Frey was someone that Dylas couldn't figure out. She was labelled a princess that spent her days tilling the fields and adventuring past the city gates. She was a maelstrom of energy and laughter, of unending kindness she expressed to everyone, including him. Even him. She laughed as he scowled, approached him despite his chilling aura.
If she was fire, he was ice. She burned too brightly to look at directly, but all felt her warmth, that radiance in her smile. She drew people to her like moths to a flame. Her laughter, like the heat of the sun, could be felt all across town.
And he was frigid. Cold. Hard as ice, a glare as dark as winter.
If he told her that she was like the sun, he like a blizzard, she would laugh.
And laugh, and laugh.
He found that he didn't quite hate that laugh.
When they first met, Frey wasn't very adept at fishing. Her rod was flimsy and old. She took to it like a fish to land, struggling, tangling herself up in the line, failing to cast far from shore.
He barely spared her a glance, though he felt her gaze. Felt her study him, from the way he lounged on the sand, to the tip of his finger that barely graced his fishing line. She spent so much time watching him that when a fish tugged her line, she panicked and promptly fell into the lake.
Her yelp pierced the air, like a hail of a thousand daggers down his spine. He jolted, a fear he'd never felt, surging through him. She was gone. Beneath the waters, beneath the ripples, the bubbles, the shattered calm.
He almost tore into the water after her. Before she surfaced in the knee-deep water. And laughed. Dripping wet, the water sparkling in her hair like diamonds, she laughed.
Dylas frowned. He didn't understand her one bit.
He didn't understand her curiosity. The way she'd approach him, a glimmer in her eyes, questions on her lips. Those lips that he, more often than he'd admit, had to force his gaze from.
He'd deny her any answers. There was no point in her knowing. His birthday was nothing to be celebrated. She had no reason to know his favourite food. He turned from her, again and again, but she never failed to follow.
And she was always following him. Despite his glares, despite his curt answers.
When she asked what his type was, he barked at her to shut up.
She only laughed.
Frey was quick to discover what foods Dylas didn't like, after bringing him fresh ice cream that she'd made minutes earlier. He couldn't hide, nor did he want to, the disgust on his face. He thought she'd brush it off, laugh it off, and was stunned when her face dropped.
That face stayed in his mind the rest of the day.
He thought that would be the end of it, but Frey was more persistent than that. She brought him new foods almost every day, always with a smile. That radiant smile that had him pause. More than once, his words caught in his throat.
He began to wonder why. Why she would approach him, of all people.
Was this a game to her? Or something else?
He couldn't deny the energy in her smile. The energy she brought, bubbly, full of life.
Like the sun. Like the first week of spring, or the early hours of dawn. She was something people treasured. A hero to the people. Their princess.
And yet, she spent her time with him. The beast from the ruins.
She was like porcelain. Radiant, pure, untainted. He had a face marred with scowls and glares and an ugly scar. She was the fresh hours of dawn, he was the darkest of nights.
But, like all light, it would shine through the darkness.
Her light would touch everyone, including him. That was one thing he couldn't run from.
He couldn't help it, that day, when she brought him fish. Neatly sliced, freshly caught, and his eyes lit up at the sight. It was only a pike, but he couldn't care less.
And she noticed. He could tell from her smile. From the rosy pink in her cheeks, to the joy in her eyes, the way she grinned at him. He hadn't meant to reveal his love of sashimi to her, but as the days went on and she produced more and more to him, he decided it wasn't so bad.
Getting to know Frey wasn't so bad.
That year, he won the Fishing Frenzy like a storm. That was obvious from the start; no one came close to his skill level when it came to fishing. And yet, Frey had placed second.
He looked to her after the competition. She gave a dismal smile at the comforts of her friends, as if second place wasn't good enough for her. She was determined. And learning fast. She'd made a new rod just for the competition. In the weeks prior, Dylas had seen her by the lake more often than not.
Soon enough, he'd have some real competition on his hands.
Despite her loss, Frey congratulated him. He muttered a reply. He wasn't used to this. To being congratulated. Winning.
He knew he should say something, but the words struggled in his throat. He found that, often, he was at a loss for words. She'd manage to steal his breath. To make his heart stammer or leap about in his chest.
It was in the faintest of moments he realised this. When she'd laugh at something he'd said. He wished he could remember his words in her presence.
It was the faintest touch of her hand on his arm that stole his breath. And she could steal it and keep it and he wouldn't mind.
It was when she was bloody and bruised after a battle and she still managed to smile at him that made his heart leap. His heart could escape his body and run to her and he would follow. He wanted to follow. When had that happened?
When she'd fallen in the lake again, he almost stole a laugh. It bubbled and bubbled right in his chest but he swallowed it down. He opted to help her instead. Not, as he told himself, because he wanted to get closer to her. Or wanted to feel her soft hand in his.
It wasn't soft, he found out, but calloused instead. Her hand was smaller than his. Petite, with long, slender fingers, and he stared. He pulled her from the water, but kept her hand in his. It was rough and worn from the sword. Blackened beneath the nails from her forge.
And it was warm.
She laughed, and he snapped his attention to her face. A bad decision, as all he could see was the glistening water on her skin, her eyelashes, her cheeks. She licked her lips, gathering the water that settled there. Dylas' breath caught. He followed a single drop with his eyes, followed its path down her throat, to the groove of her neck and beneath her shirt. He wanted to taste the water off her skin.
He shot back from her the way one recoils from the heat of a fire.
But he was the one on fire, not her. The fire was in his face, his ears, the tips of his fingers.
That fire only grew.
It bloomed in different ways. In his stomach, churning with a sick feeling, when Leon pressed too close to her. When he looped his arm around Frey's shoulders and she didn't pull away.
This heat, he knew only as jealousy, burned when Leon winked at him and whisked her away.
That fire had made its home in his cheeks. It brought with it honesty, and a desire to pull her closer than arms-length.
She was quick to notice this, and those questions of hers followed. He found himself answering her. Wanting to answer her. She would nod and listen and he knew she was committing his birthday, his favourite foods, to memory.
He should've known what would come next, but when she asked what his type was, that fire emerged. He was consumed by fire once again but she only drew closer.
She laughed when he told her to shut up.
He didn't know what his type was.
He hadn't figured her out yet.
I'm dylas/frey trash