Love is a Battlefield (a Game of Thrones fanfic)

The Accidental Pop Duo

A guy with curly brown hair and a charming smile is leaning against the doorway.  He's wearing a terribly garish floral-printed polo, but Renly supposes that those are at least somewhat fashionable right now. "Are you the one with the banjo?" he asks, and he's raising an eyebrow, looking impossibly intrigued.

He looks as intrigued as Renly feels, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck and pointing to where he's carefully left the banjo leaning against the wall.  "You the guy with the keyboard?"

"That's me," the guy says, bending to squint at the banjo.  "I've never seen one of these in person, they're not really popular back home," he confesses, trailing one finger almost reverently down the neck.  "I love northern music though."

"So does my uncle," Renly says with a small smile.  "He's from up there, Winterfell."  He jams his hands into his pockets. He doesn't know why he's almost hesitant to say where Uncle Ned is from.  Winterfell's a big place these days, not like how it used to be, a simple castle on the moors.

"And you?" The guy asks, straightening up.  His smile is almost distractingly charming, and Renly's grateful for his beard - it hides the flush he fells creeping up the back of his neck.  "You don't have a northern accent."

"Nah, I'm from here," Renly answers.  He's about to introduce himself when a girl's voice comes in from the still open doorway.

"Loras, grandmother wants to say goodbye," A girl with the same brown curls as Renly’s new friend.  She is maybe a handful of years younger than him at the most, sticks her head into the room.  She takes in Renly for a moment, her eyes narrowing and Renly knows going off of how she looks at him that she knows exactly who he is. What's interesting, at least to Renly, is that she makes no move to identify him as the Prime Minister's little brother. "Oh--" she starts, smiling prettily at both of them from the doorway.

A second voice filters down the hall, and the guy’s (who Renly can only assume is called Loras) shoulders slump.  "Where did that boy get to, doesn't he know who valuable my time is?"

"Coming, grandmother!" He calls, looking only a little exasperated.  He steps forward, offering a hand to Renly. "I'm Loras," he says, all charming smile and flashing very white teeth.  Renly thinks he could be a movie star, given the right role.

"Renly," Renly replies.  He recovers himself nicely enough to shake well, as Robert and Stannis had taught him, and he encounters a firm handshake and warm, soft skin.

"We should jam sometime."

"Definitely."

-

Loras knows who Renly's brothers are, that much is obvious after the second time they have a conversation lasting more than a passing greeting in the hallway on their way to or from class.  Renly supposes that turn-about is fair play, given the private little smile that graces Loras' charming face as he looks up from a rather unfortunate photo of Robert with the banner headline 'PM SAYS DEBT CRISIS "A LAUGH"' splashed above the fold. Renly knows who Loras' father is, and, perhaps more importantly, who his grandmother is.  There are headlines about them in the papers as well

What is so refreshing about Loras is that he doesn't ask Renly about Robert's slowly eroding control of the party, or about politics at all.  He asks him about music, about his classes, and what he wants to do at the weekend.  Renly learns things about him in dribs and drabs, snatching fragments of conversation and trying not to become too enamored with this beautiful guy from Highgarden and his wonderful southron charm. 

Renly finds out that Loras grows practically everything that can take root in dirt on his balcony one afternoon over a discussion on the best beers they’ve had.  They’re impossibly impoverished, drinking some of Loras’ brother’s homebrew out of mason jars on the balcony of Loras’ apartment.  There’s so much green here, and Renly’s entranced at how Loras has managed to get roses, of all things to grow in a container garden.   Loras explains it, leaning in so close that they’re touching, talking about soil weights and composition.  “I could start something for you,” he says, encouraging Renly to do the same as he with a gesture of his mason jar to the far corner of the balcony where he keeps his supplies.