Chapter Text
Galen has had nightmares every night for the last fortnight.
He wouldn’t admit it at first. He tried to hide it from them all, tried to pretend that everything was okay even though he was red-eyed and hoarse every single morning, and when Istvhan and Shane finally cornered him, he tried to tell them that they didn’t need to worry, that he could take care of himself. That was proved to be spectacularly untrue when Marcus found him destroying a solid oak table in the Temple refectory one night. Once they’d got his fists bandaged and his right wrist splinted, all six of the Saint’s paladins sat their brother down and told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to let them set a watch on him while he slept.
Galen being Galen, he joked and quipped and tried to wiggle out of it.
The rest of them being the rest of them, he was unsuccessful.
Which is how Istvhan finds himself sitting on a rickety stool at Galen’s bedside late one cool spring night, watching with increasing worry as his brother twitches and moans and sobs in his sleep.
It’s far more dangerous to wake him, Istvhan knows that from unfortunate experience, but it’s horrible to watch Galen suffer and do nothing. “You’re alright,” he tells him, gripping his thighs to keep his hands to himself, and, “You’re safe,” and, “I’m not leaving you.”
Galen doesn’t seem to hear him. Galen never seems to hear him, but that doesn’t stop Istvhan talking.
“You’ve got this,” Istvhan says as Galen writhes in his sheets, head thrown back, tendons straining. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a horrible, horrible dream and you’ll wake up and it’ll be over.” That isn’t true, of course, because the nightmare of the Saint’s death follows them all like a shadow, but if you can’t lie to your brother when he’s whimpering in his sleep, when can you lie to him? “Come on, Galen,” Istvhan says, watching Galen’s eyes roll back in his head, watching his mouth open and close on soundless screams. “Come on, brother. Wake up. Do that for me, Galen. Wake up.”
Somewhat unexpectedly, Galen’s eyes fly open.
“There you are,” Istvhan says, which feels a bit stupid but he says it anyway. “Nice and wide awake. You’re okay, Galen. You’re okay.”
“Istvhan,” Galen chokes out, hands knotted in the sheets, gaze somewhere far away. “Istvhan?”
“It’s me,” Istvhan confirms, wondering if he’s okay to touch Galen’s shoulder now. He’s tired, he’s spent a long day at Bishop Beartongue’s side, he really doesn’t want to have to fight Galen out of the black tide. He doesn’t risk it. “You with me?”
“I,” Galen chokes, then abruptly rolls over and out of the bed. He hits the ground with a thud and Istvhan is briefly very glad that his hands healed up several days ago. “I need,” Galen grinds out, bracing himself on all fours on the ground, but doesn’t finish the thought. He’s panting like an animal. He’s trembling like a leaf.
Istvhan can’t bear seeing him like this. “What do you need, brother?”
“Brother,” Galen echoes, then lets out a scraping, wheezing laugh. “Fuck. Istvhan, I’m sorry, it’s not – it’s not right. I shouldn’t—” He cuts himself off. He laughs again. It’s a horrible sound.
Istvhan summons his paladin voice. “What do you need, Galen? Tell me. Let me help you.”
“I,” Galen starts, then laughs that laugh again, then drops down and presses his cheek to the cold floor. “Fuck. Fuck. Istvhan, I—” He slams one palm against the stone. “I need to – to feel. To feel you. To feel anyone, but you’re here and I shouldn’t fucking ask but I just – I just need—”
“What do you need to feel?” Istvhan asks, because he knows Galen well enough that he thinks he knows where this is going but he really needs to make sure. He feeds the paladin into his voice. “Galen, tell me.”
Galen moans. The cheek that isn’t flat against the stone floor is flushed pink. “Istvhan.”
“You have to tell me what you need,” Istvhan instructs, not missing the way his brother’s hips twitch at the command. “You’re not getting anything unless I know what you need from me.”
Galen’s eyes flutter open, hazy green. “I need to suck your cock,” he rasps, his fingers flexing against the floor. “Please, Istvhan. Any cock’ll fucking do but you’re here. Please.”
“I’m flattered,” Istvhan answers dryly. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Galen whispers to the stone floor. “I need to – to get out of my head. I know this works.”
Istvhan briefly wonders how Galen discovered that particular facet of his personality, but he’s fairly sure that Galen’s shagged enough people to know what he’s talking about. “Alright,” he says, reaching for the buttons of his trousers. Galen’s gaze focuses in on the movement of his fingers, razor sharp, but he doesn’t move, still facedown on the floor. “Do you need me to do anything to you?” Istvhan asks as he takes his cock out, currently completely soft because he really doesn’t find the sight of his brother paladin thrashing in his sleep erotic in any way. He pumps himself a couple of times, trying to get things started, and he’s never been attracted to men but there’s something deeply stimulating in the way Galen’s pupils dilate at the sight.
“No,” Galen whispers, dragging himself upright. He pauses on his knees in his nightclothes, hands hovering in the air, and looks up at Istvhan’s face. “Are you sure?”
Istvhan suspects this is about to be one of the stranger blowjobs he’s ever received in his life, but, given what he knows of Galen’s sexual history, he imagines it’ll probably be a good one. “I’m sure,” he answers, releasing his still mostly soft cock. “Go for it.”
Galen goes for it.
He practically dives between Istvhan’s legs, grabbing his cock and stuffing as much of it in his mouth as he can take. Istvhan’s not small even when he’s soft but Galen doesn’t seem perturbed, no, in fact the moment Istvhan’s cock hits the back of his throat, his tension drops almost completely away. Galen moans around him, one hand working the shaft, sucking and tonguing relentlessly at the head, and to Istvhan’s surprise he finds himself rock hard in a matter of moments.
“Fuck,” he says, somewhat stupidly, as his brother paladin does his best to choke himself on his cock. “You’re good at this.”
Galen pulls off, his mouth red, a string of saliva running from his lips to Istvhan’s cockhead. “Thanks,” he pants, grinning. “I’ve got good material to work with. Your dick’s gorgeous.” His eyes are still hazy but it’s different, now, less panicked. “Can I touch myself?” he pants, his free hand twitching. “Please.”
Unmistakable arousal twists Istvhan’s gut. “You can,” he says gruffly, and Galen immediately shoves his hand into the front of his sleeping trousers. “But you can’t make yourself come until I say so.”
Galen keens in the back of his throat.
Shit. Is that crossing a line? Istvhan has no idea. “Uh, if that’s alright with you?”
“Fuck, that’s alright,” Galen gasps, pupils shot so wide his eyes are almost black. “You can pull my hair. And you can fuck my mouth if you want to.”
“That’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to me,” Istvhan tells the man he’s regularly had to stop from slaughtering innocent acolytes of the White Rat in murderous rage, then decides that the best thing for both of them going forward is for Galen to shut the hell up. He grabs Galen’s hair and shoves his cock back into his mouth.
Galen lets out a garbled groan and gets back to the task in hand, namely giving Istvhan a frankly spectacular blowjob. He sucks and licks and swallows and manages on several occasions to get Istvhan’s cock properly down his throat, all while his other hand is furiously jerking himself off. Istvhan pulls Galen’s hair as requested but can’t quite bring himself to actively fuck his brother’s mouth. Galen doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s perfectly happy choking on Istvhan’s cock all by himself, saliva drooling from his lips in ribbons, making gagging sounds every time he tries to swallow too much. He’s a complete mess, eyes half-lidded, face red, hair wound up in Istvhan’s fist, but the jittery, panicky energy from the nightmare is gone and his only moans are moans of pleasure.
Istvhan can see that the hand down Galen’s trousers is moving so fast it’s almost a blur. “Remember,” he manages, tightening his hand in Galen’s hair. “You don’t come until I tell you to.”
Galen whimpers around his cock, then looks up at him, pleading, mouth stretched wide, his green eyes full of ecstatic tears.
The sight goes straight to Istvhan’s cock. “Fuck,” he curses and comes without warning, spurting into Galen’s willing mouth. “Saint’s balls,” he breathes, trying not to fall off his stool. He breathes through his nose for a moment, then—before he loses his post-orgasm high and can’t bring himself to say the words—he growls, “Swallow it all, then you can come.”
Galen swallows, eyes wide, cheeks stained with tears, and promptly turns his attention to his own cock.
Istvhan watches, still breathing hard, as Galen comes across the floor at his feet, painting the stone white with a hoarse cry. He wavers when he’s finished, trembling again but for rather different reasons, and Istvhan catches him before he can fall, props him up against his leg. Galen’s head comes to rest on Istvhan’s thigh, eyes closed, mouth slack, and doesn’t move.
Istvhan tucks himself away, doing his best not to disturb his brother, then runs a tentative hand over Galen’s hair. He’s not about to just dump him back into his bed without a little aftercare—the last thing Galen needs after one of his nightmares is to drop—but he’s not sure what will work. The hair touching doesn’t seem to not work, though, so Istvhan keeps doing it, stroking Galen’s hair until his breathing levels out and the shaking subsides.
“Hey,” Istvhan says, not stopping the motion of his hand. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Galen answers, his voice gravelly, and doesn’t move. “I’m good. I just—” He cuts himself off.
“What do you need?” Istvhan asks.
Galen’s quiet for a moment. “Can I stay here for a while? Not forever, my knees are going to kill in a bit and I need to clean up this mess or the housekeepers will glare at me. Just a little while longer.”
Istvhan keeps stroking his hair. “Stay as long as you need to.”
Galen lets out a breath. The last of the tension goes running out of him. “Thanks, brother.”
Istvhan grimaces. “Maybe don’t call me brother right now.”
Galen laughs but it’s genuine, not the horrible, throaty facsimile from before. “Yeah, that’s fair. Thanks, Istvhan.”
“You’re welcome,” Istvhan answers, running his hand over Galen’s hair, and then, because it’s true now and it always will be, he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”
Galen sags against him, eyes closed, limbs slack, and keeps on breathing.