Chapter Text
Caspian rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans, looking down at them with disdain. Disgusting. If his mother saw him now, she would give him that silent look of disapproval, the same one she wore whenever he ran from his tutors to explore the gardens of the family mansion.
Peter wasn’t doing much better. The sweat from the cricket match still clung to his shirt, and he was gesturing animatedly, explaining the rules of the game for the third time.
Friend, Caspian thought, testing the word in his mind. It was the first time he had ever gone to a friend’s house.
Winning Peter over had been like climbing a mountain, exhausting, but in the end, the view would be worth it. Everyone at school said that being accepted by Peter Pevensie, the High King thanks to his athletic talent and natural leadership, was quite an achievement.
Caspian had never had real friends. Only schoolmates and the children of his father’s business partners, with whom he was forced to make small talk during suffocating dinners. He had grown up alone, pretending to be an explorer in the empty halls of the mansion or a pirate fleeing the library where his father insisted on teaching him about the empire that would one day be his. An empire of boring meetings, contracts, and false smiles.
And now, there he was, listening to Peter repeat:
"So the umpire can annul the play if the batter…"
"Steps out of the crease, yes, you already said that," Caspian interrupted, forcing a smile.
Peter frowned, then laughed, clapping him on the back.
"Right, right. I just don’t want you messing up in the next match."
Caspian swallowed hard. There were other rules Peter took even more seriously, and they were about to be tested.
As Peter opened the door, Caspian smelled ginger cake and burning wood. Warmth came first, then the sounds, a distant laugh, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. The house was alive, messy in a welcoming way. Old photographs filled every free space on the walls. Bookshelves crowded with books and trophies, a worn armchair with a floral shawl, mismatched pillows. Rugs on the floor, paintings on the walls, a cat sleeping on top of the heater.
It was the absolute opposite of his house. At the Caspian mansion, silence ruled among marble columns and cold corridors, where every object seemed chosen by a bored decorator and nowhere was meant to be sat in. Everything clean, expensive, and lonely.
Peter tossed the keys into a small dish by the door.
"I’ll go to the kitchen to tell my mother. You can leave your coat here. Make yourself at home."
Caspian nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. He stood frozen in the middle of the living room, feeling like a misplaced piece of furniture.
And then, she appeared.
Susan Pevensie, coming down the stairs with the grace of someone who knew she was being watched. Hair casually tied, a blue knit blouse, her eyes even brighter under the house’s warm light. She blinked at him with a polite but kind smile.
"So you’re the famous Caspian?"
Caspian choked on his own saliva. Literally.
"Yes. I mean… I…"
He coughed, trying to regain some dignity, but only managed to turn even redder.
Don’t look at her, Peter’s voice echoed in his mind like thunder.
Rule number one: don’t date my sisters.
Rule number two: don’t flirt with my sisters.
Rule number three: don’t even think about my sisters.
Rule number four: that includes looking for more than five seconds straight.
"Rule number one," he muttered to himself, jerking his head away so abruptly he almost twisted his neck.
Susan seemed amused.
"Are you alright?" she asked, still halfway down the stairs.
"Yes! Yes. Just… just admiring the ceiling. Very… beautiful."
He wanted to bury himself under the rug. Under the rug, the floorboards, all the way to the Earth’s core.
Susan arched an eyebrow delicately, as if she were used to that kind of reaction. She gave one last smile and disappeared down the hallway.
Caspian was left alone, completely paralyzed, hearing his own thoughts scream idiot, idiot, idiot.
He ran a hand through his hair, breathing deeply, trying to compose himself. That’s when he heard the faint creak of an armchair and turned.
There was another boy in the room.
Slender, pale, freckled, the same long dark lashes as his sister, but with eyes even deeper. Black eyes framed by a sharp young face, carrying an air of elegant boredom, as if he were always weary of the world and also above it. The boy was leafing through a thick book with one hand, the other resting on the arm of the sofa, as if he didn’t notice Caspian.
Or maybe he did. Caspian wasn’t sure.
He felt captivated, almost hypnotized, by the contrast between the calm gaze and the little smirk dancing on the boy’s lips. For a second, he forgot he was standing in the Pevensie living room, sweating under the weight of Peter’s rules.
How did I not know there was another one?
Everyone knew Peter had three siblings. He himself had only seen Susan in passing. People were always talking about how devoted Peter was to the youngest, Lucy. But of the brother, he had never heard much. He imagined something completely different. A little brother, maybe, a shy kid with glasses.
But the boy in front of him wasn’t a child. He wasn’t much younger than Caspian, maybe a year or two at most.
And the strangest, the most dangerous thing was that Caspian hadn’t imagined he would be so… beautiful.
Am I even allowed to think that about a boy? Am I breaking some rule?
Caspian swallowed hard, his skin heating up.
"That was awkward," the boy said, turning a page without even looking at him.
"I—I wasn’t staring!"
The boy rolled his eyes, but the smirk didn’t fade.
"No need to explain. Everyone’s like that around her."
He stretched out an arm calmly, took a teacup from the table, and sipped slowly, his eyes fixed on Caspian over the rim of the porcelain.
Caspian swallowed again, completely caught in that gaze. There was something dangerous in that expression that flickered between challenge and disinterest, and that was what made it impossible to look away.
That’s when Peter came back into the room, carrying a plate of biscuits.
"Caspian?"
The boy on the sofa stood like a cat, with light, precise movements, snapping the book shut softly. He slipped past Peter without a word, head lowered, his steps silent. He vanished down the opposite hallway from Susan, as if he were part of the house itself, like a shadow.
Caspian blinked, dazed, searching for him with his eyes.
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Were you looking for Susan?"
"The boy," Caspian said before he could stop himself. He almost said the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but swallowed the words, tasting iron. "Who was…?"
"Ah. Edmund," Peter answered, a brief smile on his lips. "My brother. He’s in lower school, second year. Lucy too. They don’t study with us."
"I… I’ve never seen him before."
"Ed’s not very sociable." Peter shrugged. "He slips out of rooms like a cat when he notices new people. You got lucky."
Or unlucky.
Caspian’s throat still felt tight. Before he could think of another question, Mrs. Pevensie’s voice echoed from the kitchen:
"Peter, tell your friend dinner is almost ready!"
Peter grinned. "Come on, she’ll be glad to meet you."
Caspian nodded, but his mind was far away. He followed him to the dining room, trying not to think about the strange, almost foolish, hope of seeing Edmund again.
The dining room was modest, cozy, warmed by the fire and the smell of fresh bread. A checkered tablecloth covered the table, and porcelain dishes, not too fancy but chosen with care, were set with cutlery and folded napkins. Photos on the walls, crooked paintings, books piled on a chair in the corner. All so different from the impeccable coldness of dinners at his own home.
Caspian sat where Peter pointed. Mrs. Pevensie greeted him with a warm smile and sharp eyes, there was something matriarchal in her posture, but without the severity Caspian knew in his mother.
"Lucy won’t be joining us tonight," she said, serving the chicken and potatoes. "She was invited to a sleepover."
"I hope that means less screaming at the table," Susan muttered, cutting her food with precision.
Peter rolled his eyes. "You talk like you never yell."
"I don’t yell, Peter. I argue."
"Oh, please, you two…" Mrs. Pevensie sighed.
Edmund was there too, sitting across the table, nearly invisible when he wanted to be. He ate slowly, eyes down, but a smile tugged at his lips whenever Peter and Susan bickered. And Caspian found himself watching him more than he should.
Not that Edmund spoke much, but when he did, it was always a sharp, precise line, like a clean cut.
"You only argue with Susan because you need to remind yourself you’re not always the smartest in the house," he said, without lifting his eyes from his plate.
Peter feigned offense.
"That was rude, Ed," Susan commented, but she was smiling too. A genuine, sibling smile.
Caspian chewed slowly, trying to appear natural. He was too aware of himself. Of how he held his cutlery. Of how his voice seemed higher when Mrs. Pevensie asked him about his parents, or about school.
He answered as best as he could.
He said he liked history, that he swam on Saturdays, that yes, school was fine. And all he could think was: don’t choke. Don’t stare. Stop looking at Edmund.
But his eyes disobeyed. Edmund chuckled softly at his siblings’ jokes, never showing his teeth. He laughed with the corner of his mouth, like someone who found it funny but didn’t want to give too much away. He didn’t talk much, but there was something in the way he looked, not distant, but as if he always saw more than he let on.
Caspian dropped his gaze to his water glass. Pretended to be interested in the pitcher. Tried to seem engaged in the questions about politics and literature.
But inside, there was only silence. A certain familiar weight.
His family had never dined like this. As a child, he sometimes wondered if his parents loved each other, if they even knew how to love. There were no jokes, no sharp banter, no laughter at the table. Only the sound of the clock and the scrape of cutlery against expensive porcelain.
Here, there was something alive. A warmth that unsettled him.
And Edmund. Always that distracted, sharp gaze. Always that silence full of intentions Caspian couldn’t decipher.
At the end of dinner, when Mrs. Pevensie got up to fetch dessert, Caspian didn’t even realize he was still holding his fork, frozen in the air.
He only noticed when Edmund looked at him with a crooked smile and murmured:
"Are you alright there?"
Caspian flushed to the tips of his ears.
"Yes! Of course. It’s… delicious."
Peter laughed loudly.
"He’s always like that on the first visits. You’ll get used to it."
Caspian smiled stiffly. But his thought was different:
Will there be another visit?
Will I see Edmund again?