｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the wind in the desert is not quiet. it howls through bone and ruin. it sings of forgotten blood and shattered names. paul has stopped pretending to sleep. the wind keeps him company. so do the ghosts.

he walks the edge of the ridge, cloak dragging behind him like the shadow of a future he no longer wants. fremen eyes watch from the rocks, but they do not follow. they know he walks into something only he can name. he finds feyd there, as he knew he would — standing where the sand meets stone, where the cold creeps up through the soles of their boots like warning. the last harkonnen. the beautiful knife. the mirror with a smirk.

"you’re late," feyd says, though neither of them agreed to meet. paul looks at him, and it feels like looking into the center of a storm.

"or maybe you were early."

feyd snorts, fingers flexing at his sides, like he’s itching for a blade but knows better than to draw.

"maybe we were always here."

──

their first fight ends in silence. not because it isn’t violent. it is. it’s everything. a storm of movement and breathless calculation. sand kicked up in flurries. blades kissing too close to skin. but it ends not with blood, not yet. it ends when feyd’s knife is pressed to paul’s neck, and paul’s hand is buried in feyd's hair, tugging his head back with just enough control to make it dangerous. they’re breathing hard. they’re too close.

"this isn’t how you kill a messiah," paul whispers.

"this isn’t how you fight one," feyd answers, and neither of them move. the blade doesn’t cut. the hand doesn’t release.

──

at night, they fall into the sand like it’s the only place they belong. the fremen sleep in a circle behind them, pretending not to notice. or maybe pretending not to care.

"you think this ends with one of us dead," feyd says, staring up at the stars that don’t blink. "but i think it already ended, long before we met."

paul turns his head. "how poetic of you."

"fuck you."

pause.

"you ever wish you'd never been born into this?"

paul doesn’t answer for a long time.

"every day."

"yeah. me too."

they lie in silence. it stretches between them like a wound.

──

there is blood, eventually. of course there is. you don’t put two blades this close without drawing something red. but it’s not a deathblow. not yet.

feyd bites his lip until it splits, staring down at paul after another fight that ended in stalemate and bruises. "you want me to kill you, don’t you?"

paul says nothing.

feyd drops the knife. it thuds against the sand like a heartbeat. he steps closer. waits for resistance. it doesn’t come.

"you want to see if i’ll be the one to do it. take the crown off your head. end the prophecy. end you."

paul looks up, eyes glowing like he swallowed the sun.

"i want to see if you can stand to look at me and still be human."

feyd flinches.

──

when they kiss, it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s a warning. they bite. they bleed. they hold each other like dying men who’ve forgotten how to pray. paul tastes like dust and fear and something ancient. feyd tastes like fury, like burning, like something broken pretending it never was.

they do not speak after. they lie in the silence.

paul’s head rests on feyd’s shoulder. feyd’s fingers twitch against paul’s ribs, like he’s not sure if he wants to hold him or crack him open.

──

"i dreamed of a future where we killed each other," paul says one morning, voice quiet, like confession.

feyd lights a smoke, eyes hooded. "sounds like a happy ending."

"i died with your name in my mouth."

feyd freezes.

he exhales, slow. "was i the one who killed you?"

paul doesn’t answer.

and in that silence, feyd closes the space between them again. not like a lover. like an ending. like a war that forgets it was ever made of men.

a/n: eww i hate this. something about tumblr just makes my writing like twenty times worse. it doesn't help that i'm having the worst hangover of my life while i wrote this..