they hurry back down the hall, into Bronte’s room, and his large wardrobe. He pushes Fintan roughly into it, smirking at his indignant noise, before carefully closing the door and hurrying to the front door.

“Bronte! What took you so long?” Oralie asks reproachfully, making her way inside. Bronte shuts the door behind her.

“I was busy reading.” He replies flatly.

“I can see that.” Oralie's eyes find the scrolls piled on the couch. Shit. He forgot to clear those up. She moves closer to them, picking one up and random and skim-reading. Bronte feels frozen to the spot.

“Good idea to look back through Fintan’s history.” She nods, setting the parchment back down. Bronte internally face-palmed. Of course Fintan had been reading about himself. The self centered, infuriatingly sexy, prat.

“Yeah, I hoped I’d find a hint to where he may have gone.” He agrees, quickly making up a lie. He was glad Oralie wasn’t close enough to feel his nerves or detect his lies.

“Smart.” Oralie turns back. Her eyes were shadowed.

“This feels like the start of something big, Bronte. The Neverseen are planning something, I can feel it.” She takes a seat on one of the armchairs, gesturing for Bronte to do the same. He sits across from her, taking a deep breath and trying to wrangle his emotions.

“Fintan didn’t escape just to go into hiding.” She continues, smoothing out her pink gown and shaking her head, blonde curls bobbing. Bronte’s mind flashed to where Fintan was, quite literally, hiding. Just down the hall. Far too close.

He nodded, gathering all the worries and doubts in the back of his mind and letting them fill his voice. “Indeed. Lady Gisella may not be on good terms with him, but it's very likely another member of the Neverseen is assisting him.” The more he thought about, the more he realized how true it was. Could it really be true that none in his organization were willing to help him? Had he walked right into a trap?

“Team Valiant and the rest of Sophie’s friends have been doing their best to find a lead, but with everything else going on, they aren’t having much luck.” Oralie’s voice caught on Sophie’s name.

“They really haven’t found anything?” Bronte presses, though surely he would’ve heard if there’d been any developments. On the other hand, though, Sophie was very good at keeping secrets. Especially if she suspected him. But why would she?

“Nothing.” Oralie sighs, folding her hands across her chest. “These are dark times for us, Bronte. One can only hope to find an easy way out.”

“Sometimes there isn’t one.” Bronte replied smoothly. How true that felt in the moment. It was so horribly conflicting to try and justify why he’d agreed to hide Fintan. He hadn’t exactly proven himself trustworthy, after all. But it was too late to turn him in. Fintan would tell the Lost Cities exactly who had given him sanctuary, and that would be that. He would be done for.

Oralie glared half-heartedly at him, before frowning. “Where’s your circlet?” Fuck. Shit. Shit fuck. He brought his hand to his forehead. It was bare. It must've fallen off while he and Fintan were… occupied.

“I suppose it slipped off while I was reading earlier.” He says quickly. Oralie tilts her head. “It's not like you to misplace things. Would you like help to find it?”

“No.” Bronte snaps, before groaning. “No, sorry, Oralie. I suppose all this drama has me out of sorts at the moment.”

“So I noticed.” Oralie deadpans, leaning forward to steeple her hands under her chin. Then her arm shoots out and grabs Bronte’s forearm.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bronte yells, pulling himself free.
Oralie glares at him. “I can tell you’re hiding something, Bronte. So, spill.”

Bronte hisses. Damn Empaths. “It's nothing, Oralie.” He needed to stall while he made up something to distract her.

“I know it isn’t.” She argued.

“It doesn’t matter!” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Things are just… stressful right now, what with Fintan and the Neverseen and such.” He says after a moment, hoping it was enough to dissuade her from pushing.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, Bronte, I’m sorry. I forgot that you and Fintan had a… complicated past.” She looks guilty. Yes. This was perfect.

“Whatever happened between us was millennia ago.” He says, channeling a long suffering sigh. It wasn’t lying, exactly.

“Well yes, but feelings as strong as that… they don’t die easily. I know what it's like.” She looks down at her lap, taking a breath. Bronte felt horrible. Fintan had been the one to kill Kenric! And here Oralie was, telling him it was okay to still love him, just a little.

He wasn’t sure he actually did. Everything was different now. But he knew he still felt something for him. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t normal to make out with your “enemy” without at least a little sexual tension. Maybe more than a little.

“I don’t like him anymore.” He growled, wondering if it was true.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Oralie shrugs and wipes her eyes. She stood up. Bronte stood too. Thank the stars, she’s leaving.

“Oh right, I forgot the other reason I came here.” She turned for the hallway. Bronte rushed to stop her.

“What are you doing?”

She folded her arms. “The Half-Moon Gala, remember? The one where you always wear the same boring old tunic? Well, this time I’m going to find you something else to wear. Surely there’s something in that musty old wardrobe of yours.”

No way. Fintan was in that “musty old wardrobe”. He couldn’t let her open it. She’d started down the hall, and Bronte hurried forward to catch her again.

“Oralie, please. I’ll wear something else. I swear it.”
Oralie fixed him with a look.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” He breathed out a sigh of relief as she stopped, just outside his bedroom door.

“Fine then. I’ll take your word for it.”

He nodded, squashing the overwhelming relief as she turned around, gown swishing, and headed for the door again.

“Remember what I said, Bronte.”

Then she was gone.