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The two young lovers lay spent in each other's arms, sweat-slick skin luminous and pale in the moon's silver glow. Bright was the night through the rustling curtains of the king's private bedchamber and warm was the breeze against their naked skin, but neither could match the heat nor the brilliance of the flame burning ever-stronger within the hearts of these tender youths. Deep down they both knew that this happiness couldn't last—that no mortal had ever been permitted such joy as this and been allowed to keep it—but, at least for now, they were content to bask in the serenity of the moment and set aside their fears. In hushed tones they whispered, confessing their hopes and dreams and untold desires, speaking of the future as children do, as if they were truly free to live their lives as they chose.
It was a perfect moment.
Alas, perfection never lasts. All lovers have their spats, and not even the tranquility of the afterglow could cause certain annoyances to be overlooked—in fact, tongues tend to wag more freely, then. It was only a matter of time before the communion between the two boys went sour.
“I really wish,” Peter commented, quite suddenly, with an exasperated sigh, “that you would stop calling me that.”
Caspian frowned, eying his golden-crowned lover in confusion. “Calling you what?”
“Dear heart,” Peter said replied, wrinkling his nose cutely. “You always call me that. I'm not a girl, you know. There's no need to use such ridiculously sappy pet names on me.”
“Oh,” said Caspian, looking just a little put out, “but I meant no offense by it. My mother used to call me that, and so—well, I just want to honor you by sharing the memory, I guess. Are you really so displeased by it? It's not as if I ever call you that in public...”
Peter did not look understanding in the least. “Oh, no!” he gapped, pushing himself off the pillows to glare down at his stunned lover. “You're not really saying that I remind you of your mother.” Caspian winced. He hadn't thought of that. “I would thank you to leave your parents out of our love-life, if you would!”
“It's not that you remind me of my mother, exactly,” Caspian amended, sitting up to put himself on a more even level with Peter. “Rather, you remind me of happier times.” He blushed, combing his fingers nervously through his dark locks. What was it about Peter that always had him so flustered? He used to be a master of persuasion. Now all he could do was flounder and stammer. In an act of self defense, Caspian adverted his gaze. Maybe if he stopped looking into those stormy blue eyes, he'd regain his senses. “If it's any consolation, the name 'dear heart' comes from an old Telemarine nursery tale, in which the noble hero is frequently called that by one he loves. The name by no means infringes upon your masculinity.” Caspian smiled weakly, and was pleased to see Peter's anger had dimmed.
“I guess I can see where you're coming from, but still...”
“Well,” Caspian offered diplomatically, “what would you like me to call you?
Peter raised a brow, lips twitching with amusement. “You could always try using my name.”
Caspian pouted. Sure, he could. But what would the fun be in that?
“Caspian?”
“Fine,” he sighed, leaning in to press a chaste kiss on his stubborn lover's lips. “If you insist.” Ah, the sacrifices we make for love. “Peter. My liege.”
The High King chuckled boyishly against his lips and deepened the kiss, rewarding his faithful servant for his selflessness. It was not long, of course, before their teenage hormones took over and they found themselves deeply entangled with each other once more and gasping sweet nothings into each other's ears—though this time something was missing, something Peter had somehow become accustomed to hearing.
How unexpected.
Some time later, as their breathing evened out and they settled down to sleep, Peter rolled over to face his lightly dozing lover and gently shook him to awareness.
Blinking blearily, Caspian yawned: “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” Peter said, eyes wide and conflicted. “It's just—well, maybe I don't mind so much if you continue to call me... that.” He chuckled uneasily. “I mean, so long as it's only in private, it doesn't really matter, does it?”
“Ah, my dear heart,” Caspian laughed, seeing right through him, “you shall be the death of me.”
So it was that Caspian continued to shower upon Peter his favored term of endearment (and a few more, besides, when he was feeling particularly daring) and before long Peter was fighting off a blush rather than a scowl whenever his lover called him “dear heart.”
And, some say, they defied the odds and lived Happily Ever After, but that's another story entirely.