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It's not as tedious as he thought it would be.
There's no wild cheers, no shouts of encouragement—Paul told him that might startle the horses—only polite but enthusiastic applause after each round. Or is it entry? The exact terminology escapes him. Paul's spoken about horsemanship and show jumping at length, but there are many unusual words and phrases, and Feyd only knows the bare bones of it all: the riders guide the horses through the course and jump over obstacles. Mistakes are penalized; the rider with the fewest faults is the winner.
Paul is competing today. Three times a week he goes to the stable that keeps his horse to practice, and more often than not when he's not reading in their bedroom or swimming in the pool he's tending to his stallion.
Feyd's only seen the animal from photos that Paul's shown him. It has dark mane and is mottled in color—a dapple gray, apparently—and it seems to be made of solid muscle. It looks more like a beast of burden than a show horse, and after watching a few of Paul's fellow competitors complete the course, he actually finds it ugly in comparison. The shining, russet-brown and palomino coats are much more appealing, and those horses seemed to have a more elegant build overall.
Still, he's fond of Paul's horse. It tipped the scales in his favor. The Atreides—a family with a long and storied name but, in recent years, diminishing wealth, due in part to the patriarch's recent health issues. They'd already cut a great deal of their expenses by the time Feyd proposed, and Paul had been considering outright selling the horse. Money was tight, and full board at a stable cost a couple thousand a month.
"I'll take care of that," Feyd told him. "I'll take care of everything."
He has. Leto's medical bills paid for, Paul's childhood home given some much needed repairs, the horse still living in the lap of luxury.
And in return, Paul is so very, very grateful.
The rider in the course botches a jump—the horse's hooves catch one of the vertical poles and sends it into the dirt. A penalty, and not the rider's first. He's clearing the course quickly, according to the commentators, but the penalties are adding up.
That's something else that Paul told him: if there's a mistake, then that's on the rider rather than the mount. He's also said that it's the horse doing most of the work. But Paul is a soft touch. A spark of intelligence is rare in most people, let alone animals.
Another round of applause as the rider's score is given.
They announce Paul next. Paul Atreides and Eos. Feyd sits up straight in his seat. Paul in his dark green coat and tight white breeches and high boots, his curls hidden by his helmet. Feyd's never seen him wear it in person. This is the first time he's ever watched one of Paul's competitions, because this is the first time Paul's ever invited him to do so.
He looks good. Paul always looks good, whether he's sun-kissed and dripping wet from the pool or hunched over his desk reading some tome about the environment or in bed flushed and exhausted and satisfied from Feyd's careful attention. But here he's something else entirely—a master at work.
Feyd's spent the entire day watching horses and riders complete the same course under the time limit, attempt to jump over the same obstacles. It's invigorating to get to watch Paul's session.
Their pace isn't slow, it's unhurried; they're just as fast as they need to be to get the momentum to make the jumps. Paul's posture has the relaxed appearance that only someone experienced in their sport can achieve, but his expression is focused, determined. He guides Eose through the course in a manner that appears nearly effortless. The slightest tensing of his thighs against the horse's body and a gentle pull of the reins is all it takes for Paul to get Eos to go where he wants.
Two vertical poles in a row are easily dealt with. Next is a triple bar—three poles in ascending height which had proved too difficult for a few of the other competitors. They'd either miscalculated the timing of the jump or the horses had been unable to perceive the obstacle properly, sending a pole clattering to the ground.
Paul approaches the triple bar as if it is nothing out of the ordinary. Eos follows Paul's lead—though Paul would say it's the other way around. But either way, both horse and rider are calm even as they pick up speed. Feyd notices how they brace for the leap at the exact same moment, how Paul positions himself on the saddle when the horse's back legs bend, hooves pushing against the grass as it propels itself upward, the body in an arc as they fly over the first, the second, the third pole, and then they glide back down to earth and continue on without a care.
Nearby, someone remarks, "That was magnificent."
Feyd lets out the breath he's been holding. He agrees. Paul is magnificent. Always has been. That's why when there was a chance to make Paul his—Feyd took it.
Not much of the course is left. Another three vertical jumps in a row, and then an open water jump. The latter caused another rider to rack up a neat twenty points when their horse backed away from it. A refusal, it's called. Feyd remembers that from a conversation with Paul. A horse stopping before an obstacle or avoiding it entirely is a refusal. A twenty-point penalty for the first, forty for the second. If it happens a third time, it's an elimination from the competition. He'd been pleased to see the refusal—to be able to recognize so clearly something that Paul had told him about. But Paul and Eos make the jump in the blink of an eye.
And then it's over.
The crowd applauds. A perfect run, a great time. No one else has managed both. Feyd leans back in his seat. There are a few more competitors but—Paul has to place first, doesn't he? After some consideration, he decides to watch until the end. Paul might ask about one of the riders, afterwards. He might be disappointed if he finds out Feyd didn't stay the entire time. And besides, it will be that much more satisfying to compare their showing to his husband's.
Of course, not a single one of them is a match for Paul. When it's time to announce the winners it's not unexpected, but still exhilarating, to hear Paul's name called, to see him stand on the podium above the others, beaming, a first place medal around his neck and a bouquet of flowers in his arms.
The bouquet, Feyd thinks, could be better. They spare no expense for the horses—couldn't they source a grander bunch of flowers for the champion? Somewhere around here is a flower stall. This is the sort of area that has weekly farmer's markets, with overpriced sourdough and specialty dog treats decorated like sugar cookies. He snaps a photo of Paul—laughing as he talks with the other riders—and then slips away to get him something that he deserves.
Paul is brushing Eos's mane when Feyd approaches him with the bouquet. At the sound of Feyd's steps, he glances back with a smile, then does a double take, clearly surprised. "Oh! Feyd! What are you—is that for me?"
"Who else would it be for?" Feyd stops and waits for Paul to approach him. When his husband moves to take the bouquet from his hands, Feyd presses a kiss to his mouth. "You were wonderful," he says.
"You came to watch the competition?"
Feyd asks, "Did you forget that you invited me?"
"No, it's only..." Paul's smile this time is small, shy, but no less brilliant. "I didn't know it would be interesting to you."
With a snort, Feyd says, "You're interesting. The others..." He shrugs.
"They all did their best." There's just the slightest hint of warning in Paul's voice.
"But only one could be the best," Feyd replies. He slides his hands down to Paul's waist, leans forward for another kiss.
Paul's lips part slightly. Feyd licks inside of his mouth, touching Paul's teeth with his tongue. Paul makes a noise; the sound is muffled by their kiss, but its vibration is enjoyable. It's a pleasure to be able to touch Paul like this, and all the better because Paul allows it.
The horse whinnies and stomps its hooves. Paul breaks away from their kiss looking slightly embarrassed. "I have to finish brushing him. He gets upset if I take too long."
Feyd looks at the horse. Now that the competition is over, it seems just as ugly to him as it was before. He says, "You're joking."
"I'm not! He can be high maintenance."
It is high maintenance. Feyd would know. He pays for its upkeep, after all. Paul puts the bouquet in his backpack, next to the other one. Its overflowing with flowers. Feyd spies the medal in the front pocket. He picks it up and examines it, impressed. They cut corners on the flowers, but the medal is of good quality. There's weight to it. It's actually metal, though it's probably only gold-plated. It's embossed, with laurels around the border and an image of a horse and rider mid-jump in the center.
"Would you let me fuck you wearing just this?" Feyd asks Paul.
His husband's eyes widen. "Now you're joking."
"I'm not." He is being very, very serious.
Paul pats Eos's flank. He looks at the horse, then looks back at Feyd and says, slowly, "I don't know if I'm up for it after today's excitement."
Feyd says nothing. Silence is better, sometimes, especially with Paul. He watches Paul brush the horse's mane, and then its coat.
Then Paul asks, "If I hadn't gotten first place—if I'd gotten second, or third—would you still have asked me that?"
His husband has a habit of asking him puzzling questions. Feyd says, bemused, "You won first place, Paul. You were the best one out there."
Paul wipes his hands, then returns to his backpack to examine the bouquet that Feyd gave him. One of his fingers brushes against a petal. "Not tonight. Tomorrow?"
Well, Feyd's won something here today, too. "I look forward to it."