Chapter Text
It takes Feyd-Rautha far longer than it should have to realise Atreides is playing with him.
Though the hit to his pride is somewhat soothed by how well the deception has been hidden, a curious motive in that, as if the fremen are as much the intended targets as the emperor’s decimated entourage. Of those watching he’s sure that the three Bene Gesserit are perhaps the only others who will be able to see through it. Feyd doesn’t risk a look to confirm that—to see what the Princess Irulan thinks of her would be husband—knows he’s unlikely to glean much from their expressions. As for Atreides himself, his opponent hasn’t been so obvious as to stumble, to fumble with his blade, meets Feyd blow for blow but there’s something distinctly constructed about the fight.
Staged.
Feyd finally realises that when he dodges a slash that nearly slits his throat, when he retaliates and manages to flip Atreides onto the floor.
It’s the first time he's got him on his back.
The view is a more than pleasant interlude—overlong curls falling into eyes of unnatural blue, solemn face upturned to catch the waning light—further evidence of what he’s known since that first moment, how Paul Atreides is undeniably beautiful. Even more so like this, knocked flat, it spreads him out, a sprawl that exposes, reveals more than how good Atreides looks so displayed. When the fight resumes Feyd knows the truth.
He feels it each time he blocks Atreides blade.
This is only the second time Feyd has fought without a shield.
He’s fairly certain he’s the only one of them so disadvantaged. They’ve both been trained to a similar tradition, a shared custom in how noble houses teach their youths to fight, differences perhaps in exactly what has been taught. And by who. Yet Feyd can see how well Atreides has learned, had seen it when he’d knocked him down, the skill in how blindingly fast his opponent had risen to his feet, at last tipped off to the pattern of pretence. Feyd has played this game in combat often enough to recognise the signs. He’s drawing the fight out; Atreides is making it look like there are times where he’s struggling, sculpting an implication that they might be evenly matched, that all the fremen have gained thus far hangs on an edge.
Feyd knows it doesn’t.
There is a calculated precision in this performance.
It’s clear in the unsmiling mouth, the controlled stillness of his face, no fear in eyes that nonetheless seem strangely haunted. It’s clear in how Atreides moves; fluid, the water these desert people so prized, like wind too, precise and yet so wild. Feyd well remembers how he’d looked when knocked down. The stillsuit doesn’t hide how Atreides is deliciously slight, a body that offers itself up for hands to wrap around his throat, around his slim waist, around thin wrists, calls for it like touch is what he needs.
But he holds the crysknife as if a blade has never left his hand.
The Duke is a youth still, a slip of a boy, and yet under all he does to mask it he fights like a god. No, no god would fight with blades, with flesh, because Atreides is a thing that can bleed. He clashes with Feyd like he knows it; like he will prove it, close quarters without fear, quick jabs of the blade, darting out of reach, then closing back in.
He fights like a tide.
One this planet has never seen but craves.
Yet matching a rhythm, Feyd’s rhythm, dancing in and out of reach and all the while deliberately allowing him to keep pace. Why? Why would he make himself look weaker than he is? At this, his moment of glory? Ah. Perhaps so it can be a moment of glory.
Perhaps he wants something.
Perhaps Atreides wants those watching to hold their breath.
The silence certainly feels that way, all those witnessing this are rivetted, held spellbound while one fight decides the fate of billions. If Atreides gets his way he’ll make it look close. His victory a crafted thing; no one in the crowd relaxing, even the Bene Gesserit may prove unable to see the end goal of his game, even the Lady Jessica required to fear that her son’s performance ends without a bow. No witness will leave without believing this fight anything but hard won, no follower will see this victory as anything but well deserved.
Is this House Atreides famed nobility?
Arrakis reclaimed with blood and sweat; to impress his Empress-to-be, to show off for his fremen pet, or even to keep this sacred, a glorious finale? Whatever it is Atreides doesn’t want anyone to think (to know) that he’s toying with him.
But Feyd has already figured that out.
And as he considers Paul Atreides haunted eyes he wonders if there might be something else. A motive less noble, a beloved prophet tempted to die, a part of him unwilling to simply have what he can take so easily. Muad’Dib here at last. Calculating his own hesitation, caught in the moment where all he fought for is in his grasp and finding himself dissatisfied that no one can take it from him. Feyd can’t see that in his face, finds only the suggestion of it in his eyes, the expression a cool mask, inscrutable, but that doesn’t change what he knows.
Paul Atreides wants a fight.
If he’s to have victory he wants to win it.
Feyd can help him win it.
The thought should surprise him. It doesn’t, is not without calculation, because though he should be furious at being used he’s not. There’s power in what lies between them now. It’s what has been brewing since Feyd saw Atreides sink a blade into his Uncle’s throat.
He’d watched and been enthralled.
He still is. Fascination is new, he’d not yet felt it’s like, not yet met one who could compel him to want to play instead of kill. A worthy prize here—or does he mean emperor? can an emperor be a bartered thing that's traded for and won?—a soft thing delivered from a place of sand and stone, a flesh blood gift from the desert for him to sink teeth into.
That’s if he can pin Atreides down.
Which Feyd thinks he can, thinks it as he dodges another slash of the knife, retaliates, watches as Atreides glides around the strike but doesn’t press for advantage. He thinks there might be a way, thinks he wants to learn this Paul Atreides who so knowingly called him cousin.
The eyes that watch him know still more.
Whatever colour they’d once been (green, he thinks) Feyd is certain most else has stayed the same. For all the unnatural blue of them—would he ever be able to leave this planet without a guaranteed supply of spice?—they are steady, grounded, unerringly intent on tracking how he moves. There is a directness to his stare. Through it all they remain strangely haunted, yet unflinching as they peer into him, and Feyd should find it uncomfortable but no…instead he’s thrilled.
Paul Atreides darts forwards.
He strikes whip fast.
The glancing blows sound out to break the silence, thudding force absorbed by flesh unguarded by a shield, but neither blade lands true. Neither blade draws blood. The eyes still watch. And now they are somewhat like Lady Fenring’s, that Bene Gesserit who had so recently come to Feyd on Giedi Prime, who’d tested him then taken him to bed, this a similar test perhaps.
Remove your hand from the box and you die.
Feyd would keep it in.
They play a little more; he’s got the game now, wants to map what he can of those lithe limbs while he has the time, wants to learn the slender muscles flexing beneath soft white skin, all this he knows is hidden under the stillsuit. Stray curls once again fall into blue within blue eyes, no hindrance though, not even slowing Atreides down. Feyd soon learns that he’s more than the little prophets match in strength at least—learns it in a moment where he has Atreides in his grasp and feels him struggle to break free and it’s the closest their game gets to being real—an advantage that will be lovely to explore later, the feeling of a body pressed tightly against his own.
Yes, Feyd thinks, giddy with realisation, I can definitely hold you down.
And so he laughs as he’s shoved back, smiles through the sudden pain in his gut, blooming bright from where Atreides had driven a bony elbow.
He'd gotten so close in that moment before they’d broken apart. Near enough to breathe in the scent of the desert, of spice, near enough to kiss. For a moment they’d shared the same air. Feyd savours the tease of it, of those lips, full and pink, plush and waiting. He wonders if Atreides has been trained for seduction too or if he was just born with a mouth so becoming of a pout.
They circle each other.
Without a shield in the way there’s nothing to dull the senses, no haze to peer through, nothing to dampen the exhilarating thrill of danger.
Atreides breathes so steadily.
It’s a moment of respite before the knife is raised once again, in preparation, in invitation, nonetheless still a pause as Atreides waits. As if the way Feyd grabbed him made him cautious, as if Atreides is catching his breath before reengaging, letting Feyd come to him and oh this is leading towards the finale isn’t it? Soon will come the final round of play. The end to their little dance. The crysknife gleams, its hilt held by hands hidden under gloves, Atreides fingers perhaps just as delicate as his face, just as pale and fine boned, elegant like the cheekbones framed by tousled curls.
This is the pretty little thing his Uncle had desired so ardently.
And yet feared the risk of trying to take.
Feyd is not his uncle.
He’s smirking when he lowers his knife and yields.