Dean was still on the ground when Arion reached him.
He was moving with that calm competence Alamina seed to breed into its people, like even surprise attacks by giant dogs were a manageable part of the morning schedule.
"Boreas," Arion said, voice firm without being loud.
The malamute paused mid-investigation, ears flicking, then huffed like Dean was clearly an important artifact and Arion was interrupting a vital security check.
"Off."
Boreas, offended by the concept, shifted his weight off Dean with theatrical reluctance and sat imdiately beside him instead, shoulder pressed against Dean’s ribs like he’d decided his job was to guard his new favorite human from the dangers of... oxygen.
Dean pushed himself upright, brushing at his shirt with irritated hands that did nothing except sar lting snow around.
He opened his mouth.
Arion spoke first.
"Dean," Arion said, and there was a note in his voice that Dean hadn’t heard yet - sothing faintly incredulous, like Arion had discovered a new species, "Are you barefoot?"
Dean blinked.
Then looked down.
His toes were, in fact, directly in contact with Alaminian winter stone, the sock did little to nothing to help with the cold.
Cold surged up through him like a delayed reaction.
"Oh," Dean said, as if this was mildly inconvenient. "Huh."
Arion’s gaze dropped to Dean’s feet, then lifted back to Dean’s face like he was trying to understand how soone survived nineteen years with decision-making like this.
"You’re barefoot," Arion repeated, slower this ti, as if Dean might have missed the words the first ti.
Dean waved a dismissive hand. "It’s fine."
Arion’s brows rose.
"It’s not," Arion said.
Dean pointed sharply at Boreas, because Dean had never been good at focusing on the correct ergency. "You have a dog."
Arion paused.
Then his eyes flicked to Boreas. Then back to Dean. Then down to Dean’s feet again, because Arion had functional priorities, unlike Dean.
"Yes," Arion said carefully. "I have a dog. You are barefoot outside in winter."
Dean stared at him like Arion was the one being unreasonable. "A malamute," he clarified, because that mattered more than frostbite apparently. "A giant one."
Boreas leaned into Dean’s hip, satisfied.
Arion’s mouth twitched. "I’m aware."
"You didn’t tell ," Dean accused, as if Arion had committed a personal betrayal.
Arion fell silent again, which usually ant he was deciding how to respond without sounding insulting.
"I didn’t tell you," Arion echoed.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. "On the jet. I asked you to tell about yourself."
Arion’s brow lifted, faintly amused now, but also genuinely confused. "Yes."
"And you," Dean continued, voice sharpening with righteous indignation, "chose to tell you like black coffee."
Arion blinked once. "I do."
Dean gestured wildly at Boreas. "And this... this entire animal did not co up?"
Arion stared at him for a long mont, then looked down at Boreas again like he was reconsidering whether Boreas was, in fact, a secret.
"He’s a dog," Arion said finally.
Dean made a sound of disbelief. "He just tackled ."
"He greeted you," Arion corrected with maddening calm.
"He assaulted with affection."
Arion’s mouth curved. "Yes."
Dean threw his hands up. "You told about coffee."
Arion’s eyes ward with sothing that looked dangerously close to laughter. "You asked what I liked."
"I asked about you."
"And I answered," Arion said, tone still matter-of-fact. "I like black coffee."
Dean stared at him.
Arion stared back.
Boreas watched both of them like he was enjoying a dostic argunt he’d personally orchestrated.
Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue again, and his toes finally caught up to the reality of being barefoot on winter stone.
A sharp shiver ran through him, full-body, imdiate, and humiliating. His shoulders jumped. His breath hitched.
Dean tried to pretend none of that had happened.
Arion didn’t even give him the chance.
He moved in one smooth step, as the decision had already been made the second he’d seen Dean outside without shoes. One arm slid behind Dean’s back, the other under his knees, and then Dean was simply... off the ground.
Princess style.
Dean’s brain stalled.
His hands landed on Arion’s shoulders on instinct, fingers curling into the dark knit of his sweater like it was an anchor. Boreas trotted closer, tail wagging, pleased with himself like he’d just herded prey into position.
"Excuse you..." Dean started, voice pitching in indignation.
"No," Arion said calmly and kept walking without a change in his breathing.
Dean stared at the line of Arion’s jaw, offended by how unbothered he was. "Put down."
Arion adjusted his grip slightly, firr, as if Dean’s protest was wind. "You are barefoot," he said. "In Alaminian winter."
"I noticed," Dean snapped.
"Clearly not," Arion replied, tone infuriatingly reasonable.
Dean’s ears ward, because being carried did that to a man’s pride. "I was going to go back inside."
"You were going to stand there and argue," Arion said, already angling toward the glass doors. "You can do that where your feet won’t freeze off."
Dean’s mouth opened, then closed, because the truth was rude.
Boreas padded alongside them, leash slack in Arion’s right hand, as if escorting them was his job. The dog bumped Dean’s dangling foot once with his nose, sniffed, then huffed like he approved of Arion’s solution.
Dean glared down at him. "Traitor."
Boreas’ tail thumped harder.
Arion didn’t even look down. "He recognized my scent on you," he said, like he was explaining weather patterns. "That is why he tackled you."
Dean’s eyes narrowed. "So he thinks I’m yours."
Arion’s gaze stayed forward. His voice stayed calm. "You keep saying that like it’s a question."
Dean’s stomach did sothing stupid at the sheer resolve of it. He hated himself for it on principle.
They hit the threshold, warm air spilling out as Arion pushed the door open with his shoulder. The cold snapped off them the mont they crossed into the conservatory corridor, the palace swallowing the winter like it was an inconvenience.
Dean’s body loosened with the heat before his pride could recover.
Arion kept walking without slowing, still carrying him like this was normal and not deeply offensive to Dean’s sense of independence.
Dean’s body loosened with the heat before his pride could recover, which was rude. He would’ve preferred the palace to stay cold out of solidarity.
Arion didn’t slow. He just kept walking as if carrying Dean was a practical solution to a practical problem and not a personal affront to Dean’s dignity.
Dean twisted enough to look over Arion’s shoulder. The conservatory corridor stretched behind them, all glass and moonlit snow and dramatic lamps that pretended they weren’t dramatic. The doors they passed were too tall, too ornate, and, worse - none of them looked even remotely familiar.
Dean’s brows drew together.
"Where are you taking ?" he demanded, because the fact that he was being carried didn’t an he had to accept being transported like luggage.
Arion’s gaze stayed forward. "Inside."
"That’s not an answer," Dean said sharply. "I was lost before I found you. None of these corridors look familiar. That ans you’re taking sowhere else."
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