Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4215369.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Gokudera_Hayato/Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Character:
      Gokudera_Hayato, Yamamoto_Takeshi, Bianchi_(Reborn), Gokudera's_Father,
      Yamamoto_Tsuyoshi, Gokudera's_Mother, Yamamoto's_Mother, Basil_(Reborn)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Medieval, Princes_&_Princesses, War, First_Kiss,
      First_Time, Kissing_in_the_Rain, Alcohol, Fluff_and_Angst, Eventual_Happy
      Ending, Forbidden_Love, Costume_Parties_&_Masquerades, Hospitalization,
      Major_Character_Injury, Injury_Recovery, Politics, Disguise, Insomnia,
      Literal_Sleeping_Together, Blow_Jobs, First_Time_Blow_Jobs, Hand_Jobs,
      Semi-Public_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-22 Completed: 2015-10-17 Chapters: 30/30 Words: 53132
****** Disguised Devotion ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "This is not what Hayato wanted to be doing during the ball." Hayato
     has responsibilities as the heir apparent to his father's kingdom,
     which he fulfills if not always with the best of grace until the day
     a peace delegation from a neighboring kingdom visits and impulsivity
     leads him into trouble.
***** Impulsive *****
This is not what Hayato wanted to be doing during the ball.
The party was intended to be an icebreaker, a way to circulate and meet the
ambassadors from the neighboring kingdom while taking advantage of the
opportunity to show off the wealth of their own nation, to stun their political
guests into a state of awe in advance of the more weighty discussions the next
day. Hayato’s presence is more token than anything, the handsome heir apparent
to be arranged artistically next to his older but no less attractive sister,
the pair of them smiling and bowing or curtseying to the array of guests
pausing by the dais. They’re not even wearing real masks, at least nothing that
Hayato admits at such; he’d like something to cover his eyes, or ideally his
mouth, to give him the excuse of disguise for a glare or a frown or both when
all he wants to do is escape to bed or, failing that, to the bottom of a
wineglass. Instead he’s given some decadent confection of a mask, so ornate and
overdone it does nothing at all to hide either his features or his identity and
requires him to maintain at least a neutral expression for the seemingly
endless stream of well-wishers.
“I can’t even hear their names,” he growls to Bianchi sometime at the start of
the second hour. At least she got to cover her eyes under a thin gauze of black
veil stretched over a gilded frame, the entirety making her look like some sort
of exotic bird or maybe an iridescent insect. “What’s the point?”
“Smile,” she says, while demonstrating with a teasing pout of her own. “You
look like you’re ready to strangle someone, Hayato.”
“I am,” he snaps, glancing sideways with more force than he ought to bring to
bear on what must be the hundredth guest today. The girl hesitates, flinching
back from his gaze -- what is that costume she’s wearing, is she supposed to be
a carriage? -- before mumbling excuses he can’t hear and escaping into the
crowd. “I don’t see why I have to be here, you can be polite for the both of
us.”
“You’re doing yourself no favors right now,” Bianchi observes. “You really
should be making more of an effort to ingratiate yourself. Particularly given
the delegation.”
“I hate this,” Hayato growls. “You take over.”
“You’re still such a child,” Bianchi sighs, but there’s the tone of permission
in her voice, enough for Hayato to move towards the edge of the official dais
while she is still stepping forward to receive the next guest. The line seems
endless, an ever-growing chain of attendees; Hayato ducks his head as he pushes
through them, as if the angle will hide the tell-tale of his silver hair or the
giveaway of his useless golden mask. Still, even if he can’t disappear into the
crowd, royalty has some benefits; no one attempts to stop him, thanks to his
father’s focus on the tensely trivial conversation he is having with the lead
of the visitors and his sister’s enabling assistance. He makes it through the
crush, past the sticky-sweaty air of the room and the tables stacked with food
he doesn’t want, finally breaking into the cool air on the balcony.
It is cold, even after the initial shock of the transition from inside to
outside has worn off. That explains why there’s no one else out here, the
solitude more than enough to keep Hayato where he is even if the embroidery at
the sleeves of his jacket is little help against the chill. The wind feels
good, ruffles through his hair and clings to his skin, until he moves all the
way out to the edge of the railing to catch the stray gusts, leans over so he
can stare at the familiar lines of the garden below.
He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears footsteps, the catch of boots on
tiled floor as someone approaches from inside. It’s not long enough for him to
be shivering yet, still soon enough that he’s not ready to be dragged back
inside, and when he turns around to offer a snappish response he’s expecting a
servant, or maybe his father himself, angry as only a thwarted monarch can be.
He doesn’t recognize the figure that strides out onto the balcony. The dark
hair rules out the possibility of the king as quickly as the athletic build,
the fine cut of the clothes removing the possibility of a servant just as
rapidly. The newcomer keeps coming, head tipped down and hand pushing through
rumpled hair, doesn’t look up to see Hayato until he’s over halfway across the
adjourning distance.
“Oh.” He pauses, hand still in his hair. Hayato can’t make out his features
behind the ornate mask obscuring the top half of his face. “Sorry! I didn’t
think anyone was out here.”
“Someone is,” Hayato snaps. “Find your own balcony.”
This does not effect the immediate departure he had hoped. The intruder’s hand
slips from his hair, he makes a faint questioning noise, and then he’s
moving in instead of away, coming closer until Hayato can see the shape of his
mouth under the bottom edge of his mask. “Aren’t you the prince?”
Hayato groans. The other person -- a boy, really, probably about Hayato’s age
or a little older even though he seems unnaturally tall with it -- takes
another step, his lips starting to turn up around a smile.
“You are,” he says, sounding charmed and delighted even though Hayato can
remember doing precisely nothing to deserve this reaction. “We met, just
inside.”
“I don’t recall,” Hayato snaps, resorting to rudeness as he turns away to face
out over the balcony. “I met a lot of people tonight.”
“Haha, yeah, I guess so.” The other boy seems unfazed by what Hayato considered
unequivocal rejection, is coming in to stand at the railing next to the other
boy, facing Hayato rather than looking out over the garden. “Don’t you like the
party?”
Hayato cuts his eyes sideways, glaring at the other boy with as much royal
disdain as he can pull around himself. “Of course I like it,” he deadpans.
“It’s nothing at all like the dozens of other parties I’m forced to attend,
where I meet hundreds of people I neither know nor care about and force a smile
for visitors who are as likely to start a war with us as to sign a peace
treaty.”
There’s a sound from the other, something between a choke and a cough; Hayato
can see the laughter he’s trying and failing to repress in the moment before he
gets a hand up to cover his mouth. He has a nice smile, wide and bright and
unrestrained as Hayato almost never sees between the constant strain of his
family’s dynamic and the obsequious groveling of supplicants angling for his
favor. For a moment Hayato’s own perpetual scowl fades into neutrality, the
surprise of the other’s reaction enough to override his own displeasure with
the situation, and even when he reclaims his irritation it’s far more diffuse
than it was before.
“It is cold out here, though,” the stranger offers, although he doesn’t look
cold himself. He’s wearing a dark coat that looks black in the moonlight but is
probably blue instead, from what sense of color Hayato can gather from the
light spilling through the curtains to the ballroom. “Won’t you be more
comfortable inside?”
“I’d rather be cold,” Hayato snaps. That gets him another bubbling laugh, the
shift of movement in his periphery, and when he looks sideways the other boy is
turning to lean against the railing, his back to the garden and with every
appearance of staying where he is for some time. The light catches off the
embroidery on his coat -- it is blue after all, wound all over with patterns of
silver like frost collecting on leaves -- and illuminates his eyes, when Hayato
looks up past the rich color of the fabric to actually consider the other’s
face. The boy’s eyes are enormous, bright and warm as his smile; with the light
to set them off they look like gold, beautiful like Hayato has never seen
before.
“You don’t have to stay,” he hears himself saying, his throat working without
his permission. He doesn’t sound as snappish as he wants to; the statement is
almost a whisper instead of a growl, strangely gentle in the middle as he
didn’t intend. “You’ll freeze out here. The party’s supposed to be fun, you
know.”
“Mm,” the other boy hums, acknowledgment without agreement, tips his head to
glance at Hayato. He’s smiling again. Hayato is pretty sure that expression
with those eyes should be illegal. “I don’t mind.” His gaze slips away from
Hayato’s eyes, dips down enough that Hayato has to make an effort to not
consider where the other boy is looking before he looks away, back towards the
light of the party. “It’s kind of fun, talking with the prince himself.”
“If you bring that up again I’ll command you back inside,” Hayato growls, and
the other boy laughs again, the sound spilling up his throat until it curves
into his eyes. “I’m not out here to be reminded of my position.”
“Sorry, sorry!” The stranger is looking at him again, blinking dark lashes over
those caramel-rich eyes. “Ha, you’re really interesting.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Hayato snaps, looking sideways, and
the other boy is closer, now, leaning in against the support of the railing and
tipping his head like he’s a curious bird. He’s too close; it’s not Hayato’s
fault that he looks down, that he’s staring at the soft shape of the other
boy’s smile. He can’t help it, with them in such close proximity, and then the
stranger laughs, and the sound shudders down Hayato’s spine with the warmth
lacking in the air.
“You just are.” The other boy shrugs, like this is a normal thing to say, like
it’s no big deal, and he’s still smiling, and Hayato still isn’t looking away.
There’s heat under his skin, burning with more weight than the usual anxious
irritation he sustains at these sorts of events, and maybe it’s the late hour
and maybe it’s a need to rebel and maybe it’s just the easy curve of the other
boy’s smile, his evident happiness whispering promises of contagion if Hayato
can just get close enough. The reason doesn’t matter, in the end. What matters
is that something in Hayato settles into decision, impulsive action firing him
into motion, and when he moves it’s to lean in over the gap between himself and
those lips so he can press his mouth to the other boy’s.
He doesn’t intend to linger; he means for it to be a quick slide of friction,
the heat of reckless stupidity to warm him off the skin of someone he’ll never
see again. But the other boy makes a noise, a tiny choking whimper of shock,
and when Hayato starts to pull away the other follows, crushes their mouths
back together before he can frame an apology.
His mouth is warm. Against the chill of the air the body-heat radiance of the
other boy’s lips is overwhelming, sweeping out into Hayato’s blood like
painless fire. There’s the catch of the other boy’s mask against his cheek,
strange friction at Hayato’s skin, and then the other opens his mouth in silent
suggestion and Hayato forgets all about their masks, and their clothes, and the
cold of the night. He’s too busy taking instead, stepping in to close the
distance between their bodies and tasting out the damp of the other boy’s
mouth. His heart is pounding in his chest, pulse fluttering in his throat, and
there’s a hand against his shoulder and silver embroidery under his fingers and
he doesn’t realize he’s purring satisfaction, the vibration humming through his
mouth and catching at the other boy’s lips.
It feels like an infinity, with the crash of Hayato’s heartbeat pounding in his
head and the liquid submission of the other boy to the pressure of his mouth.
It’s not until Hayato’s jerking back, startled into movement by a half-heard
peal of laughter from inside, that what he’s doing, what he’s done, hits him
like the cold of the night has just been waiting to strike again.
“Shit,” he says, and “Shit,” and he’s shoving away, pushing himself free of the
other boy’s lingering hold. He’s blushing, he can feel the heat spreading sharp
and painful over his cheeks, but when he looks up the mask is covering any
equivalent response from the other. All he can see is the glazed warmth of his
eyes, the damp part of his lips, and even that is enough to skid his heartbeat
faster before he can catch himself.
“Fuck,” he says again. This is bad, this is a problem, he can’t let it be known
that the next heir to the throne was-- but the thought offers a solution in
itself, runs up against the compliant heat of the other’s lingering stare and
becomes salvation.
Hayato straightens his shoulders, adopts his most regal tone in spite of the
ache of heat across his cheeks. “Don’t tell anyone about this.” That’s good, he
sounds more furious than panicked. “That’s an order.”
The other boy blinks. There’s motion at his mouth, a tug of movement at the
corner like he’s fighting back a smile, but Hayato narrows his eyes and the
suggestion of a laugh stays as no more than a hint of amusement.
“Okay,” he says, sounding only a little bit breathless, and Hayato turns and
escapes back into the ballroom before he can undermine his own statement with
additional threats. At least inside, he can pretend his flush is from the
weight of heat in the air and not the burn of the blood in his veins.
***** Resemblance *****
Hayato feels he deserves some credit for a valiant effort. He successfully lost
himself in the crowd after his return inside, performed his duties as prince by
dancing with both his sister and his mother, and if he kept eyeing the crowd
for the deep blue of a silver-embroidered jacket he looked away every time he
caught himself doing it, if not before his cheeks started to darken into a
flush. Bianchi didn’t say anything, though the quirk of amusement at her lips
said he might not be as free from suspicion as her silence might imply, and his
mother just fretted about him being overheated and gave him the excuse needed
to escape to his room. But even that is no good, though at least he can stop
looking around a room of hundreds for a single stranger; it’s only after an
hour of glaring at a book without seeing the words that he gives it up as a
lost cause and throws himself into bed for restless dreams of half-seen faces
and warm lips.
By the time he makes it down for breakfast the next day, he is short several
hours of sleep and all-over irritable at the inexplicable rebellion of his
thoughts, and he is in no mood to be polite at all to the delegation with whom
they will be sharing meals for the duration of the week-long visit. Bad enough
that he should have to dress in formal attire before he’s even eaten anything;
politic conversation is well beyond him. He doesn’t look around the table at
the delegates sprinkled in among the usual family members, barely manages to
achieve eye contact with Bianchi across the cups and plates before he turns his
attention to the setting in front of him and dedicates himself to eating with
enough focus that he hopes it will deter any overtures, friendly or otherwise.
It works well for the first half-hour. He’s made it well into his food, is
beginning to contemplate the possibility of feeling like a human again sometime
in the near future, when the neighbor on his left-hand side clears his throat
so carefully it sounds like an apology before he’s even put words to it.
“Excuse me!” The voice is too cheery, too bright and too loud for the hour of
the day; Hayato winces at the volume too close to his ear, the overly friendly
bump of an arm against his. “Could you pass down the bread over there?” There’s
hand pointing at the tray in question; Hayato follows the line of the finger
instead of looking up at the speaker, manages to bite back a snappish response
as he reaches out for the golden-toasted slices. He deposits the tray into the
reaching hands without a word, is rewarded with another excessively chipper,
“Thanks!”
Hayato only glances at the other. It’s a momentary flicker of attention,
instinctive tracking of someone speaking to him more than any real curiosity
about the visitor who will be gone in a few days anyway. Unfortunately, it only
takes a glance to catch the bright flash of a too-familiar smile, the motion of
a blink over uncannily gold eyes.
“Holy shit,” Hayato blurts without thinking. “You.”
It’s possibly not his most graceful response. But he didn’t think to ever see
his stranger from the night before again, much less sitting next to him
at breakfast, and that means he’s part of the visiting delegation,
and that means he’s…
But. The other is blinking at him, his expression wide-open with innocence,
like he’s never seen Hayato before in all his life, and the mild curiosity in
his gaze is enough to stagger the first flush of certainty that hit Hayato’s
thoughts.
“Sorry,” the other says into the quiet Hayato realizes has descended at his
burst of an exclamation. “I guess we haven’t been properly introduced, right?”
He sets the tray down in front of him, wipes his fingers against the napkin
laid over his lap, and offers his hand with another burst of that easy smile.
“I’m Takeshi.”
“You really should pay more attention during introductions, Hayato,” Bianchi
offers from across the table. “I’m sure you were introduced to the prince last
night.”
“Ah, well,” Takeshi says, his smile going wider. There’s a dimple at the corner
of his mouth. “I met dozens of people yesterday, I’m not even sure I remember
being formally introduced.”
“Dozens,” Hayato scoffs, sarcasm taking over in the absence of any other input
from his brain. “More like hundreds.” There’s a faint rustle of noise, laughter
and a few shocked comments he doesn’t bother catching, and the rest of the
table starts to go back to their conversations as his own loses its interest to
the rest of the gathering. “We didn’t meet last night?”
Takeshi shrugs. “We can just meet now!” His hand is still out, fingers spread
slightly apart; Hayato realizes he’s been waiting for a response. He can feel
his face falling into a frown, his forehead creasing into irritation, but he
takes the offered hold anyway, tightens his grip just past what should be
comfort.
“I’m Hayato,” he says, fast, while the other boy’s eyebrows are jumping up at
the force of his hold and his smile is cracking wide into a laugh again.
That has to be the same laugh, right? “You don’t have a brother, do you?”
“Hm?” Takeshi’s hand slides free of Hayato’s, his gold eyes blinking wide and
faintly confused. “No, just me. No sisters, either. Why?”
Hayato has a brief, manic thought of blurting Because I kissed someone last
night who had your eyes and your smile and your laugh but you’re looking at me
like we’ve never met before and the negotiations were not supposed to start
with me kissing the visiting prince the day of his arrival. The idea catches
hysterical laughter into his throat, threatens his cheeks with the scarlet of a
flush before he can look back down at his plate.
“Nothing,” he says, too fast. “No reason.”
***** Tolerant *****
By the third day, Hayato has come to the conclusion that of all the irritations
and necessary evils that come with his royal position, putting up with outside
visitors is the worst. Specifically, putting up with the one visitor he has
been stuck with since the day the discussions started by virtue of their
similar age and similar position and the fact that apparently neither of them
has anything better to do than drive each other crazy.
“This is beautiful!” Takeshi chirps, turning his head up to the blue of the sky
overhead, his expression as warm and delighted as if he’s on vacation and not
ostensibly attempting to avert a war.
“I don’t know what you’re so excited about,” Hayato growls, because he has
figured out that he can get away with remarkable amounts of impoliteness if no
one else is around, and because he has no better way to express his constant
high-strung anxiety at the other’s presence. “It’s just a garden.”
“It looks amazing in the sunshine,” Takeshi says, stepping over one of the low
hedges that are supposed to mark out the lines of the pathways for people
without ridiculously long legs. “It rains a lot back home; it’s nice that you
can be outside most days here without getting soaked.”
“Not as nice as it looks,” Hayato scoffs. “You can’t even leave the castle when
the winter storms come in, not if you don’t want to get hit by lightning or
crushed by a falling branch.”
“Oh wow, exciting!” Takeshi looks back at Hayato, smiling so wide and so bright
it’s teetering on the edge of breaking into a laugh. The wind catches his hair,
ruffles it up across his forehead, but he doesn’t seem at all concerned about
the disarray.
“Dangerous,” Hayato corrects, sharp and snappish, and Takeshi does laugh, then,
his eyelashes fluttering shut as his smile breaks wide all over his features.
“You’re so angry all the time,” he says, and Hayato is ready to bristle up at
this insult except that it doesn’t sound like an insult, it sounds calm and
soft and very nearly affectionate, until he’s almost afraid to look up at
Takeshi’s face.
“It’s not like I don’t have a reason for it,” is the best he can manage, but
even that is softer than he intends, sounds more defensive than furious. “I
wasn’t planning on babysitting an idiot prince for the entirety of this visit,
you know.” He has a chill of regret as the words leave his lips, a sense of
overstepping some boundary he was barely managing to observe before, but
Takeshi just blinks at him, the wide-open gold of his eyes sweeping aside the
possibility of offense before it has even settled there.
“You don’t have to amuse me,” he says. He tips his head to the side, the
movement reminding Hayato unavoidably of a bird before he breaks into another
pointless laugh, delight at something Hayato can’t understand. “Anything you
want to do is fine, you know.”
Hayato glares at him. There’s no way he can piece words to the feeling tight in
his chest, the strain of nervous discomfort that has plagued him ever since the
ball the first night of the delegation’s arrival. He can’t explain that
this is what he wants to do, that he should be enjoying himself. But all his
favorite ways to pass the time just go sharp and strained with tension he can’t
explain when Takeshi’s around; he can’t pay attention to the beauty of the
flowers or the smooth elegance of the pathways when all he can focus on is the
way Takeshi’s eyes crinkle when he smiles or the way his throat looks when he
tips his head back to laugh. And then there’s the problem of his memory, the
flickers of recollection that appear at the most inopportune times, when
Takeshi’s sleeve brushes his or the other boy’s hair ruffles in a certain way,
and Hayato will be certain all over again that the impossible is somehow
reality again, that the shape of Takeshi’s smile would be familiar if he could
just press his mouth to the soft give of the other’s lips.
He doesn’t pull together any of that, does exactly what he’s done since the
first day he met Takeshi and shoves the thoughts away and back, hoping
desperately that maybe this time it’ll be enough force to break their hold on
him. He doesn’t have much hope for that, but right now it’s the best he can do,
stall and delay until Takeshi leaves and he never has to see him again.
“Let’s go back inside,” Hayato finally says, when the silence between them has
gone on long enough that Takeshi’s expression is falling into soft inattention,
that his gaze is starting to drift across Hayato’s features like a touch the
other isn’t sure he wants. He turns away, the movement sharp with decision as
he heads back towards the castle without waiting for the other to catch him up.
There’s the scrape of boots against gravel, Takeshi stepping back over the
hedge to fall into step just at Hayato’s heels, but Hayato doesn’t turn around.
It’s easier if he doesn’t look.
***** Judgment *****
Two days before the delegation is supposed to leave, a storm hits.
Usually Hayato doesn’t mind the occasional storms and their associated
lightning and thunder; they leave him free to hole up in the library, to
immerse himself in a book without judgment from his mother or his sister. But
if Takeshi is irritatingly enthusiastic outside he’s twice as bad when they’re
trapped indoors, apparently unable to sit still or go more than five minutes
without asking a question. Hayato barely lasts a half hour before he slams his
book shut and retreats to the library with the excuse of finding something more
interesting just to buy himself a few moments of peace.
He’s not expecting to find Bianchi perched on the edge of one of the chairs in
the open front space. They are intended to appear comfortable, regardless of
their actual softness; Hayato usually forgoes them entirely, hides farther back
in the space in one of the chairs he managed to get the servants to bring in
months ago that look less gratuitously overblown and feel much more
comfortable. But Bianchi has always been better about maintaining appearances
than he has -- the burden of the eldest child, he supposes, heir to the crown
or not -- and now is no exception. The dark crimson of her gown is spread over
her knees, her back straight and shoulders back, and when she looks up at him
there’s not even a flicker of irritation visible on her features at being
interrupted.
Hayato doesn’t mind. He has more than enough irritation for the both of them.
“I’m going to kill that idiot,” he growls before the door has swung shut behind
him, stomps into the room to cast his book onto the table with far less care
than he would normally show for the embossed-leather cover. “What am I supposed
to even do with him, why is he even here?”
“It’s intended as a sign of goodwill,” Bianchi observes, drawing the ribbon of
a bookmark between the pages of her book so she can lean back into something
better approximating comfort. “Sending the crown prince along with the
delegation shows they’re serious about the talks.”
“He’s useless,” Hayato growls, on-edge from a morning of inane questions and
too-bright laughter that fairly echoes off the enclosed space of the castle.
“He smiles too much and he laughs too loud, you would think we’re not even
enemies.”
“We’re not enemies yet,” Bianchi says, with more biting emphasis in her tone
than Hayato expected. It cuts off his tirade mid-sentence, leaves him blinking
at her in shock while she glares back at him. “It’s the best sign of this
entire effort that the prince has taken such a liking to your company.” Bianchi
sighs, some of the smooth line of her shoulders slumping into heavy exhaustion,
and when she speaks again it’s with her eyes on the weight of the book Hayato
cast on the table. “Far more effective than the talks have been.”
There’s a chill that runs down Hayato’s spine, formless fear at something in
the weight on Bianchi’s shoulders and the resignation in her voice. “Is it that
bad?” He hates the way he sounds, his voice high and childishly frightened, but
he can’t tidy the sound into maturity when he is so completely lacking in
information. “You’re not even in the talks yourself, how do you know?”
Bianchi’s laugh purrs in her throat, real amusement sharp-edged at his expense.
“All you have to do is pay attention to something other than how much you
dislike the envoy of their royal family.” When she stands it’s in a swirl of
satin and brocade, the sound as much judgment as the tossed-back angle of her
shoulders and the steel in her eyes. “Or ask the right questions of the right
people. If you’re going to play the uninformed royal heir, you might as well
keep company with your match from the other side. At least that way you two
aren’t getting underfoot.”
Her words sting, make Hayato flinch as if every syllable is drawing blood. It
would be easier if he could push them away or deny them with anything other
than sheer desperate will that they not be true. But they are true, he knows,
even as he starts to snap “That’s not fair” for appearances more than anything
else; he’s been caught up in his seething irritation, too pinned down by the
nights that deny him any real sleep and the days that torment him with almost-
familiarities in everything Takeshi says or does.
Bianchi tosses her head, the haughty tilt of her chin Hayato particularly
hates, the one that makes him feel like he’s five years old and she’s lecturing
him on his atrocious table manners. “It’s not,” she agrees, but her tone is too
cutting for Hayato to believe there is any reprieve coming for him. “At least
Prince Takeshi is trying to foster goodwill. That’s far more than you can
claim.” And she’s gone, out the door in a rustle of fabric before Hayato can
close his mouth or compose an adequate reply to the scathing judgment laying
his own behavior bare.
It’s a few minutes before his cheeks stop burning with self-conscious flush.
Even when he leaves, his shoulders are hunched like a wall around his face, his
skin still prickling uncomfortably with shame. He doesn’t think about the book
he failed to retrieve until he’s almost back at the room where he left Takeshi,
and by then he’s too tight-wound with the sneaking suspicion he should
apologize and the unwillingness to do so to go back. He pushes the door open
instead, the weight of it gliding in so smoothly it barely makes a whisper
against the floor, and when he looks up Takeshi hasn’t turned around from the
window yet.
He looks older, with his mouth relaxed out of the active smile he always has on
around Hayato. There’s an attention in his eyes as he stares out at the storm,
like he’s finding the sleeting rain or the wind-tossed branches fascinating on
some deeper level than the topmost, and Hayato hesitates in the doorway to
stare at his profile, the clean line of the bridge of his nose and the
unconscious part to his lips. Even the motion of his eyelashes is distracting,
the shift of his chin when he tips his head enough to skip over all the guilt
and shame in Hayato’s mind to that certainty, that same unshakeable confidence
that he knows that mouth, those eyes, that Takeshi must be feigning ignorance
as completely as Hayato is dodging asking the question that would resolve all
his stress.
Then Takeshi turns, like he’s feeling the other’s eyes on him, and it takes
everything in Hayato to keep from making an instinctive retreat out the door
and into the safety of the hallway. His pushed-aside flush returns with force,
burning out across his cheekbones and along the line of his throat until he’s
sure he’s as red as Bianchi’s dress.
“Hi,” Takeshi says, offering that smile again, and Hayato’s security in his
recollection skids away again, fragments until he can’t tell if he does
recognize that expression or just wants to. “Did you not find the book?”
“Shut up,” Hayato snaps, although it has less force than he intends. He steps
forward out of the doorway so the weight of it can swing back into place. “It’s
pointless to try to read with you here anyway.”
He doesn’t put words to the apology prickling under his skin. Even if he has
nothing else left, he’s not about to give up on his stubbornness.
***** Regrets *****
The farewell reception is a much less structured affair than the welcoming
ball. Hayato would have considered that a boon, a week ago, freedom from that
endless line of well-wishers, nothing burdening him except his usual
responsibility of not making a complete fool of himself. But he’s feeling
anxious, tonight, would welcome the excuse of introductions to keep his mind
off his lingering questions, the suspicions that have become no more certain
after days of consideration, and on top of all of that he has entirely lost
Takeshi to the crowd. He saw the other boy when he came in, the gold-trimmed
blue of the other boy’s country’s colors, but in the first rush of pointless
nerves Hayato retreated to a wineglass, and when he was sufficiently ready to
track down the other Takeshi proved impossible to find.
It shouldn’t be possible to lose someone with a smile that bright and a laugh
so carrying, particularly when he has the height to stand taller than most in
the room. But lost he is, and Hayato can’t muster up the nerve to ask after
him, so instead he stays where he is, finishes his first and then a second
glass of wine, and by the time the third is half-gone he’s well on his way to
tipsy and farther along the path to irritable with regret.
He doesn’t even know what he regrets. Not finding his mystery stranger, maybe,
not resolving why Takeshi looks so much like the hazy memory of his thoughts,
not being kinder sooner to the other. Maybe he’s sorry that they’re still on
the verge of war, that the next time they meet may be on a battlefield and
Hayato doesn’t even know what he’d want to say, except that that image chills
all through his blood until he has to set the half-finished glass down and lean
at the table while he waits for the vertigo of panic to pass. It shouldn’t
matter, he shouldn’t care, it wasn’t three days ago he was complaining about
Takeshi, and just because he’s leaving now doesn’t mean Hayato has to like him,
doesn’t mean he has to miss him.
He can’t calm down. The adrenaline already at the back of his thoughts has a
grasp on him now, is trembling through his veins and fluttering in his stomach
until he feels like he’s falling, until nausea joins forces with inebriation
and leaves him feeling suddenly, violently ill.
Staying is out of the question. Vomiting would definitely constitute
unacceptable behavior, and besides he has nothing to do here anyway, no one who
cares at all to speak to him and no reason to stay, since Takeshi has
apparently slipped out and doesn’t need to be kept occupied. The thought is
bitter but it’s enough to steady him, a little, the sour burn of self-
flagellation forcing back his nausea through sheer force of will while he
maneuvers to the doorway. No one tries to stop him -- most people because they
are too caught up in their own conversations, or too awed to speak to him, and
the rest, he suspects, because the white pallor of his face and the clammy
chill at his skin is enough to explain his departure better than words could
do.
Opening the door is like letting a surge of quiet into the babble of the
dinner, stepping out like fresh air even though there’s nothing different about
the enclosed space of the hallway compared to the ballroom. Hayato lets the
door swing shut behind him, shuts his eyes and takes a breath as his stomach
settles, and while his eyes are shut:
“Hayato?” shocked and warm and familiar, so familiar he doesn’t have to wait
for recognition to hit. He just turns, pivoting on his heel as fast as his eyes
are coming open, and there Takeshi is, getting to his feet with guilty haste
from where he must have been sitting alongside the door.
Hayato’s stomach drops, keeps dropping, but there’s no nausea now, nothing but
heat flushing all over his skin, a burst of relief at this satisfaction he
didn’t know he was looking for. Takeshi is staring at him, his lips curving up
into an involuntary smile before his gaze slides down over Hayato’s features
and his expression falls out of simple happiness into lines of concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a half-step forward. His hand comes out,
fingers curving into an offer of support like he’s expecting Hayato to collapse
where he stands. “You don’t look too good.” His eyes are wide, his lips barely
parted and soft with concern, and Hayato knows.
He moves instead of answering. It’s not far, just a pair of too-long steps, and
then his hands are on Takeshi’s shoulders, he’s shoving the other boy back
against the wall to reclaim the distance the other had covered. Takeshi hits
hard and unresisting, the sound of a forced exhale speaking to his impact, but
Hayato doesn’t care and he isn’t waiting anymore.
“I know it was you,” he growls, the words hot with absolute certainty on his
tongue, and he leans in to press his mouth to Takeshi’s.
There’s no noise of shock this time, no startled reaction against his lips. But
the submission is the same, the melting-hot give of familiar lips against his
own, and Hayato is growling victory and fury together as his hand comes up, as
his fingers catch on dark hair that proves even softer than it has looked these
last days.
He doesn’t let the kiss expand, doesn’t let the sensations swamp his awareness;
he’s too angry for that, too frustrated and vicious with his accurate
recollection to linger. But his hand stays where it is, forms a fist in
Takeshi’s hair, so when Hayato pulls back he can keep Takeshi from following
him by the force of his hold.
“You,” and it’s an insult and a wail and a purr all at once. “Why didn’t
you tell me it was you?”
“You told me not to,” Takeshi says immediately, his eyes -- his gold eyes,
Hayato was right about those -- fixed on Hayato’s mouth like all the rest of
his world has ceased to exist. “You said not to tell anyone.”
“I didn’t mean me, you idiot,” Hayato snaps, but his hold at Takeshi’s hair is
slipping loose, or maybe he’s just leaning in anyway, because they’re coming
back together again, Takeshi’s whimpering something incoherent and grateful
against his mouth and Hayato’s licking at the other’s lips, sweeping the heat
of Takeshi’s mouth up over his tongue. His head is spinning and he’s fairly
sure now it’s not from the wine, not when he can taste every sound Takeshi
makes against his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Takeshi gasps when Hayato pulls back again. His hands are laced
through the other’s hair; Hayato didn’t even notice the movement, didn’t
process the lesser heat of Takeshi’s touch for the pressure on his lips. “I
didn’t think you remembered me.”
“I remembered you,” Hayato snaps, dragging maybe harder than he should at
Takeshi’s hair. The other boy’s head goes back, his throat tightening on a
whining note of reaction, and Hayato is left to stare at the line of his
throat, the vibration of sound thrumming along it until it’s cut off by the
edge of a blue collar. “I haven’t been able to sleep for remembering and not
knowing it was you.”
There’s a laugh, the bright sound Hayato has learned to hate over the last few
days, but there’s no irritation in him now, just heat rising to the surface
like bubbles in champagne and leaving him flushed and breathless. “You’ve been
thinking about me too?”
“You idiot,” Hayato blurts again, lets Takeshi’s hair go so he can avoid the
too-tempting curve of his throat. “We’ve been wasting all this time.” A growl,
a frown, but Takeshi is still staring at him with his eyes gone shadowed and
out-of-focus and Hayato can’t keep a grasp on his anger. “I’ve been taking you
around the gardens and reading with you and trying to teach you history and we
could have been doing this” and he’s in again, Takeshi’s unravelling against
his lips and clinging to his shoulders like he can’t stand and this is what it
was, that first night, this is better even than Hayato remembered, it’s turning
all his recollections of irritation with the other boy warm and soft-edged.
They can’t stay, Hayato knows they can’t. The doors could come open at any
moment, and even the creak of warning won’t give them time to more than jump
apart, will leave Takeshi’s hair rumpled from Hayato’s fingers and both their
cheeks flushed high with color. But pulling away will mean goodbye, will mean
letting go of something Hayato has been desperately reaching for since his
first taste of it, and he can’t make himself move.
When they have so little time left, they have to make the most of it.
***** Logic *****
Hayato hadn’t known that it was possible to be mind-numbingly bored and furious
at the same time.
“We can’t,” he insists for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, his voice rising
high and shriller than he’d like. “What is wrong with all of you, do
you want to go to war?”
“I never expected this from you, Hayato,” his father intones from the end of
the table, but his rebuking tone stopped having its full effect some years ago,
and right now Hayato is too angry for judgment to touch him.
“I agree,” one of the councilors says, heavy brows drawn dark like stormclouds
over his features. “With all due respect, your highness, you lack the
historical basis for these claims.”
“Oh, shut up,” Hayato snaps. “You just don’t want to allow for the possibility
of compromise.”
“You haven’t been present at the negotiations, you don’t even know what
they want,” one of the other advisors growls from a few seats farther down the
table. “How can you speak of compromise when their demands would ruin our whole
kingdom?”
“It is your kingdom I am thinking of,” Hayato’s father growls, his voice the
low rumble of thunder on the horizon. “I would expect the heir to the throne to
be more concerned with the welfare of his own country than maintaining a gentle
touch with his enemies.”
Hayato can feel his cheeks flushing, self-consciousness challenging
embarrassment for control over his features as his traitor memory chooses this
precise moment to offer an unintended interpretation to his father’s words. He
narrows his eyes instead of retreating, frames his voice into anger instead of
a tremble, and when he pushes to his feet he hopes the aggression will help
disguise the way his skin is starting to glow red.
“It is exactly my country I am concerned with,” he snaps, even if that’s only
half true, even if his logic is mostly a wrapper for the ache of loneliness
that always wakes him just before his dreams tip out of recast memories and
into complete fantasy. “You’re so anxious to fall back to force you’re not
considering the way this will look.”
“What?” his father grates, his entire expression a single condensed threat, but
Hayato glares right back, ignoring the reactions of everyone else at the table
as unimportant.
“They sent us a peace delegation,” he snaps, pressing his palm flat to the
table to stall the trembling he can’t wholly suppress. “They sent a member of
the royal family here as a gesture of good will.” His throat is going tight on
the name aching for his voice, his skin flushing hot just at the thought of
Takeshi -- his smile, his laugh, the taste of his mouth -- but his frustration
is force enough to urge him forward in his argument in spite of the desire
sticking to his blood. “And you want to declare war without even an attempt at
reciprocation.” The room goes quiet, the silence speaking to his hit, but his
father is still glaring, still looking like he’s on the verge of true rage.
“Are you trying to make us into the villains here?”
His father’s hand comes down on the table, palm smacking so loud against the
wood Hayato jerks in shock. “Fine,” he spits, so low and furious it takes
Hayato a moment to process the word as permission instead of refusal. “You’re
so interested in playing diplomat, you can take your damn peace delegation and
put on as pretty a show as you want. I know how much you love social
gatherings, Hayato, I’m sure you’ll have an excellent time.” He rises to his
feet, his eyes still dark and snapping with frustration as they always get when
he and Hayato fight. “Then we’ll continue our discussion, once your sense
of justice has been soothed.” He pivots away, strides towards the door in a few
long steps; there’s a pause as he reaches the door, his hand flat and pushing
against the weight of it. When he speaks it’s without turning.
“I don’t want to hear a word of complaint from you on this, Hayato.” The room
is dead silent now; Hayato doesn’t look around to see if any of the advisors
are looking at him. “If I hear of you indulging in one of your usual petty
tantrums during this visit your return will be less than welcome.”
The door opens, the king leaves. There’s barely time for a breath before the
rest of the room stands to make for the door as rapidly as possible; Hayato’s
fights with the king are well-known, and all in all this was tamer than they
usually are. Hayato supposes on some distant level that they are looking to
escape before what must surely be an inevitable explosion on his part.
He’s grateful to his reputation, even if it’s entirely wrong in this case. It
gives him an empty room before anyone thinks to ask why he hasn’t sat back
down, or sees that his cheeks are still flushed with something that isn’t
anger, or notices that his arm is starting to tremble with the adrenaline of
disbelieving delight.
He’d hate to let on that what was intended as punishment is more suited to his
desires than he has been willing to let himself hope for.
***** Disappointment *****
By the time they arrive at the castle, it’s been raining for hours.
Hayato doesn’t understand how the weather can persist so completely. It’s not
like he hasn’t seen rain before, but this kind of heavy downpour is well
outside the bounds of his expectations, particularly with the dark clouds
overhead speaking to its continuation well into the future. Appearances are
important, he knows, but the entire party looks as bedraggled as he feels, and
even the tie holding his hair into some semblance of order isn’t enough to keep
him from feeling as cold and unpleasant as the weather around him. The thought
of being so close to his goal barely sparks warmth in his chest; it seems
surreal, now, like maybe somehow this was all a huge mistake, the rain drowning
the hope that has pushed him through the weeks of preparations and the days of
travel necessary to cross the distance between the two kingdoms. Hayato needs a
bath, and he wants dinner, and by the time they can make out the faint glow of
light beckoning them on to the castle the shadowy walls feel far more
threatening than welcoming.
Hayato doesn’t have to announce them. That’s the job of the actual delegation
leader, a man so calm and prone to discussion Hayato is endlessly impressed
he’s able to decide what to wear in the morning. All he’s left to do is sit up
straight and look as dignified and regal as he can manage with water dripping
across his face and down the back of his neck and do his absolute best to not
look for Takeshi in the welcoming committee.
Looking or not, it doesn’t take long to realize he’s not there. Hayato has a
chill of foreboding; does Takeshi not want to see him? Does he even know he’s
coming? After his father’s declaration he hadn’t thought about the logistics of
this visit, had avoided thinking about it at all except for daydreams too warm
and soft-edged to even consider except late at night by insomniac candlelight.
He had thought it would be enough to save him from the disappointment that has
proven inevitable in his life thus far, but the cold weight in his stomach
argues otherwise, now that the point has come. His shoulders lose some of their
strength, slump heavy under his soaked-through jacket, and it’s at that moment
the delegation leader looks back at him as if to request his input.
“Sorry,” he says, aiming for politeness in his tone since he can’t manage
enthusiasm. He’s not sure how effective this attempt is. “What did you say?”
“We are so grateful to have you here,” the councillor standing in front of them
says, offering a bow so low Hayato briefly wonders if they’re being mocked. “We
wished to inquire regarding your highness’s preference for the evening. We can
have dinner prepared for you all, but given the weather we thought perhaps you
might wish to defer such a celebration until tomorrow evening instead.”
Hayato’s mind skids through a few frantic calculations. A dinner would mean
another opportunity to see Takeshi; surely the crown prince would be present at
such a formal occasion, if only to prevent giving offense to the visitors. But
the disappointment at not having him here immediately, however illogical, is
seeping ice into Hayato’s veins, freezing all his hope into the expectation of
misery. With such high expectations there’s no way he won’t be disappointed;
how could anyone live up to the anticipation he’s crafted in his head? There’s
nothing for him to look forward to, in the end; Takeshi isn’t here, and surely
when they do meet they will be occupied with polite small talk, or maybe they
won’t even get along with the constant weight of the rain to pin Hayato’s
excitement to the ground. Did Hayato even like the other boy in the first
place? He can’t remember, not when all his memories are turned unintelligible
and hot with the last to be added, but even that is fading out, the memory of
breathless friction and the drag of desperate fingertips through soft hair
going unreal and impossible under the cold shadow of daylight.
“I want a bath,” is what he says, his voice going so involuntarily plaintive it
gets a laugh from the rest of the delegation and a smirk from the councillor,
unmistakable even if he ducks his head in an attempt to cover the reaction.
Hayato closes his mouth hard, feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but
even that heat is far-off, nothing like enough to warm the chill settled into
his core.
He clears his throat, adopts the best royal tone he can muster. “It’s been a
lengthy journey.” He’s not sure how effective it is, but the laughter goes
silent in deference to his position if not his actual appearance.
“Introductions will be of much better service to us once we’ve all had a chance
to rest and recover for the evening.”
“Of course,” the councillor says, dipping his head in acknowledgment that looks
at least somewhat sincere. “I can show you to your quarters, and our kitchens
will bring you whatever you’d like to eat for dinner.”
Hayato isn’t hungry anymore. His stomach is soured by cold and disappointment
and exhaustion all together, misery unwinding through him until it’s hard to
keep his face from falling into a frown. But he has a job to do, even if his
personal hopes have been thoroughly dashed, and what he says is, “Thank you. We
appreciate your understanding,” with the best smile he can manage.
He doesn’t think anyone can fault him if it doesn’t touch his eyes.
***** Damp *****
It takes a long time to fill the bathtub.
Hayato wouldn’t mind this as much if he were at home. He could at least make a
start on getting out of his wet clothes if he were around familiar faces,
wouldn’t need to concern himself nearly so much with maintaining a level of
dignity befitting a visiting prince. But he’s awkward, uncomfortable in the
chambers that feel far too large without the comfort of the books he has
stashed in his own bedroom, and that and the awareness of his role keep his
spine straight and all his dripping clothes entirely fastened until the tub is
sufficiently full of steaming water.
He finally stands as the last of the serving men collect their empty buckets,
leaving him with a maid who dips a precise curtsey and offers to bring him
something to eat from the kitchens or some other options for soap.
“No,” he says, blanket refusal for both offers, trying to keep his expression
neutral enough to avoid seeming rude. “I would prefer to rest, thank you.”
The girl dips her head and, thankfully, retreats to the hallway, easing the
door shut behind her. Hayato starts in on his buttons before she’s gone,
pushing them free of sodden buttonholes that make him glad of the tile to catch
the splash of water that accompanies every movement. His boots need to come off
too -- he drops to the floor to tug those off after his overcoat is loose,
dragging the weight free and peeling socks off to reintroduce his feet with air
not passing through drenched fabric. Then his shirt, the fall of lace at his
throat too ostentatious for travel but necessary for appearances; he tosses it
into the corner to join his boots and coat, is looking down to fumble the loose
of his undershirt up over his head when the sound of a knock freezes him where
he is.
“Fuck,” he hisses, quietly enough that it won’t carry. He glances at the pile
of discarded clothes -- but there’s no time to struggle back into them, and his
chilled skin prickles unpleasantly at the very idea of removing the freedom he
has granted it. The steam in the air is a reminder of his request, offers an
impermeable excuse should someone be offended at his state of undress, and when
he moves towards the door it’s on bare feet and wearing a scowl far better
suited to his mood than the smile he’s been forcing for the last half-hour.
“Apologies,” he’s growling as he drags the door open, pivots around the corner
to see who has come to offer him dinner again. “I was just about --”
He blinks. It’s not the clean white of a servant’s uniform in front of him but
the rich blue of expensive dyes, not a bowing maid but a boy so tight-wound
he’s all but bouncing on his toes, and then Hayato looks up into radiant eyes
and feels all his sense of gravity tip smoothly sideways and away.
“Hi,” Takeshi gasps, sounding breathless like he’s been running or like he
can’t stand to hold the words back. “I missed you.”
Hayato doesn’t think. He doesn’t waste time on words, or logic, or waiting for
the hum of shock in his ears to fade. He just reaches out, fingers closing into
a fist careless of the value of the fabric crushing under his touch, and drags
Takeshi forward hard. He moves as fast as Hayato pulls, stumbling past the
entrance to the room and reaching out to match Hayato’s hold, and Hayato comes
up on his toes to press his mouth to Takeshi’s before he’s yet fumbled the door
shut. There’s a whimper, a burst of vibration and heat at his mouth, and they
both go stumbling together, the door slamming shut from the impact of Hayato
shoving Takeshi against it. He has both hands caught in Takeshi’s shirt, now,
the fabric far thinner than any of the formal clothing the other boy wore
during his first visit, and there are fingers at Hayato’s neck, slipping up
into his hair to push the tie off-center.
“You’re wet,” Takeshi says when Hayato falls back for a moment to gasp for air
and appreciate the way Takeshi’s shirt is dragging at one shoulder, to stare
shadows at the line of tanned collarbone laid bare by the fabric.
“Yeah,” Hayato growls, “It’s raining, idiot,” and he’s ducking in closer.
Takeshi turns his head down in expectation of another kiss, but it’s his
shoulder Hayato is after, the soft clean of his skin begging for the
indentation of teeth and tongue and lips. Takeshi makes a weird sound when
Hayato’s mouth hits his skin, a whimpering moan as his fingers drag over the
back of the other’s neck, and Hayato growls, rocks in closer until the wet of
his undershirt is catching damp into Takeshi’s clothes.
“Where were you?” he demands without pulling away, the words pouring out across
the other’s skin while Takeshi’s fingers shudder into tension and then steady
again at the back of his neck. “I thought I’d see you right when we showed up.”
“I’m sorry,” Takeshi says. Hayato can feel him moving, the warmth of his lips
coming in to drag over the rain-chilled wet of his hair. “I didn’t know you
were here yet, I thought it’d be later tonight.” His fingertips slide under
Hayato’s collar, skim across his shoulders, and Hayato shudders convulsively,
the reaction entirely divorced from the chill he was feeling moments before.
“And then they said the delegation was here and I came to find you.”
“God,” Hayato says, kisses a line up Takeshi’s neck so the other’s head tips
sideways, so his breath rushes out in a whimper. “Everyone’s going to know,
won’t someone come looking for you?” He’s sliding his hands down over the
tremble in Takeshi’s chest, dragging at the bottom edge of his shirt to work it
free from his pants; the cloth is spilling in silky waves over his fingertips,
the texture breathtakingly soft, but Hayato isn’t interested in the fabric. He
shoves it aside, lets it catch at his wrists so he can push his hands up
underneath it, and then he’s skin-to-skin with the heat of Takeshi’s body under
his fingertips, infinitely softer than any fabric, and he can hear the choke in
the other’s inhale.
“Ah.” Takeshi’s head tips back for a moment, the curve of his throat working on
air; Hayato shoves his hands up higher, traces out the lines of the other boy’s
chest, and Takeshi curls back in, as if he can’t stand to be farther than bare
inches apart from the other. “No, no, it’s fine, they’ll think I’m in bed,
probably.”
“No one will wonder where you are?” Hayato demands, pulling back by an inch so
he can shove at the whole tangle of soft blue cloth. Takeshi’s fingers leave
his skin for a moment, he ducks so Hayato can strip his shirt off, and then
they’re back together, Takeshi’s hands coming out to clutch at Hayato’s
shoulders and the other ducking in for another rushed kiss as if he needs it to
breathe.
“No,” he answers, once Hayato can manage to stop licking against the
superheated inside of his mouth, after Hayato’s hairtie has fallen to leave his
wet hair tangled around his shoulders instead of pulled back into a semblance
of order. “No, I’m all yours.”
There’s no coherency to the burn that surges through Hayato’s blood at the
words; the best he can manage is a growl, a low rumble of satisfaction and
possession and want all at once. It’s enough to urge him backwards, to send him
backing across the room towards -- the bed, probably, the floor perhaps,
something minimally better suited to what he wants than the vertical support of
the bedroom door. Takeshi trails him, sticks so close he is still tugging at
Hayato’s shirt as they go, has the clinging wet of the fabric up halfway off
the other’s chest by the time Hayato backs hard into the weight of the
bedframe.
“Here,” Takeshi is saying, “Let me--” but Hayato’s already moving, twisting to
peel himself free at last from the shirt that’s been stuck to his skin since
the skies opened on him hours before. The damp evaporates into a chill, leaves
his skin pebbled and his hands shaking, but Takeshi is dropping the shirt and
reaching for him again, and under the heat of his touch Hayato’s shivers melt
instantly into the rush of desire.
“Come here,” he says, as if Takeshi could possibly get any closer than he
already is. The other boy leans in anyway, willing enough to obey Hayato’s
demand, and they both topple backwards into the soft of the bed.
“I missed you,” Takeshi says again, while they’re still trying to untangle
their legs so they can move; the words end up around Hayato’s jawline, from how
they landed. “I thought about you every day.” Hayato gets an arm around
Takeshi’s shoulder, braces a foot against the bed and shoves, and they roll
over, trading their positions so Hayato has a knee pressing between Takeshi’s.
“This is stupid,” he points out while he braces a hand at the bed over
Takeshi’s shoulder, drags the other down the lines of the other’s chest. “You
barely know me, how do you even know that you like me?”
“I just do,” Takeshi says. He pushes to sit up halfway, tipping his head in
like he’s aiming for a kiss at Hayato’s shoulder. Hayato doesn’t bother pushing
him back; he’s too busy catching his fingers into the laces at the front of
Takeshi’s pants, tugging until the ties give way and he can slide the loops
loose of the fabric.
“You’re crazy,” he informs him, pulling so hard at the laces he’s surprised
they don’t tear entirely under the drag of his fingers. Takeshi is shuddering
under him, his lips coming open and hands tensing at Hayato’s shoulders,
submission written so clear across his body it’s hard for Hayato to focus on
just one thing. “Every day, huh?” Takeshi’s pants are loose at his hips;
Hayato’s fingers seek out the top edge, catch and push to bare the sharp curve
of skin for his gaze.
“Ah,” Takeshi says, and “Yeah,” and he’s rocking up, his weight skidding and
arching off the bed in an attempt to meet Hayato’s fingers. It’s too much, or
would be if Hayato could tear his eyes away from the other’s face long enough
to look down; as it is instead it’s rushed and hot and grinding, friction
against his palm to serve as counterpoint to the melting focus in those gold
eyes.
“Fair enough,” he allows, and Takeshi is hot under his hand, the line of his
cock warm and slick and hard to the touch. “That makes two of us, then,” and
he’s tightening his fingers, closing his hand into a hold and leaning in to
swallow Takeshi’s stuttered groan of reaction over his tongue. He’s never done
this before, not to someone other than himself, and he’s not sure what he’s
doing -- is he gripping too tight, moving too fast, not moving enough? -- but
it doesn’t seem to matter. Takeshi’s fingers are digging against the back of
his neck, Takeshi’s hips coming up off the bed to rock in against Hayato’s
hold, and Hayato’s movements might be quick and jerky but they seem to be
effective, judging from the heat he can feel flushing under his fingers and the
way Takeshi is choking over every inhale. Hayato’s pants are still clinging to
his legs, his own cock pressed hard and aching against the front of the damp
clothes, but he doesn’t stop or slow; it’s like he’s possessed, he’s gasping
for air he can’t get for the heat of Takeshi’s mouth and stroking up faster,
pressing harder, like all his motions are being urged on by the tremors of
sensation rippling through Takeshi’s body. The hand half-tangled in his hair
tenses, Takeshi’s fingers slipping desperately across the other’s skin, and
Hayato takes a gasping inhale, ducks in closer to press his mouth to Takeshi’s
bare shoulder. His teeth catch, scrape color into the tanned skin, but Takeshi
is thrumming under the friction, shuddering like he’s on the verge of complete
collapse. Hayato’s fingers are going slick, catching slippery against Takeshi’s
length, and he moves faster, arm aching with the frantic pace of his motion and
completely unwilling to stop for anything.
Then “Ah,” Takeshi breathes, a tiny bubble of sound in the air, and Hayato can
feel him jolt and shiver into pleasure underneath him. His fingers are sticky,
he’s dragging up with desperate force to unwind the aftershocks of orgasm
through the other boy, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel every rush
of blood like electricity through his veins. He’s aching, now, the heat in his
body twisting itself into a knot of pain low in his stomach, but he doesn’t let
go or move to shove his own clothes off until Takeshi shifts under him. Then
there’s a knee fitting between his legs, resistance tipping up to press warm
against him, and Hayato makes an embarrassing broken noise and rocks in with
desperate force to grind against Takeshi’s leg.
“Oh,” Takeshi manages, and his hand is slipping down, fumbling for traction
against Hayato’s chest until his fingers catch against the top edge of the
other’s pants. “Hayato.”
“Please,” Hayato gasps, feeling broken and anxious and desperate, ready to do
anything at all for the touch of Takeshi’s fingers on him.
It doesn’t take more than that plea, as it turns out. Takeshi groans, the sound
wide-open and shocked, and there’s friction against Hayato’s thigh, fingers
sliding down under the edge of his pants to drag against rain-damp skin.
“Your clothes are wet,” Takeshi says, hesitating for a moment like he’s
thinking about delaying, and Hayato snaps, growls “Fuck, just move” before the
other can offer some stupid idea like pausing to actually strip his pants off.
It doesn’t feel very coherent but it doesn’t need to be; Takeshi closes his
mouth and pushes his hand in sideways instead. Fingers brush against Hayato’s
length, sparking tiny explosions out into his blood, and whatever whimper of
reaction Takeshi makes is entirely drowned out by the full-throated groan that
pours up Hayato’s throat.
“God,” he gasps. “Takeshi, fuck,” and his vision is sliding away, his eyes
shutting of their own accord while his mouth comes open and gasping against
Takeshi’s skin. Everything is warm, now, wet still clinging to his hair and the
cloth against his legs but hot instead of chilled as it was, radiant like the
fire between them has caught itself into reality. Hayato’s hand is at Takeshi’s
waist, printing sticky patterns under his touch, and neither of them are
entirely on the bed as much as collapsed over the edge and Hayato doesn’t care.
He can’t breathe and he can’t think, he’s just shaking, groaning wordless
encouragement against Takeshi’s shoulder and pressing bruises in the pattern of
his fingertips against Takeshi’s hip. It’s like a dream, to be so near, so
impossibly close Hayato would be certain of it as imagination if his mind had
ever been able to manage so much detail. But it has to be reality when he can
hear Takeshi’s breathing catching on anticipation, can feel the press of each
of his fingers individually, and when the other boy swallows hard like he’s
about to speak Hayato gasps, and jerks, and comes without a chance to give
warning. The pleasure crushes him down against the bed, knocks him boneless and
heavy and panting against Takeshi, and it’s not until the first several seconds
of shuddering heat have passed that Hayato can blink, and inhale, and remember
who he is.
“God,” he says, weak and shaky into Takeshi’s shoulder. “That.”
Takeshi hums wordlessly, turns his head. Hayato can feel the shape of a kiss
sketched out against his hair. “I missed you,” he says again, an offering
without a response, and Hayato laughs against his skin.
“You keep saying that.” He pushes up, the movement slow and heavy with the
weight of exhaustion, blinks down at the other. Takeshi is sprawled out over
the sheets, his eyes hazy and lips curved around an unthinking smile, skin
flushed with heat and marked by Hayato’s teeth and fingers both.
“You look like a mess,” Hayato observes, because it’s only a little less true
than You look amazing and far easier to fit words to. “You can’t go back out in
the halls like this, you’ll give us away at a glance.”
Takeshi smiles wider, the warmth of the expression melting his eyes into
caramel. “I don’t have to go back out at all, if you don’t want me to.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Hayato insists, punctuating with a shove at Takeshi’s
shoulder as the best way to convince himself to slide back off the bed so he
can untangle the half-done lacing at the front of his pants and struggle out of
them. “You have to be seen in public eventually.”
“Not tonight,” Takeshi says, sitting up without getting to his feet. Even his
shoulders look different, now, slanting into a tipsy angle like he can’t
remember how to sit up straight. “Are you going to use the bath?”
“It’s what I had planned, before you interrupted me,” Hayato growls, kicking
his pants aside and trying to not be self-conscious about his lack of clothing;
it’s a little late for that now, he supposes. “And I really need it now.” He
lets his gaze slide over Takeshi’s skin, the damp print of lips at his shoulder
and the sticky mess drying shiny at his stomach and the edge of his hip. “You
do too.”
Hayato turns away, starts moving towards the bath on the far side of the room
without looking back when he speaks. “That’s an invitation, you know.”
He can hear Takeshi’s laugh of delight in advance of the sound of feet hitting
the floor and coming up behind him, catching up to his deliberately slow pace
before he’s made it to the edge of the tub and the steam still rising off the
water in it. He doesn’t turn around then, or when fingers come out to brush
against his waist, or when there’s the motion of lips touching against the damp
chill of his hair, but he’s smiling without needing to look back, all the
tension of anxiety stripped from him by the other boy instead of by the heat of
the water.
It feels nice to finally relax.
***** Smiling *****
It’s remarkable how much different one night makes to Hayato’s mood. When he
first came into the room that will be his for the next week it seemed
overlarge, empty and cold and too loud with the sound of the rain dripping off
the eaves overhanging the window. When he wakes up the next morning, everything
has changed; the rain sounds soothing, now, the rumpled sheets speak to a
better night’s rest than he’s had in days, and all his hopelessness of the
night before is gone, replaced with tingling anticipation for the day.
There’s the faint outline of another person’s body on the other side of the
bed, the sheets long since gone cold since Takeshi’s departure in the darkness
of the pre-dawn hours, but it still makes Hayato smile to see, only barely
resisting the urge to reach out and press his fingers to the evidence of the
other’s presence. He doesn’t have the time anyway; there’s breakfast to attend,
the first full formal meal since their arrival, and that means he has to dress
for the occasion.
It takes longer than he expects. He has plenty of formal clothing with him, of
course, but he keeps forgetting pieces, gets distracted by the smile he catches
in his reflection or the memory of fingers dragging against the back of his
neck. In the end he leaves his hair down completely, just brushes it into
smooth silver over his shoulders, and spends the next ten minutes trying to
pull his expression into neutrality with the help of the mirror. He’s not
completely sure he’s succeeded, by the time a tap on the door indicates his
summons to breakfast, but it’s the best he can do. He’ll just need to avoid the
danger of eye contact as much as possible.
His plan falls to pieces as soon as he sets foot in the dining room. The royal
family is already there, arranged around the head of the otherwise-empty table,
and no sooner has Hayato stepped through the door than Takeshi’s head is coming
up, dawn-bright eyes are catching his, and all his blood goes instantly to
steam.
“Prince Hayato,” someone is saying -- the king, Hayato thinks, though he’s
having trouble looking to confirm. The sound of a chair dragging over the
floor, the rustle of heavy fabric, and Takeshi ducks his head to hide a too-
wide smile and sets Hayato free to look at the ruler instead of his son. He
looks remarkably like Takeshi himself, if older and with sterner lines to his
face; his smile doesn’t touch more than the corners of his eyes, when he steps
forward to meet Hayato.
“We are honored by your presence,” he says, his smile polite and distant and
inscrutable, and Hayato does what he is supposed to do, which is offer a
precisely measured bow and recite back a variant of the statement.
“Certainly not, your highness,” he says without looking up, though he imagines
he can feel Takeshi’s eyes on him, wants to snap at the other boy to be
more subtle. “I am grateful for the opportunity to visit.”
“I understand you were responsible for my son during his travel,” the king is
saying as Hayato straightens. “He has spoken of nothing but your generosity
since his return.”
“Uh,” Hayato says stupidly, knocked briefly incoherent by the stunning stretch
of the truth that has turned his irritable comments into generosity and also,
unexpectedly, by the memory of embroidered silk under his fingers, the
breathless gasp of half-heard promises outside the door of a dining room. His
cheeks glow hot of their own accord, flashing into heat he can’t hope to hide,
and the best he can struggle to is, “I’m afraid his good nature has overstated
my charms, your highness.”
“I trust you won’t mind him returning the favor,” another, softer voice comes.
When Hayato looks back at the table the queen is offering him a similarly
polite smile, her head tipped slightly to the side as if in inquiry. Were it
not for the boundary of the smile on her face, the formal distance in her eyes,
she would look very like her son. “He assures us he has more than enough to
keep you occupied during the course of your visit.”
Hayato takes a long inhale through his nose, fights back the bubble of
hysterical laughter at the back of his throat. He is completely certain, now,
that Takeshi is staring at him, knows that if they make eye contact they will
utterly destroy any hope of continued secrecy.
“I’m sure he does,” Hayato finally manages, sounding only faintly strained, and
then he’s saved by the sound of the door opening and the entrance of a pair of
the other delegation members. He offers the king another bow, the queen a nod,
and when Takeshi chirps, “Hayato, here!” and waves at him he comes around the
corner of the table to sit next to him while avoiding looking at anything other
than the motion of Takeshi’s hand or the line of his shoulder, sketching out
the shape of the other without quite looking at him directly.
“Don’t speak to me,” he hisses in an undertone while the rest of the group is
in the midst of introductions and formal welcome. “Are you trying to keep this
subtle at all?”
“I am,” Takeshi says back, his voice purring over the low tone he’s trying to
adopt. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He shifts in his seat, tips sideways like he
can’t manage to sit still, and for just a moment his shoulder is pressing hard
against Hayato’s arm. Hayato has to shut his mouth hard on the whimper of
response he wants to make, reach with more aggression than is necessary for the
jam, and when Takeshi giggles he swings his leg wide under the table to shove
his knee hard against the other’s.
That he doesn’t move away again, that Takeshi keeps offering inane comments
until Hayato has to glare at him while fighting back a smile, that Takeshi’s
entire face is lit up like he’s glowing from the inside -- Hayato tries not to
think about that, at least not while they’re at the table in front of other
people. All they have left is to hope no one is paying them any real attention;
he suspects they’re both being painfully obvious, regardless of how hard he
attempts to cling to calm.
He finds it’s easier to hope in the glow of the smile in Takeshi’s eyes.
***** Subtlety *****
By the time Takeshi joins him in the privacy of Hayato’s guest quarters that
night, Hayato has had hours to think about what he wants to do.
“I thought you’d never get here,” is what he says when they’re still up against
the door, a flurry of desperate kissing that he suspects will become more
habitual than he originally expected. “I don’t know if I can stand to be around
you when we’re out in public.”
“I told you were could have kissed,” Takeshi says, his lips moving warm at
Hayato’s hairline. Hayato shivers, slides his fingers just under the top edge
of Takeshi’s pants, uses the hold as a guide to steer the other boy around and
back him up across the room. Takeshi goes with perfect obedience, his feet
moving to Hayato’s urging while his fingers lace into the other’s hair. “No one
would have seen us, no one ever comes into that part of the library.”
“By that logic I should have just unfastened your pants and taken you right
there,” Hayato growls. He intends it as absurdity, an argument against the
temptation Takeshi has been offering him all day, but Takeshi’s eyelashes
flutter and he sits down so hard on the bed Hayato has to wonder if his knees
just gave out under him.
“Oh,” he says, a shocked starstruck noise, and Hayato has to lean in closer to
him, press his knee in against Takeshi’s hip and curl his fingers in against
the other’s shirt.
“It wasn’t supposed to be a suggestion,” he says, but he’s grinning, feeling
hot and radiant and powerful, with Takeshi’s eyes fixed on him wide and hazed
out of all focus. He fits his free hand against the front of the other boy’s
pants, shifts to feel out the hot-flushed shape of him through the fabric, and
then presses down, grinding friction so Takeshi’s forehead creases in what
looks almost like pain before Hayato speaks.
“You really would let me, wouldn’t you?” Hayato’s leaning in, close enough that
it should jeopardize their balance, but Takeshi isn’t pulling away, just tips
his head up and opens his eyes wide to gaze at Hayato’s face like he’s trying
to memorize his features. Hayato’s breathing hard, the heat in his blood from
the too-long day sticking his throat tight on every inhale, but he can’t clear
the amused delight off his expression, doesn’t yet want to pull away to strip
off some of his own layers of clothing. “If I just pushed you up against the
shelves and started undoing your pants, what would you let me do to you?”
Takeshi’s eyelashes shift, his head tips back farther; Hayato can see the
motion in his throat, the convulsive swallow of an answer before he says,
“Anything, I think.”
“You’d let me jerk you off?” A nod, quick and rushed, and Hayato had known the
answer to that already. “What if I used my mouth instead, could I do that?” A
whimper, this time, that crease in his forehead settling in in time with the
heat-hazed catch of Takeshi’s breathing, and Hayato’s burning, now, he’s manic
with the warm in his veins and anxious from the exertion of all-day patience.
“Would you let me fuck you?” he demands, the question borne more on the heat-
fogged images of his imagination than any thought. His cheeks crest hot as soon
as he hears the words, his motions stalling into self-consciousness because all
they’ve done is kiss a few desperate times and jerked each other off once and
the words taste intimate and too-hot on his lips. But Takeshi’s eyes are
shutting before he can decide if he wants to apologize, Takeshi’s groaning the
lowest purring sound Hayato has ever heard from him, and when he says, “Yes” it
somehow manages to carry as much desire as all Hayato’s words have ever had.
“Fuck,” he spits, because he doesn’t have enough hands, he is barely keeping
his balance as it is and he suddenly needs to be out of all his
clothes immediately. Takeshi is grabbing at his wrist, holding his palm steady
while he rocks up against it, and that’s good, that’s great but Hayato wants to
feel his skin, wants to push him down over the sheets and press them in against
each other.
So “Hang on,” he says, and he’s pushing away and pulling his hand free, looking
away from the reach of Takeshi’s fingers or he never will get his clothes off.
Even with his attention where he needs it, his movements are more desperate
than graceful; his shirt catches on his wrist, he has to fumble for what feels
like long seconds with the front of his pants, but either he’s faster than he
felt he was or Takeshi is even slower, because by the time Hayato is kicking
his pants free of his ankles Takeshi is only just pushing his down off his
hips.
Hayato growls at the sight, something wordless and appreciative, and he moves
in as Takeshi looks up, dropping to his knees against the bed so he can wrap an
arm around Takeshi’s bare waist, slide himself around to press against the dip
of the other boy’s back and fit his mouth to his shoulder.
“Get your damn clothes off,” he says, teeth scraping with every word. He can
feel Takeshi’s shudder under the support of his arm, the full-body quiver of
response vibrating into him secondhand, and he makes a low sound of
appreciation and bites against the shoulder at his lips. Takeshi chokes
surprise, falls backwards against him, and Hayato would protest but the other
is pushing his pants down his legs and there’s enough bare skin to satisfy for
now.
“Here.” He grabs at Takeshi’s hip as the last of their clothes come free, urges
the other back over the sheets, until when he drags them both sideways they
land pressed together, Hayato’s chest flush with Takeshi’s spine and his cock
dragging against hot skin. The friction feels good, even incidental as it is;
Hayato briefly considers pushing Takeshi down against the bed, pressing hard
against the other’s hip and just grinding himself to satisfaction. But he can
hear how hard Takeshi is breathing, and he’d rather wait for reciprocation, so
he swallows back the urge and reaches instead to fit his fingers against
Takeshi’s cock.
“You’re so warm,” he says, not sure if he’s talking about Takeshi’s back or the
hard heat of his cock and not sure it matters. Takeshi hums wordless
acknowledgment, one hand trailing up along the line of Hayato’s wrist to his
elbow, and Hayato tightens his hold and jerks up in one easy stroke.
It’s easier like this, the angle more familiar and the position not requiring
contortions of balance. Hayato just has the shocking heat of skin pressed
against his, the occasional friction of Takeshi rocking back against him and
the sound of the other’s breathing, the shudders of response to his movement
nearly close enough to be confused with his own. It feels good, satisfying in
the back of his thoughts and against his tongue even though his cock is still
aching for more, so he doesn’t even try to shift his angle, just presses his
mouth in to breathe hard at the submissive line of Takeshi’s throat while he
stroke up over the other boy in long, easy motions.
“What if we just stay in here?” he says against Takeshi’s hair, spreads his
fingers wide and bracing at the flutter across the other boy’s stomach. He can
just see the other’s eyes if he looks up through his hair, the shift of ink-
dark lashes and gold eyes hazy and unfocused like his attention is elsewhere.
Hayato has a good idea where all that focus is, tightens his grip and presses
his thumb in against the slick collecting at the head of Takeshi’s cock, and
when there’s a groan and an arch in the other’s back he knows he’s right.
“We could lock the door,” he says, opening his mouth wider so his teeth scrape
at Takeshi’s shoulders, up high where he has to be careful to not leave a mark.
“I could keep you all night, we wouldn’t even stop to sleep.”
“Hh,” Takeshi gasps. “Hayato.”
“Wouldn’t even bother with clothes,” Hayato muses, drags the slick pre-come at
his thumb down along Takeshi’s length to smooth his strokes. He can feel the
flush of responsive heat, the twitch of reaction in the shape under his hand,
and he’s breathing harder in time, dragging Takeshi back like they can somehow
get closer than they already are. “I’ll just keep you here like this, how does
that sound.”
“Good,” Takeshi says, and he’s starting to tremble, Hayato can feel the
involuntary vibration rippling up his spine where they’re pressed together.
“You’re not even listening,” Hayato growls, twisting his hand to pull another
wordless groan out of Takeshi’s throat.
“No,” Takeshi says, “No, I am, it’s good, yeah.”
“You fucking liar,” Hayato purrs, slides his hand up over Takeshi’s cock and
spreads his hand wide and bracing to hold the other boy steady as he gasps
himself into orgasm. Hayato shuts his eyes as Takeshi shudders, lets the
sensation of the other boy’s pleasure spark hot in his own veins, and by the
time Takeshi has gone warm and boneless from the aftershocks Hayato is panting
for air against the other’s shoulder. He doesn’t try to keep his hold when
Takeshi takes a breath and rolls sideways to face him, just lets his hands go
and draws his mouth back from the other’s shoulder, and when Takeshi pushes at
his hip he’s more than content to roll over onto his back on the bed.
He doesn’t expect anything other than fingers stroking up over him, is ready to
do it himself if Takeshi wastes any time about it, but then the other slides
down over the sheets, the heat of his breathless inhales trailing down against
Hayato’s chest, and his movement gives away his intention well before his mouth
is anywhere near the other’s hips.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Hayato asks, pushing himself up on an
elbow so he can watch Takeshi’s shoulders shift as he fits himself between the
other’s spread-open knees.
“Not at all,” the other admits without a moment’s hesitation.
“So you’re going to be really terrible,” Hayato clarifies, trying to cover the
tremor of anticipation in his throat with a growl. He’s not completely sure he
succeeds at this, particularly when Takeshi glances up at him with his mouth
half-open like he can’t catch his breath. The smile that breaks over his face
shoots through Hayato like sunlight, warms the drifting glow of Takeshi’s eyes,
and when he agrees “Probably” Hayato can’t even muster a retort.
“Yeah,” is what he says instead, “Okay.” He has no idea what expression he’s
making but he can see Takeshi’s, can see the brief flutter of his eyelashes and
the way his throat works on a swallow. Then the other is ducking his head,
Hayato can see his lips part in anticipation, and then Takeshi’s tongue is on
him, slipping hot and slick against his cock, and he’s sitting up in a rush,
reaching out to tangle his fingers in Takeshi’s hair and hold him where he is
while he groans involuntary loud on his exhale.
“Fuck.” It’s hot, there’s more heat than he expected and a ticklish not-quite
friction, the burn of it lancing up his spine and tensing his shoulder. “Do
that again.”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums, open-mouthed agreement, shifts his weight back so he can
free a hand to close against the base of Hayato’s cock. His fingers are warm
too, the friction pleasant but not-enough, but then he’s licking again, a slow
drag of his tongue like he’s trying to suck Hayato clean of the sticky spill
against the head of his cock, and Hayato’s shaking, his knees trembling against
the sheets until he can’t try to hold them still.
“Oh fuck,” he says, and he’s pushing up off the bed, or dragging Takeshi down,
he’s not sure which, just that he wants more, more friction and more pressure
and more of that teasing heat. “Keep going, Takeshi.”
Takeshi does. His head is tipped down so Hayato can’t see his eyes, but his
shoulders look relaxed, his motions are easy and unhurried like he has no goal
at all. Hayato’s breathing harder, his shoulders tensing in to match the curve
of his spine, and he wants Takeshi’s fingers to move in familiar friction or
more, a lot more, of the novel experience of the other’s mouth. He’s reaching
for some kind of words, a plea or a request or a command he’s not sure which,
when Takeshi draws back, and takes a deep breath, and comes back in, and in the
first burst of heat Hayato can’t even think past the different pieces of
sensation. There’s warmth, definitely, movement and maybe suction and a rough
edge that’s a little too close to pain, and the wet slick of saliva all against
him, but mostly it’s enough, hot and wet and satisfying until he’s all but
collapsing in, has to throw a hand out to brace against Takeshi’s shoulders and
gasp a desperate breath. Takeshi moves, does something with his mouth or maybe
just slides his hand an inch, and Hayato can feel the convulsion ripple all
along his spine, starting low at his hips and snapping out under his skin until
he’s groaning raw heat against the top of Takeshi’s head as he feels himself
pulse into orgasm. Takeshi makes a sharp startled sound, starts to pull back,
but the motion itself is just more friction and they’re too tangled up for him
to move back very far. Hayato can’t get his hand free of the other’s hair,
can’t stop the shivering jolts of pleasure in him; it’s not until the first
wave has passed to leave him trembling and radiant with heat that he can uncurl
his spine and untangle his fingers from Takeshi’s hair.
“Fuck,” he says, sounding shaky and worn-out. Takeshi pulls away, sits back up
over his heels; his mouth is slick, there’s come spilled against his lips and
smeared over his cheek before he lifts a hand to wipe it clean. “Shit, sorry.”
Takeshi blinks up at him, his hand at his mouth; Hayato can see his smile in
the corners of his eyes, even with the cover in front of his lips.
“Don’t apologize,” he suggests, licks the back of his hand clean. Hayato’s gaze
drops to the motion, his blood flaring hot for a moment in spite of the
aftershocks of satisfaction still weighing him down; he’s still staring, a
frown collecting at his mouth, when Takeshi laughs and leans in to kiss the
corner of his lips. His skin is sticky to the touch. “Was it good?”
“Idiot,” Hayato says, reaches up to grab at the back of Takeshi’s neck as he
tries to pull away. “Be more careful with your teeth next time.”
Takeshi’s hand comes out to his waist, skims against the curve to settle at his
hip. “Okay,” he agrees, easy with compliance, and Hayato can’t help but smile
as he turns his head in towards Takeshi’s damp mouth.
“And kiss me again,” he says, sure of obedience before he forms the words.
Takeshi huffs amusement against his skin, tips his head up for the requested
contact, and when Hayato drops back against the bed Takeshi topples to land
right next to him, parts his lips for more without needing to be told.
They might need to keep their distance during the day, but Hayato is going to
make the most of the nights.
***** Today *****
“I wonder how the discussions are going,” Takeshi says without any warning at
all.
Hayato had been enjoying the day. The sun’s out for the first time in the three
days since his arrival, giving he and Takeshi the excuse to get out of the
confines of the castle and at a somewhat more reasonable distance from the
everpresent eyes of the servants. But whatever warmth the sunlight has granted
him evaporates with Takeshi’s words like a cloud has dropped around him, and
when he speaks it’s with a growl he doesn’t even bother turning around to aim.
“I don’t.”
By rights it should be enough to stop the conversation, that rumble of a threat
in the back of his throat warning enough for anyone to pick up on. But Takeshi
isn’t anyone, as Hayato often appreciates and as often forgets, and instead of
falling silent or changing the topic he keeps pressing forward, his voice too
near Hayato’s shoulder for the other to pretend he doesn’t hear.
“Don’t you think it’s important?” Movement at his side, the brush of fingertips
at his wrist like Takeshi is thinking about taking his hand in spite of
Hayato’s continued rebuffs when they’re not behind the locked door of his room.
“They didn’t go well on my visit, did they? We could be enemies when we see
each other next.”
“Shut up,” Hayato snaps, the words lacing violent over his tongue, and he turns
so sharply Takeshi doesn’t have time to pull away from him. His hands catch
against the other’s coat, crumple the fabric into fists, but it’s not a kiss
but a vicious shake he gives this time. “Shut up, shut up.”
“Ah,” Takeshi gasps, stumbling and nearly falling from the motion. His hand
comes out to catch himself at Hayato’s shoulder, clings for a moment before he
remembers to pull the touch away. “Hayato?”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Hayato says without letting go or looking up
at Takeshi’s face. “I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about
it.” He tips in closer, breathes in deep; he can taste rain in the air, can
smell the faint soap-clean smell of Takeshi’s skin.
“Listen,” he says after a moment, when the rush of panic in his veins has
steadied out and he can trust his voice to not quake itself into incoherence.
“I’m here now. Okay?” One of his hands slides loose, presses against the warm
of Takeshi’s jacket. Hayato can feel the catch of the other boy taking a
startled inhale, the movement of breath under his fingers. “We have tonight,
and that’s as far as I want to think about.”
There’s a pause, a heartbeat of strain Hayato can feel sticking at the back of
his throat and shadowing over all his thoughts. He can see the storm on the
horizon, still a few days off but closer than he wants it, closer than he wants
to even consider, like if he looks over his shoulder the hurt to come will
strip away all the pleasure of the moment.
Then there’s warmth at the top of his head, Takeshi humming a note of
agreement, and something wild and anxious in Hayato soothes and settles. A hand
bumps his hip, fingers dragging against the heavy weight of the fabric, and
Hayato knows there’s no subtlety between them right now, with his forehead all
but pressed against Takeshi’s shoulder and Takeshi’s hands hovering just shy of
contact with his hips. He doesn’t care, for this moment; there’s no war
negotiations, no impending departure, nothing but the apple-crisp clean of soap
and the heat of Takeshi’s body warming his fingers.
“Is anyone watching?” he asks without looking up.
“I don’t know,” Takeshi answers without hesitation. “I can’t see the windows.”
“Say no, Takeshi,” Hayato grates. “Is anyone watching?”
“No,” Takeshi says.
“Good,” Hayato growls, and pushes his hand up to brace at the back of Takeshi’s
neck, and turns his head up to crush his mouth to the other boy’s. Takeshi
makes a tiny choked-off sound, surprise and heat spilling together on his
tongue, and when Hayato presses against his lips he open them to let the other
boy lick the taste of the shock off his tongue. Hayato can feel his pulse
thudding at the back of his thoughts, his hands trembling at Takeshi’s coat and
against the soft strands of hair at the back of the other’s neck, but mostly
he’s warm, the heat of Takeshi’s lips flush against his more than enough to
burn away his personal shadows into inconsequence.
For today, he has sunlight.
***** Warm *****
Takeshi always seems warmer at night.
He’s always glowing, Hayato has learned, radiating a heat that makes Hayato
feel sun-warmed even when there’s nothing outside but the downpour of the near-
constant rain. When Takeshi leans in to bump his shoulder at Hayato’s, or brush
his fingers maybe-accidentally against the other’s wrist, Hayato can feel it
like a jolt, warmth spilling directly into his blood until it takes all his
self-control to not flinch away or curl in around it so he can absorb it all
straight into his skin. But he’s hotter at night, burning up before Hayato even
gets his clothes off, until by the time he has fingers pressed to gold-tanned
skin it feels like fire prickling over his fingertips.
It makes it hard to keep his mind on what he’s doing. Hard enough to have
Takeshi breathless and trembling under him, with the laces of his pants only
half-done and his shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor en route to the bed;
worse still to have his hands caught by the magnetism of that warmth, until
Hayato has to struggle to move them down even in the excellent pursuit of
getting Takeshi’s pants off.
“How are you always so warm,” he growls, the words grating into irritation as
he forces his hands down Takeshi’s waist to curl in around the fabric at his
hips. “It’s not fair, aren’t you ever cold at all?”
“Mm,” Takeshi says, sounding dazed and not completely aware of where he is. His
hands are up under Hayato’s loose shirt, fingers trailing up against the
other’s waist and around to his back, and that’s distracting too but Hayato
isn’t about to tell him to stop. “Not usually.” His smile is overbright, too
big and too warm for the room, summer come months too early to the backdrop of
rain out the window. “Are you cold?”
“Not right now,” Hayato says, and drags at Takeshi’s pants. They obey his pull,
slipping off hips that are becoming familiar to the touch to bare the whole of
Takeshi’s too-long legs. Takeshi makes a faint noise of protest as Hayato draws
back to pull his clothes free, clings to the edge of his shirt to urge him back
in as the pants hit the floor; it makes Hayato grin, pleasure startled out of
him to spread across his face, and he returns, fits himself between the
invitation of Takeshi’s open legs while he pulls at the bottom edge of his
shirt. The fabric twists up, catches at his hair and pulls over his head, and
by the time Hayato is shaking his hair back to see again Takeshi is rocking up
on an elbow, reaching out to loop an arm around him back and press his face in
against Hayato’s chest.
“Get off me,” Hayato says with no fire at all in his voice. It’s hard to muster
irritation around the smile at his lips, hard even to find the strength to push
Takeshi off. When he tries his fingers stall on the other’s shoulder, the
intended shove turning into a caress instead, and Takeshi sits up the rest of
the way, presses himself in against Hayato’s bare skin and sighs like he never
plans to move again.
“Get off,” Hayato says again, biting back the laugh that’s trying to push up
his throat. He gets his hand in around Takeshi’s shoulder, pushes him off by
force to shove him back down to the bed. Any anger Hayato might have mustered
fails him in the face of Takeshi’s melting-warm gaze, the smile caught soft and
unconscious at his mouth, and he’s the one who leans in this time, keeps
holding Takeshi down to the sheets while he turns his head to fit their mouths
in together. Takeshi’s lips are warm under his, as they ever are, and for a
moment Hayato loses track of what they’re doing, where they are, everything
around him except the immediate aching heat of Takeshi’s body under him and
Takeshi’s mouth at his.
“Fuck,” he says, or tries to say; the sound gets lost at Takeshi’s lips, Hayato
has to pull back before he can make himself heard. “Okay, okay, just. Stay
still.”
“Okay,” Takeshi says, dazed and compliant. When Hayato leans back Takeshi stays
where he is, spilling languid and smiling over the bed. Hayato has to make
himself look away before he gets caught by the soft of Takeshi’s mouth again,
has to angle himself sideways so he can reach out for the bottle of oil Takeshi
brought with him when he knocked on the door tonight. Then he has the excuse of
looking at the bottle, at his hands, at the slick spill of air-cool liquid over
his fingertips to distract him from the constant temptation of Takeshi’s skin,
hip, collarbone, all the lines of his body begging for lips and teeth and hands
to push over them until they flush pink with heat. It works for a minute, long
enough to stopper the bottle again and toss it to the far edge of the bed; then
he’s looking back down again, gold skin and soft eyes waiting for him, and he
realizes his hands are starting to shake.
“Fuck,” he says, grabs at the inside of Takeshi’s knee with more force than is
necessary to cover the involuntary shiver under his skin. “Fuck, okay, you’ll
need to relax.”
“I’m fine,” Takeshi says, and the worst of it is that he sounds fine, sounds
steady and calm and like he’s missing all the anxious nerves Hayato can feel
prickling up along his spine, like he’s not afraid of Hayato accidentally
hurting him at all. “Really, I promise.”
“Sure,” Hayato scoffs, but he’s shaking worse, now, he has to tighten his
fingers against Takeshi’s skin to hold himself steady. Adrenaline is humming
through him, equal parts anticipation and terror, and there’s no way he can do
this, no way he can reach out to press his slick fingers inside the heat of
Takeshi’s body. But Takeshi’s watching him, his eyes glazed over like he’s
looking forward to this, like he wants it, and Hayato’s whole body shivers with
a chill that has nothing to do with cold.
“God,” he says, and his voice is shaking, there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” and he’s reaching, he’s doing it, there are slick
fingers dragging over hot skin. Takeshi jerks at the first touch, gasps air
like Hayato’s even done anything yet, but before Hayato can snatch his hand
back or snap something abrupt and harsh he’s moving instead, pushing his hand
up over his hip and closing his fingers around his cock. Hayato’s mouth drops
open, his throat works hard on some choking sound of approval, and his movement
stalls completely for a moment so he can watch Takeshi’s fingers drag up over
himself. It’s a completely different experience, watching the other boy’s hold
tighten and slide, purrs something hot and satisfied into Hayato’s blood to
know that the tremor in Takeshi’s thighs is his own doing, like he can’t
possibly wait for Hayato’s touch on him.
“Hayato,” Takeshi says, and Hayato looks up in a rush, feels himself flushing
darker as he realizes he was staring. Takeshi is watching him, too, his
eyelashes heavy against the glow of his eyes and mouth half-open like he can’t
catch a breath, and something in Hayato twists hot and anxious and wanting.
“Hayato, keep going.”
Hayato doesn’t trust himself to speak. There’s tension in his throat, wanting
and fright and excitement all tangled together and he’s not sure if he will
moan or whimper if he opens his mouth. So he doesn’t, keeps his lips pressed
tight together, and when he looks back down it’s to watch the drag of his
fingers across Takeshi’s thigh to fit in against the other boy’s entrance.
There’s a moment of hesitation, panic winning out for a breath; then Takeshi
says, “Please,” with the word melting off his lips, and Hayato pushes in
against him.
It happens all at once. One moment Hayato’s pushing, fingers slick against
Takeshi’s skin and heart skidding out in his chest; then there’s a give in the
resistance, heat pressing around him, and his finger is slipping inside the
other boy. Takeshi lets out a breath, a gust of startled air, and Hayato groans
as all his panic flares instantly into heat.
“Oh my god, Takeshi,” and he’s pushing in deeper, Takeshi is shuddering under
him and he can feel every ripple of reaction tighten around him. “Fuck, fuck,
you’re so hot.”
Takeshi whimpers, arches a little ways off the bed before dropping his weight
back down. His hand is still moving, slow, easy strokes up over his cock; when
Hayato looks up Takeshi’s eyes are shut, his mouth open and forehead creased
like he’s concentrating on breathing.
“God,” Hayato says, draws his hand back slowly so he can push back in. There’s
electricity prickling down his spine, jolting out into his blood until he can
barely keep his hands steady, until he thinks he might still be shaking
helplessly under the force of adrenaline. He wonders briefly if Takeshi can
tell, if Takeshi can feel his reaction through their point of contact. “God,
Takeshi, fuck.”
“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and Hayato can feel the tension draining out of
him, can feel the way the other boy is relaxing against him. His knees come
wider, the angle of his legs forming an invitation, and Hayato rocks in closer,
until he has a knee pressed in under Takeshi’s leg and the texture of his pants
is flush against the other’s bare skin. He’s pushing against Takeshi’s knee,
doesn’t even think about the force; all his attention is focused on his
fingertips, the slick motion of his hand getting easier with every thrust.
“You’re going to feel so good,” Hayato says, and he draws his hand back, tries
to fit two fingers in instead of one. Takeshi barely shivers, this time, just a
momentary flicker of tension before he relaxes back to the bed, and his hand is
moving faster. “Fuck, Takeshi, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Hayato’s
pressing in deeper, as far as he can reach, dragging his fingers in against
Takeshi like he’s trying to leave his fingerprints there, and Takeshi shudders
and groans and opens his eyes to watch him. He looks melted, overheated and
flushed all across his cheekbones, tension bleeding out of him until there’s
just the motion of his hand up over himself to speak to his continued
awareness, and Hayato’s winding tighter in opposition, going harder against
Takeshi’s leg and pushing his fingers in faster, deeper, and Takeshi is looking
more dazed with every motion.
“You’re so warm,” Hayato says again, his brain stuck on some sort of repeating
loop, and he angles his fingers out wider, presses Takeshi open with slick
fingers. Takeshi whines in the back of his throat, eyelashes fluttering in
incoherent response, and Hayato’s tension is spiking unbearably, he’s going to
shatter himself apart if he waits much longer. But Takeshi is moving fast, now,
Hayato can see the slick collecting into a shine at the head of his cock, and
that’s got to be a good sign, as much encouragement as the way Takeshi looks
like he can’t quite keep his eyes open, like he can’t keep himself from just
melting warm and shaky over the bed. Hayato takes a breath, and opens his
mouth, and when he says, “Can I?” it’s without thinking. He’s drawing his hand
back before he gets an answer, expectant of the permission he knows Takeshi
will give, until by the time the other boy collects himself enough to jerk his
head in a breathless nod Hayato has his pants half-unfastened already.
“Tell me,” he says again, trying to cling to the edge of coherency when his
hands are shaking and his entire body is drawing taut with anticipation. “If
I’m hurting you you have to tell me, okay?”
“Yeah,” Takeshi says, “Okay” but he’s reaching out with his free hand, dragging
fingers against Hayato’s hip like he’s trying to pull him down. When Hayato
looks up Takeshi is watching his fingers on the laces of his pants, his mouth
open and soft with want, and Hayato’s sure he’s the most beautiful thing he’s
ever seen in his life.
“Fuck,” and the pants come loose, he drags them open and down enough that he
can work himself free. He gets his hand back under Takeshi’s knee, pushes the
other’s leg up and wide this time, and Takeshi lets him, goes pliant and easy
under Hayato’s push. When Hayato looks up Takeshi’s watching his hips, eyes
tracking the motion of his cock as he fits himself in closer, and there’s
something so shockingly hot in his eyes that Hayato can feel it like a touch
trailing all the way up the length of his spine.
“Okay,” he says, and pushes Takeshi’s leg up, reaches out to brace himself on
the bed, and starts to thrust into the other boy.
It’s a tighter fit than his fingers were, even two at once, even spread apart.
Takeshi’s back arches against the mattress, his head tilting back as he makes a
weird whimper of what sounds alarmingly like pain, but Hayato is groaning too,
has to stop because for a moment it’s too much, heat and tension all around him
whiting out his vision and his awareness of where he is. He pauses, blinks,
blinks again, and then Takeshi comes back into focus, that initial burst of
reaction easing out of him to let him fall back to the sheets.
“God,” Hayato says, and “Are you okay?”
Takeshi nods, quick and fast and certain, fits his hand in against Hayato’s
back like he’s trying to pull him in closer. “More,” he says, his voice
sounding tense and strained, but his eyes are dragging against Hayato’s face
and his mouth is open like he’s begging for a kiss, and there’s no way Hayato
can possibly say no.
“Yeah,” is what he offers, meaningless agreement, and moves to push in deeper.
His thoughts white out again, all his attention fraying into heat and friction
and satisfaction so sharp it’s almost painful. Takeshi’s hand skids up his
back, fingertips digging in against his shoulder, and when Hayato blinks again
Takeshi’s face is close enough to kiss, close enough that he can see the
individual dark lashes against his closed eyes.
“Shit,” he says, his voice shaking all up his throat. “Takeshi?”
Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes coming into some vague focus at Hayato’s
features. He opens his mouth, like maybe he’s thinking about speaking, and
Hayato shifts his hips, and slides in deeper, and what comes out of Takeshi’s
mouth instead of words is a little choking moan. It’s too much, Hayato can’t
even think straight; he just leans in instead, presses his skin flush against
Takeshi’s and fits his mouth to the other’s, and when he moves again he can
taste Takeshi’s reaction against his tongue. Takeshi pulls his hand free,
untangles it from under Hayato’s arm, and then there are fingers at Hayato’s
neck, lacing up into his hair to hold him steady, and when Takeshi arches his
back Hayato can feel the motion all around him.
It takes Hayato a minute to find the right rhythm for his movement. It’s a
strange angle, not one he’s used to from any of what they’ve done before, and
it’s hard to pay attention to what he’s doing when his brain tries to short-
circuit every time he moves or Takeshi gasps. But then he manages a stroke slow
enough that he can maintain some level of rationality, tries another at that
pace, and when Takeshi sighs heat against his mouth he takes it as
encouragement. Takeshi’s shifting his hand, too, slowing his movements to match
Hayato’s, until Hayato feels a little like they’re dancing, like they’re
falling so closely into sync their breathing is adjusting to match. Everything
is hot, his skin is burning and Takeshi is radiant under and around him, until
when he thrusts in deeper than he intended the way Takeshi shudders feels like
he’s trying to combust underneath Hayato.
“Takeshi,” Hayato says, not sure if he’s asking or saying, and Takeshi is
whining but it’s more pleading than it is protest. Hayato moves again, comes as
far forward as he can, and Takeshi jerks and groans and it is pleasure, Hayato
can see it in the way the other’s eyes go hazy and out-of-focus.
“Does it feel good?” he asks unnecessarily, doesn’t wait for an answer. He
pushes Takeshi’s leg up higher, thrusts in a little faster, and Takeshi’s hand
slips, his throat gives up a gasping, anxious inhale like he’s standing on a
precipice. Hayato isn’t sure what he’s doing, is sure that Takeshi likes it, so
he keeps going, lets the heat rush into him as he moves faster to drive the
last shred of coherency clear of Takeshi’s eyes. Takeshi’s mouth is open, he’s
quivering like a struck bell, and Hayato can’t stop staring, can’t remember how
to blink for watching ripples of heat chase each other over Takeshi’s features;
then he drives forward, a quick burst of movement, and Takeshi jerks and moans
and comes all at once, sticky heat spilling between the too-close press of
their skin.
“Hayato,” he gasps while he’s still stroking over himself, while Hayato can see
feel the shivers of reaction drawing him tight around him. “Hayato, Hayato.”
“Yeah,” Hayato says. “Fuck.” He leans in, shoves his head in against Takeshi’s
shoulder to hide the uncontrolled expression on his face, and when he starts to
move it’s rough and fast and rushed. He can feel tension climbing up his
shoulders, winding into his fingers until he’s digging too-hard at Takeshi’s
hip and clinging to the blankets like a cliff face, but Takeshi’s still gasping
for air, shuddering weird whimpering response with every thrust of Hayato’s
hips, and it’s too much, the heat and the friction and the sound, and Hayato
chokes out some unintelligible endearment as all his tension gives way at once.
There’s a stutter to his motions, intent giving way to unthought instinct to
push him through the last few thrusts, and then he goes still and breathless
and shaky against the heat of Takeshi under him. For a moment all he can see is
white, all he can feel is trembling satisfaction, like he’s become a slow-
motion explosion caught inside his body.
“God,” he manages when he can take a breath, when he can remember how words
work and how to use his throat. “Takeshi.”
“Hayato,” Takeshi whimpers, sounding a little bit shattered and a little bit
lost. When Hayato blinks down at him the other boy’s eyes are shadowed under
his lashes, his lips parted and soft and pleading. There’s a tug against
Hayato’s neck, gentle friction turning into a wordless urging, and he gives in
without hesitation, collapses in against the sweat-slick of Takeshi’s skin and
presses his mouth to the sigh of satisfaction on Takeshi’s lips. His hand comes
up into soft-ruffled hair, presses steadiness back into Takeshi’s humming
pleasure, and when Hayato laughs he doesn’t recognize his own voice for how
soft and pleased he sounds.
He likes the way contentment feels in his veins.
***** Indulgence *****
It starts to rain when they’re on the outskirts of the palace grounds.
“Oh,” Takeshi says, tipping his head up to blink surprise at the grey overhead
that finally decided to open up on them. “We’re going to be wet by the time we
make it back.”
“It’s not that bad,” Hayato declares, barely glancing back over his shoulder at
the other. It’s not safe to look directly at Takeshi for too long; he imagines
it’s something like staring into the sun, only instead of blindness it’s
accompanied by the danger of reckless disregard for propriety. Even now he can
feel his chest ache, his fingers curl with adrenaline-soaked desire to touch
and pull and have, and they’re still probably in sight of the castle, well
within the danger of being seen. “We’ll go back in a minute.”
“Hm?” Takeshi looks back down, eyes wide and shocked, and for a moment they’re
staring right at each other. Hayato can see the corners of Takeshi’s eyes go
soft, the way his pupils dilate wide and dark, and then Takeshi’s looking down
at Hayato’s mouth and Hayato has to twist away, step forward fast before he
doubles back over the safe gap between them.
He can hear Takeshi trailing in his wake, footsteps crunching over the rain-
damp leaves underfoot, a laugh bright enough for a far warmer day that tingles
all along Hayato’s spine. “Slow down, where are you going?”
“You said you were taking me out to the edges of the grounds,” Hayato says,
without turning around this time. “We’re not there yet.”
“There’s just the forest out here.” Takeshi sounds confused and a little like
he’s on the verge of laughter, the way he always sounds around Hayato. “There’s
nothing to see.”
“There’s no one to see,” Hayato corrects with some aggression.
There’s a pause, a beat of realization he doesn’t need to see Takeshi’s face to
picture spreading across his features. Then: “Oh,” warm and breathless, and
it’s a good thing they’re almost at the treeline because Hayato can feel his
patience giving way with every step he takes. He speeds up, rushes a half dozen
steps into the shadow and partial cover of the trees, and when he turns Takeshi
is there, so close Hayato can just throw his hand out and close his fingers on
the smooth of expensive fabric.
“Yes,” he hisses, a burst of raw gratification on his tongue, and they’re
moving, stumbling sideways so Hayato can drag them out of sight of the castle,
can shove Takeshi back against the support of a tree trunk and crush in against
him. His knee fits between Takeshi’s, his hand comes up to fall against the
back of the other boy’s neck, and Takeshi ducks in towards his mouth with his
lips already parted in breathless-warm anticipation. Hayato can feel the other
boy’s exhales hot over the curve of his mouth, stark counterpoint to the rain-
cool of the air, and then he’s pressing their lips together and he’s not
thinking about the air, or the forest, or anything except Takeshi. Takeshi’s
hands are fitting at his waist and shoulder, gentle and careful like he’s
afraid of hurting Hayato with the featherlight contact, and Hayato presses in
harder, pins Takeshi in against the tree and tightens his fingers at the back
of the other’s neck while he opens his mouth to lick rain-clean heat off soft
lips.
“You,” he growls with some aggression, dragging his fingers hard against the
back of Takeshi’s neck like maybe he can shake some measure of self-control out
of him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Takeshi is staring at his mouth, lips parted and eyes dark as the skies
overhead. “Looking at you like how?”
“That,” Hayato snaps, and he’s coming back in, claiming all the soft offer of
the other’s mouth as his territory with teeth and tongue and lips. Takeshi’s
hands are steadying against him, fingers tightening at his hip and fitting up
into his hair, but Hayato’s a step ahead, is holding Takeshi back against the
tree with one hand at his hip and clinging to the back of his neck with the
other.
“Like you’re thinking about sucking me off every moment of the day,” he
clarifies when he can convince himself to pull away, when he can finds words
for the heat raging through him.
He probably ought to have expected the way Takeshi’s expression cracks into a
laugh, the way his eyelashes flutter like Hayato has scored a hit. “But I am--”
“Don’t you dare say it,” Hayato insists. He wants to lean in for another kiss,
wants to keep the sound of Takeshi’s laugh in his ears, wants the heat of the
other’s mouth and the shape of his smile all at once until the conflicting
desires are twisting him anxious and frustrated, keep him hovering a half-inch
from contact with the other’s mouth. At least his hands have no such dilemma -
- he has the front of Takeshi’s shirt coming open under his fingers, formal-
rich fabric falling loose so he can get his hand in under the weight and
against the tremor of tension in Takeshi’s stomach, and from the fingers
closing into a fist at the edge of his own shirt Takeshi isn’t far behind in
following his example.
“How am I supposed to wait,” Hayato asks rhetorically, tipping his head
sideways like he’s angling for a kiss he doesn’t quite move into. Takeshi turns
his head to match, gusts a breathless sigh at his mouth, and Hayato does move
in then, crushes against the curve of his lips as he fits two fingers inside
the loops at the front of Takeshi’s pants so he can start pulling the laces
free.
“Just the nights aren’t enough,” he growls as they pull apart again. Takeshi’s
hold on him is far firmer now, the hand at his neck a hold tight enough to keep
the other on his feet even without the support at his back, and his other hand
is fitting up under Hayato’s shirt to press against his waist. If Hayato waits,
they could have their hands on each other at once, press in skin-to-skin in the
same moment instead of taking turns.
Hayato doesn’t wait. He’s all out of patience, was well before he looked over
his shoulder to catch the smokey desire in Takeshi’s eyes as they approached
the edge of the trees, and with the heat of bare skin temptingly close he’s not
about to wait longer. He drags the laces free, fits his fingers in between the
top line of cloth and skin too hot to yet have caught damp from the rain, and
when Hayato pushes his hand down to reach for Takeshi’s cock he can feel the
other’s hand seize into convulsive tension at his hip, can hear the rush of
wanting inhale in the other’s lungs.
“You want it too,” he says, like it needs saying, like he can’t feel the hard
heat of Takeshi’s cock pressing against his grasping fingers. Takeshi ducks in
like he’s angling for a kiss and Hayato tightens his fingers into a hold, drags
up quick to stall out Takeshi’s movement so the other boy goes gasping and
shuddering against his shoulder instead of his mouth. “You’re goddamn
breathless for me to touch you all day, aren’t you?” Takeshi whines against his
shirt, an open-mouthed gasp of air probably louder than they should be, but the
rain overhead sounds echoingly loud and Hayato can’t bring himself to care.
“Fuck,” is what he says instead, and he’s leaning in too, caving to the drag of
Takeshi’s fingers at the edge of his shirt and fitting his mouth in against the
curve of Takeshi’s neck into his shoulder. The collar of the other’s shirt is
too high to give him a good angle for the bite he wants to set into Takeshi’s
skin, the mark that all the shouldn’t in the world doesn’t stop him from
wanting to leave, but it’s enough to get half-a-kiss against the skin instead.
It doesn’t satisfy the burn of tension in his limbs but it gets him close
enough to breathe in the heat off Takeshi’s skin, to taste the cool-air clean
of him across his tongue, and then Takeshi’s fingers work up under his shirt
and everything gives way into heat and incoherent friction. Takeshi’s clinging
to him, fingernails scraping traction against the curve of Hayato’s spine, and
Hayato’s moving his hand desperate-fast, working gasping reaction out of
Takeshi’s lungs without even having to think. The rain is coming down harder,
speckling the shoulders of his shirt with wet and echoing off the leaves
overhead, but Hayato isn’t listening to that at all; all he’s hearing is
Takeshi’s breathing coming faster with every stroke of his hand, the almost-
pleading inhales the other is taking as Hayato jerks up over him.
They’re pressed close together, Takeshi’s fingers catching into Hayato’s hair
to keep them pinned against each other, near enough that Hayato can hear the
sticky catch on each of Takeshi’s inhales and can feel the tension building in
his body. It feels like encouragement, sounds like a promise, and he’s moving
faster, breathing as hard as Takeshi himself, when the hand at his back tenses,
Takeshi flinching back like he’s trying to pull away.
“Hayato.” He’s straining for coherency, Hayato can hear the stutter in the
simple sound of his name on Takeshi’s lips. “Hayato, wait, stop.”
“What?” Hayato jerks back like he’s been slapped, his hand going instantly
still as his skin chills like the rain is taking the place of his blood. “Why?”
It snaps out like an argument, hurt and defensiveness surging over his tongue,
but Takeshi doesn’t look upset; he still looks melted over, leaning against the
support at his back like it’s the only thing holding him up, eyes so dark-
dilated Hayato can’t make out their color in the dim light.
“Your shirt,” he gasps. Hayato can see the sound moving in his throat,
struggling towards clarity instead of the groans that Takeshi’s been offering
instead. “If you keep going I’ll…”
Hayato looks down, and Takeshi’s right. The way they’re angled Takeshi’s too
close to the edge of Hayato’s clothes, and if they can explain some rain-caused
damp they won’t have any excuse for anything more telltale. The interruption
makes him scowl, the necessity of it infuriating as much as anything else, and
he’s not as gentle as he could be when he lets his hold on Takeshi’s cock go to
grab at the other boy’s hips instead.
“Fuck,” he growls, shoving hard enough that he knocks Takeshi’s hold on him
loose and starts to turn him in a single motion. “Why do we have to worry about
this?” Takeshi stumbles, turns under the force of Hayato’s hands, and with his
footing unsteady it’s easy for Hayato to step forward against him, to shove an
arm flat across Takeshi’s shoulders and press him in against the support of the
tree. Takeshi’s hands come out to catch himself against the damp-dark bark, his
breathing catching loudly enough for Hayato to hear even without the too-near
position, and Hayato reaches around the other boy’s hip to replace his grip and
pick back up the motion of his hand where he left off. Takeshi jerks at the
sudden burst of sensation, rocks back probably unintentionally to press against
Hayato’s hips, and that’s distraction enough to make up for the change in
position, gives Hayato the possibility of grinding in against Takeshi while he
jerks his hand up in a rush over the other boy’s flushed cock.
“I don’t want to have to think about excuses,” he snaps to the back of
Takeshi’s neck. Takeshi is shaking, his head ducked in against the support in
front of him, but Hayato can hear him gasping for air, can see the damp of
rainwater collecting against the edge of Takeshi’s rich-hued collar.
“It’s distracting,” and so is that damp, he’s leaning in unbidden to press his
mouth to the curve of Takeshi’s neck and suck the water off his skin. It tastes
more like Takeshi than rain, warm and faintly sweet on Hayato’s tongue, and
he’s still pressed in close when Takeshi whimpers and shudders into weak-kneed
pleasure against the support of the tree. There’s a spill of heat over Hayato’s
fingers, Takeshi gasping himself through satisfaction as he comes, and Hayato
wonders vaguely if they’ve made a mess of Takeshi’s clothes rather than his
own.
They haven’t, as it turns out. Once Hayato lets his hand go and releases his
bracing hold across Takeshi’s shoulders it turns out they’re both relatively
clean, except for the rain soaking heavy into their shirts and clinging damp to
the ruffled ends of Takeshi’s hair. Hayato’s staring at the light shining in
the droplets, the way they’re sticking the dark strands down to the other boy’s
skin, when Takeshi reaches for him, presses his fingers against the wet of
Hayato’s shirt and drags him in for a kiss. It’s distracting, the weight of the
other’s hold at his shoulders and the melted-warm slick of his tongue against
Hayato’s mouth, and for a moment Hayato doesn’t realize that they’re turning
again, doesn’t process that they’ve swapped positions until his shoulders hit
something solid and Takeshi pulls back to gasp, “Hayato” like there’s some
magic in the sound of his name.
“We’ll make a mess,” Hayato pants as Takeshi’s fingers catch at the top of his
pants, pull the cloth loose with something that is, indeed, somewhat mystical
or maybe just desperate haste. “Won’t someone be looking for us?”
“Just a minute,” Takeshi soothes, and there’s some kind of irony, there, that
they have switched roles, that it’s on Hayato’s behalf and not his own that
Takeshi is urging indulgence. “Please, please, just a minute longer,” and his
fingers are sliding in over hot-damp skin and Hayato is having trouble
standing, can’t remember how to get his lungs to work properly in his chest.
“God,” he says. “This is such a bad idea,” but he doesn’t push Takeshi away,
even turns his head sideways when Takeshi nuzzles in close to kiss just under
his ear. Hayato feels superheated, as if the raindrops pattering overhead and
catching at his eyelashes ought to be evaporating to steam before they even
touch him, and Takeshi’s fingers are sliding up across his length and oh, it
really will only take him a minute, like this. His hand comes out, catches at
Takeshi’s shoulder for an instant, but then Takeshi is moving, the point of
contact shifting down and away, and Hayato is growling incoherent protest
before he can get his attention back in focus to see what Takeshi is doing.
Then he does see, and the protest dies on his lips, shifts over seamlessly into
a groan as Takeshi’s knees hit the wet leaves under them and Takeshi’s fingers
drag his pants down to make enough space for the other boy’s mouth against
Hayato’s skin.
“That’s not fair,” Hayato says, fingers stretching out to dig into the wet-
slick dark of Takeshi’s hair and make a fist to steady himself. He’s leaned
against the tree already but it’s still hard to keep his balance when Takeshi’s
mouth presses against him, the heat of the other boy’s mouth sliding in over
the head of his cock. “Ah. You’re -- you’re going to be a mess by the time we
get back too.”
Takeshi doesn’t pull away to respond. He just hums, low and satisfied like he’s
not even hearing the meaning of Hayato’s words, and Hayato arches his back in
lieu of protest, the candleflame tension of pleasure flickering up his spine.
Takeshi’s mouth is warm, warmer than it reasonably should be, contrast with the
rain spattering against them turning him completely radiant. There’s water all
across Hayato’s face, wet strands of his hair dripping onto his shoulders and
blinding him when he tries to see, but Takeshi’s hair is soft against his
palms, the slide of the other’s tongue and lips wholly easy and smooth and so
much, too much, Hayato can feel tension collecting in his thighs and trembling
his balance away. He gasps air, fills his lungs with wet-cool air that turns
instantly to heat in his blood, and when he blinks the water from his lashes he
can see Takeshi clear, his eyes shut and expression clear of anything but
contentment, his lips tight against Hayato’s cock and sliding flushed and pink
as he moves. Hayato chokes on an inhale, tightens his grip like he’s bracing
Takeshi and himself at once, and that’s it, he’s thrusting reflexively forward
over Takeshi’s tongue and coming with a groan that spills low and purring from
some untapped resonance in his chest. Everything goes warm, damp turning to
steam at his hair and skin and clothes, and when Takeshi pulls away to blink
gold up at him Hayato grabs at his soaked-through shirt, drags him to his feet
so he can press his mouth to the faint salty taste caught at the other boy’s
lips.
“We should go back,” he admits when they pull apart to gasp air, Takeshi’s
fingers winding up into his hair. “They’ll wonder where we are, someone will
come looking for us.”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums agreement, “Yeah.” He still doesn’t look convinced, or maybe
it’s comprehension that he’s lacking; his eyes are glazed, his dazed expression
so tempting Hayato has to grab at his shoulder and press another round of
kisses against his parted lips, before he can make himself pull away. It
doesn’t help Takeshi’s clarity -- if anything he looks hazier than he did
before, glowing from the inside out like it’s sun overhead and not rain-heavy
clouds -- but it helps Hayato, gives him enough warmth to keep his hands to
himself when they reemerge from the trees with their wet clothes back in place
and the pleasure-flush on their skin hidden by shivers of cold.
There are servants waiting when they get back inside, full of concern and ready
with hot bathes and dry clothes for the both of them. Hayato lets himself be
swept off to his rooms, rinses the rainwater from his hair and off his skin,
but even when the steam has permeated into his very bones, he doesn’t feel as
warm as he did with Takeshi’s mouth on him.
***** Obvious *****
“Someone must suspect,” Hayato says as he’s shoving Takeshi back to the bed,
ducking his head to press his mouth to the other’s shoulder low enough that any
marks will be safely covered by clothing. “Hasn’t anyone noticed that you’re
never in your bed at night?”
“I don’t know,” Takeshi admits immediately. He falls back over the mattress,
sliding sideways to end up mostly centered; it’s more than they managed the
first few nights, indicates something that might have a passing resemblance to
patience, if only in that Hayato waits until Takeshi’s settled before he climbs
on the bed to fit himself over the other’s hips. Takeshi’s hands come out as
fast as he’s moving, tighten into a steadying hold against the top edge of
Hayato’s pants, and maybe it’s not quite patience, after all, from how
instantly hot Hayato’s blood flares. “No one’s said anything about it.”
“Maybe it’s just because they know you won’t listen,” Hayato suggests. He’s
grinning, teasing amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth until his
expression is impossible to restrain. When he stretches out a hand to trail
down Takeshi’s chest the other boy’s eyelashes shift, his back arching up to
meet the contact like Hayato’s fingertips are magnetized. “Maybe everyone in
the entire castle knows.”
“They should say something then,” Takeshi smiles. “I wouldn’t bother with
trying to be sneaky if I knew they knew.”
“I don’t think you’re particularly subtle,” Hayato teases, as if he has any
kind of a grasp on subtlety himself. The best he can manage is to avoid meeting
Takeshi’s eyes in public, since he can’t fight back the softness in his
expression or the smile at his lips if he does, and between his own avoidance
and Takeshi’s concerted, constant attention on him, he’s fairly certain their
secret is as obvious as it can be without them actually kissing in the middle
of one of the formal meals they share with the rest of the visitors. Hayato
knows he should care, that he ought to reach for all the dozens of reasons why
they shouldn’t be doing this or should be frightened of the idea of being found
out instead of grinning about them on his bed while he works Takeshi’s pants
open and off his hips. But no matter how much he tells himself what
he should do all it takes is the soft of Takeshi’s smile before he’s off again,
growling protest he knows he won’t sustain and looking for the least excuse to
get them a moment of privacy.
“Fuck,” he says now, forming the shape of a curse without even an attempt at
the strain of true irritation under it. Takeshi tips his hips up as Hayato
pulls at his clothes, the coordination getting smoother with their daily
practice, and Hayato’s takes a breath of anticipation as the fabric slides down
to bare tanned legs far longer than they should be. “I can’t believe you.”
Takeshi’s knees come up, the pants come off, and Hayato tosses them aside,
rocks in to fit into the space between Takeshi’s legs before he’s bothered to
get his own clothes off. Takeshi smiles, warm and languid and blissful when
they’ve only barely started, and something in Hayato’s chest twists, tightens
in his throat so he can’t speak for a moment.
“What don’t you believe?” Takeshi asks into the moment of quiet, hooking his
legs around Hayato’s waist and arching up to cross the gap between them. His
eyes are soft, drifting down across Hayato’s features like a touch, stalling
for a breath at his mouth before continuing down his neck to his shoulder,
wandering idle attention over his skin.
“You,” Hayato says, angling for irritation in his voice and only succeeding in
dropping the word into a growl that sounds more heated than it does angry. He
frowns at the sound but Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, an arm comes up to press
against his shoulders, and the soft of the other’s lips is too much temptation
too willingly offered. Hayato gives in to the pull at his shoulders, presses in
close against Takeshi’s skin, and when his mouth fits against warm lips he can
feel the purr of satisfaction in the other’s throat straight in his blood.
Takeshi shifts under him, Hayato rocks down, and for a minute they’re caught
together, falling into rhythm with each other with the learned ease of the last
few days. Hayato’s hand lands at Takeshi’s waist, pushes down against warm-
flushed skin and out across the curve of his hip, and Takeshi shivers, rocks up
against him like he’s trying to cross over the remaining barrier of skin
between them to occupy the same space as Hayato himself.
“You’re ridiculous,” Hayato says, drawing back to catch a lungful of air and
reach out for the bottle that has come to stay against the table alongside his
bed. Takeshi doesn’t even look up to follow the motion of his hand; he’s
tipping his head in instead, fitting his lips to the dip between Hayato’s
collarbones and sighing heat into the shape. It makes Hayato shiver
irrationally with the warmth, flutters his eyelashes momentarily heavy, and
when he tries to breathe out it sounds like a groan better suited for something
more intense than a ghosting kiss at his shoulder.
“How do you even exist?” he growls, desperate attempt at force while he works
the bottle open one-handed, leans in closer to brace himself on an elbow so he
can manage the coordination with the necessary two hands. “Aren’t you supposed
to be a prince?” His fingers are slick, the bottle safety closed again, and
he’s too close, he has to duck back in to crush his mouth to Takeshi’s, to suck
friction over the other’s lower lip while he pushes his hand in under the
other’s leg to fit between them.
“You have responsibilities,” Hayato gasps as he pulls away, tries to clear his
head enough to turn his hand around to fit against Takeshi. “Appearances to
maintain, right?” Takeshi’s eyelashes are shifting heavy with heat, Hayato’s
not even sure he’s seeing the other’s face; he tips himself up off the bed by
an inch and there, that’s it, Hayato shifts the angle of his wrist and starts
to press a finger inside the other boy. Takeshi’s head goes back, his throat
drags over a ragged sigh, and Hayato has to duck in, kiss the vibration there
as he slides his finger in deeper to press reaction from the other boy.
“You have a visiting peace delegation,” Hayato says, only somewhat breathless
from the way Takeshi’s knees are shifting wider and how hot Takeshi’s cock is
pressing against the edge of his hip. “Shouldn’t you be concerned with
diplomacy and welcoming committees instead of letting me fuck you whenever I
want?”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums, and Hayato can feel the purr under his lips and tightening
momentarily against his fingers. “You’re part of the delegation too, though.”
“Oh, I see,” Hayato mock-growls, pulls his hand back to stretch Takeshi around
a second finger as well as the first. “So you’d do this with anyone, is that
it?”
“Hayato,” Takeshi whimpers, protest skipping high into the leading edge of
hurt. When Hayato lifts his head Takeshi is watching him, brows drawn tight and
wounded over the soft heat in his eyes, and guilt strikes like lightning,
stinging through his veins with cringing heat.
“I’m teasing,” he says quick, backtracking into the hot catch of another kiss
and pressing in deeper with his fingers. He can feel Takeshi relax back into
soft compliance under him, the arm wrapped around his shoulders going gentle
and calm again, and he slides a knee up under Takeshi’s, braces himself so he
can thrust harder with his fingers as he draws back enough to see the other’s
face.
“It’s just me,” he says, offering words to fit over Takeshi’s tongue and damp-
parted lips.”That’s right, yeah?”
Takeshi nods, his eyes going hazy with each motion of Hayato’s fingers into
him. Hayato can see the lack of focus in his gaze, the struggle he has to make
to track the other’s face as he nods, says, “Yes, yeah, that’s right,” like
he’s repeating back a chant.
“Anything I want,” Hayato suggests, draws his hand back so he can angle in a
little higher, can get Takeshi’s back to arch and his throat to work on a moan
of reaction to his movements. “You’ll let me do anything.”
“Yeah,” Takeshi says, shuts his eyes and swallows hard. The hand at Hayato’s
shoulder tenses, braces his weight for a moment as Hayato spreads his fingers
wider, presses Takeshi open under his touch. “Ah. Yeah, anything you want,
Hayato.”
“God,” Hayato says, sound catching and tearing in his throat until he has to
duck his head and shut his eyes to breathe. Takeshi is whining instead of
breathing, trembling so Hayato can feel it all up his arm; it takes conscious
effort to slide his fingers back, another burst of concentration to push
Takeshi’s arm away so he can sit up and unfasten his pants. “You’re
ridiculous.” His hands are shaking, adrenaline burning fire through his veins;
Takeshi doesn’t try to drag him back, just stays where he is with an arm fallen
over his head and blinking dreamy attention at Hayato’s motions. He doesn’t
make a move to touch himself either, although Hayato can see for himself how
flushed-hard he is; he just stays where he is, breathing hard against the bed
and waiting while Hayato gets his pants undone and shoved down off his legs.
“There,” he says, a growl of relief as his feet come free and he can shove the
cloth off the bed to the floor. The delay is worth it when he leans back in and
Takeshi’s legs come back around him, when there’s skin-on-skin at every point
of contact instead of with a layer of cloth in the way. Hayato leans in against
the bed, rocking his weight forward over his knees as Takeshi arches up to meet
him, and for a moment he gives over coherent speech for the friction of
Takeshi’s lips on his, for the warm-coiling pleasure of tasting the inside of
Takeshi’s mouth. They’re both breathing hard, all but panting over each other,
and when Hayato reaches out it’s to grab at Takeshi’s wrist, to pin his arm up
over his head and hold him steady as he moves to fit himself against the other
boy. Takeshi doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to pull away; he’s staring instead,
eyes wide and dark and mouth open on the rush of his breathing, and Hayato’s
chest tightens again, a sensation nearly painful running all through him as he
starts to thrust forward. Friction hits him, heat and tension closing in like
it’s his whole body sweeping hot, and he has to close his own eyes and almost-
flinch through the rush of response that tingles out into him.
“Fuck,” he gasps. His fingers tighten at Takeshi’s wrist, dig in against
Takeshi’s hip, and Takeshi is moving too, hooking a leg around Hayato’s waist
and arching himself up closer. They’re close as they can be, pressed in so near
Hayato’s breathing off Takeshi’s lips, and it’s not enough, it’s not close
enough to unwind the tension all along Hayato’s spine.
“God,” he says, a meaningless exclamation of heat and frustrated sensation,
pulls back to thrust in again, harder, like the impact will get them closer.
Takeshi jerks, shudders helpless to the motion, and Hayato groans, lets his hip
go to fumble a hand against the other’s free hand instead.
“Here.” They pause for a moment, hesitating in the midst of overheated motion
so Hayato can shift their position; then he has both Takeshi’s hands under one
of his, the clean lines of strong wrists pinned under his fingers and over
Takeshi’s head to draw the other’s body long and curving in a graceful arc.
There’s nothing in his way, now, from trailing his fingers down Takeshi’s
collarbone to the indent of his waist, back out and over his hip to tighten a
bracing hold against him.
“That’s better,” Hayato growls, and when he moves again he’s holding Takeshi in
place, bracing the other’s movement until he’s still for Hayato’s thrusts.
Takeshi groans wordless against the air, reaction tightening his legs around
Hayato’s waist, and this is better, this is closer, this is where Hayato wanted
him.
“Just me,” he says, hot and fast and almost-anxious, digs his fingers in hard
against Takeshi’s skin. “Tell me, Takeshi.”
“It’s just you,” Takeshi says, fast and rushed, and then he laughs, a splash of
warm delight that melts over into another moan as Hayato bucks his hips forward
to fuck into him in one quick movement. “Hayato. Anything you want, whatever
you want.”
“God,” Hayato growls again, his throat going as tight as his chest, as tight as
the heat lancing up his spine. “Fuck, god, Takeshi.” He has to shut his mouth,
doesn’t know what he’d say if he lets more words spill free; safer to brace
himself over Takeshi’s wrists, to free a hand to fit between them and curl
tight around Takeshi’s cock. Takeshi’s eyes come open, a burst of shocked-open
pleasure to match the sound that pours out of his throat, and Hayato starts to
move, quick rushed motions of his wrist like that will better remedy the weight
crushing into him than the satisfaction of his own orgasm.
It is satisfying to watch, the way Takeshi’s head goes back and his eyelashes
move like he can’t figure out if he wants to stare heat at Hayato or shut his
eyes to the distraction of vision. His hands curl in on themselves, like he’s
thinking about but not quite making fists, his hips tilting to meet Hayato’s
grip until the rocking movement is burning away Hayato’s attention along with
the rushed pace of his thrusts, the heat in his blood rising in spite of his
focus on Takeshi’s face, his concentration on drawing the tremors along
Takeshi’s spine out into his entire body. Takeshi still has a leg up around his
hip, the other thrown wide over the bed; Hayato can hear his foot shifting,
like he’s trying to gain traction to push himself up higher and closer. It
makes him grin, breathless and overheated and desperate for satisfaction, and
then his hand slides slick against the head of Takeshi’s cock and he can feel
the other boy’s tension shudder away entirely. He’s spilling against Hayato’s
fingers, pulsing in waves of heat across Hayato’s hand and around his cock, and
Hayato is the one groaning, choking on unintelligible affection and collapsing
in closer to press them together as Takeshi sighs himself into shaky relief.
Hayato’s hold on the other’s wrists go, his hand comes out to press sticky
prints against Takeshi’s hip, and Takeshi is pulling him down and closer and
curving up into the rhythmic movement of Hayato pressing forward into him.
There are lips at Hayato’s hair, fingers catching at his shoulders and sliding
along the curve of his spine, and with Takeshi pressed in so close against him
it’s only a few heat-hurried thrusts before Hayato’s self-control caves
completely and he comes groaning Takeshi’s name against the heat of his bare
shoulder. There’s a whimper of appreciation at his hair, the press of lips into
his skin, and Hayato lets his breath gust into a sigh as all his tension
shudders away into exhausted satisfaction.
Takeshi is humming, Hayato realizes when he thinks to listen again. It’s not a
tune, at least not one Hayato can piece together; it’s just sound, idle
vibration like he’s not bothering to hold back the purr of appreciation Hayato
can feel thrumming not-quite audibly in his own blood.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says into Takeshi’s shoulder without bothering to lift
his head.
Takeshi laughs, a bright burble of sound like water splashing over rocks. The
arm around Hayato’s shoulder tightens, pulls him in closer for the span of
heartbeat, and Hayato thinks then what he doesn’t say, isn’t willing to put
into words even for Takeshi’s hearing alone.
He’d do anything at all to stay here forever.
***** Silence *****
Hayato claims illness on their last day.
It’s a remarkably easy thing to do, to feign a tremble in his voice and answer
the door in his undershirt, offer an apology and vague complaints of dizziness
and exhaustion as an excuse to stay abed. It’s an impulsive lie, and not one
Hayato had thought to warn Takeshi about before he slipped back to his own room
early that morning. Apparently he doesn’t need to, though, because it’s barely
an hour later that there’s a tap on the door, Takeshi smiling some reasoning
about keeping him entertained while he rests, and Hayato doesn’t even bother
speaking before he holds the door open to let the other in.
It’s a relief to have his scheme work so well. Hayato isn’t sure he could have
borne keeping up the pretense of distance when every hour feels like a death
knell, when the ache in his chest that kept him from sleep is only growing
tighter with every passing minute. He forgets it, for a while, loses himself in
the infinity offered by friction against heated skin and then in the languid
comfort of afterglow, but it always comes back, the weight of reality bearing
in on the walls of his life, until it’s hard even to blink for fear of the
loss.
Hayato is sprawled across the bed come midday, after Takeshi accepted the soup
and bread brought up by the servants on Hayato’s behalf and politely refused
the offer of a doctor. He still has an apple in his fingers, now, is turning it
over like he’s wholly forgotten what he’s holding for staring out the window at
the ever-steady downpour outside.
“You really do like the rain,” Hayato observes from the bed. It’s more
comfortable to lie on his stomach over the mattress than to perch on the ledge
at the window, and he’s not completely sure he’d be able to move without the
tremors in his limbs giving away the bone-deep exhaustion of insomnia and
pleasant exertion in tandem. “I’d get tired of watching the same thing every
day.”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums, shakes his head in half-aware disagreement. “No, it’s nice.
Soothing, kind of.” He looks away from the window, soft-warm eyes meeting
Hayato’s gaze, and his mouth spreads into a gentle curve of affection. “Here.”
The apple comes flying, an easy angle to catch if Hayato put his hand out; he
doesn’t, tips sideways instead so it hits the sheets, and Takeshi laughs, warm
and unbearably soft.
“Aren’t you hungry?” He unfolds from his seat, comes across the room to drop a
knee onto the edge of the bed; Hayato doesn’t sit up, doesn’t crane his neck to
look up. It’s easier to let his eyes shut, to duck his head so his hair
curtains his face and leaves his shoulders bare for Takeshi’s mouth. He almost
smiles when a kiss inevitably brushes against the edge of his shoulder; Takeshi
has proven to be perfectly predictable in this, at least.
“No.” He tips down to lie flat on the bed, reaches out with one hand to catch
at Takeshi’s ankle and drag his fingertips in over the arch of his foot. “I’ll
eat later.”
“You’ll want to eat something before…” Takeshi starts, stops before Hayato can
muster the energy to tell him to shut up. It’s not like it matters that much
anyway; he can’t escape the awareness now, the weight of the future too near
now to hide from even with Takeshi breathing warm at his shoulder and Takeshi’s
bare skin fitting against his fingerprints.
“I’m not hungry,” Hayato repeats without any fire, turns his head to press his
forehead against his arm and breathe against the sheets, slowly, so the tension
in his throat doesn’t turn into the sobs he’s been fighting back. “I just want
to stay like this.”
“Hayato,” Takeshi says, so soft and agonizingly gentle that Hayato’s breathing
stalls entirely, that even squeezing his eyes shut isn’t enough to stop the
pressure of the tears against his lashes. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” Hayato chokes, lets Takeshi’s ankle go so he can swing
blindly at the other’s arm. “Shut up, shut up.”
“It’s okay,” Takeshi says. The bed shifts, there’s weight at Hayato’s back, and
then there’s a knee fitting in between his, the soft of dark hair settling
between his shoulderblades as Takeshi stretches out against him. “It’ll be
fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Hayato says against the sheets, but he’s not moving to
push Takeshi off. It’s more comforting than all that words can do to have the
other boy pressed so close against him, the weight such a reassurance Hayato
feels like Takeshi belongs there, like they were meant to fit together like
this. “You can’t know that, I could leave tomorrow and never see you again.”
“We will,” Takeshi says. His arm fits in around Hayato’s waist, presses up
against the other’s chest like he’s worming his way into the other’s defensive
posture. “We’ll see each other again.”
“You sound sure,” Hayato observes. The tension in his throat is easing in spite
of himself, a smile he can’t help dragging at the corner of his mouth, and
Takeshi purrs something warm and wordless against his spine.
“Mm.” A kiss, lingering long against his shoulder, and Takeshi shifts his
weight, presses his nose in against Hayato’s neck through the fall of his hair.
“I’m sure.” Takeshi takes a breath, and then there’s a pause, made hesitant by
the weight of that inhale until Hayato starts to stiffen again with expectation
in spite of the comfort at his spine.
“Takeshi?” he asks, turns his head to try to get a glimpse of the other’s face.
An exhale, rushed and nearly anxious; then: “Hayato,” low and heavy with
sincerity. “I lov--”
“Don’t,” Hayato gasps, and he’s twisting so quickly his elbow clips Takeshi’s
forehead, cuts off the unfinished sentence in a yelp of reflexive pain as they
both go sliding over the bed. Takeshi’s hand comes up to press against his
forehead, his expression twisted into hurt, and Hayato grabs at his shoulder to
push him down to the bed, claps his hand hard over Takeshi’s mouth.
“Don’t say it,” he says, rushed and desperate to hold back the half-spoken
words on Takeshi’s tongue. Takeshi blinks away the hurt, his eyes coming into
confused focus on Hayato’s face, and Hayato goes on without waiting for more.
“Don’t act like this is our last chance, I won’t let you.” His heart is
pounding in his chest and his voice is shaking and he doesn’t know why this
panic is flaring in him but it is, tight and frantic in his throat and pressing
his fingers tighter over Takeshi’s parted lips.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, sharp and clear and certain. “Tell me
later. When you see me again.”
Takeshi blinks, careful motion of dark lashes over wide-shocked eyes; then he
nods, careful and slowly, so Hayato can see it, and Hayato lets some of the
panic go from his chest and lifts his hand.
“Okay,” Takeshi says as soon as his mouth is free. “I will.” He shifts his hand
at his head, scrunches up his nose as the soft at his mouth turns into a laugh.
“That hurt.”
“You’re the one who pinned me down,” Hayato growls, leaning his weight forward
so he can stretch out against Takeshi’s chest, shove the other’s hand away so
he can feel out the maybe-bruise of his elbow hitting the other’s head. “I was
just gaining the upper hand.”
Takeshi laughs, shuts his eyes and tips his head like he’s submitting to
something more forceful than Hayato’s fingers sliding gently into his hair. He
looks happy like this, with amusement clinging to his lips and breathing slow
contentment close enough for Hayato to hear the pace of his inhales. Hayato is
too caught in watching him to pay attention to what his fingers are doing, to
realize when his touch has wandered far off-course to slide in against the back
of Takeshi’s neck instead of just scoping out the minor injury.
Takeshi turns his head, silent offer in response to Hayato’s touch, and for a
moment Hayato just watches, with Takeshi’s long legs caught with his and the
suggestion of his skin calling for a kiss. There’s an ache in his throat,
pressure in his chest, and when Takeshi murmurs, “You know, though, right?” he
has to shut his eyes and duck in to press his mouth to Takeshi’s fluttering
pulse before he says I know out loud.
The silence is the only promise he has of a future.
***** Cold *****
It’s colder when they leave than when they arrived.
Hayato was expecting that. He gave up on warmth this morning, when the crush of
Takeshi’s mouth against his gave way to the other boy slipping out at the last
possible moment to make it back to his room. Everything after that -- the
overly formal breakfast with Takeshi tucked away at the other end of the table,
the extended farewells and wishes for a safe journey with no sincerity behind
them, the line of too-tight handshakes -- was just an exercise in agony,
drawing out the goodbye Hayato doesn’t want to hear.
He expected the worst to be the handshake, the awful distant formality of
gloved fingers crushing together in some cruel echo of the way Takeshi’s hands
fit into his hair not hours before. The physical contact isn’t enough alone,
apparently; in the hum of insincere speech Takeshi whispers “Hayato,” his voice
cracking apart like he’s on the verge of tears, and when Hayato looks up he can
only take a moment of the pain dimming all the light in Takeshi’s gold eyes
before he wrenches his fingers free and moves on to the next greeting. He
doesn’t meet anyone else’s gaze after that; it seems safer, with his eyes
burning with emotion too close to anger to allow for tears.
Even that wasn’t enough, as it turns out. The last of it -- the worst of it -
- comes at the stables, when Hayato is splashing through puddles and too
achingly heartsick to care about the effect the mud will have on the trailing
edge of his coat. He’s not looking around -- there’s nothing to see but the
weight of the rain anyway -- and the grab at his sleeve makes him jump, nearly
shout before he can turn and see who it is dragging at his shirt. Then he makes
out dark hair, long legs granting unreasonable height, and he’s stumbling
forward, giving in to the force before he even thinks to look around to check
for an audience.
They come around the corner of a building, into a pathway wide and clear of any
but themselves for a moment, and Hayato doesn’t need to be told what Takeshi
intends. He’s grabbing as fast as the other is, rocking up onto his toes and
pressing his gloved hands against the back of Takeshi’s neck as fast as Takeshi
is pulling him in and ducking to crush their mouths together. It’s freezing,
the rain coming down hard against Hayato’s hair and trickling under his collar,
and the weight of Takeshi’s hand at his back just presses wet fabric against
his skin to send another shiver up his spine, but that doesn’t push him away.
He stays instead, for the breath of time that would be risky and well into the
seconds that spell out stupidity, fingers pressing bruises against Takeshi’s
neck and licking desperation over the other’s mouth like he can find heat
enough if he just tries hard enough.
Then there’s a call, “Prince Hayato?” far too close for any kind of comfort,
and Hayato shoves back, breaks free of Takeshi’s magnetism all at once. They
stare at each other for a single sustained moment, Takeshi’s eyes still half-
lidded and his mouth still damp from Hayato’s instead of from the rain; then
Hayato is going, turning away and ducking back around the corner before Takeshi
has yet let his hands drop from his instinctive reach for the other boy.
There’s truly no chance for more, after that. The servants are already waiting
for Hayato, offering the reins of his horse and half-voiced questions he
ignores completely rather than trying to come up with convincing lies. When he
turns his face up the rain catches at his skin, gives him an excuse for the
damp collecting over his cheeks, and by the time he’s riding out over the front
bridge with the rest of the delegation it really is nothing but rainwater wet
against his chilled skin.
They make it back to sunlight later that day, the rich yellow glow promising
dry clothes and radiant heat. Hayato can hear the pleasure in the voices around
him, relief and anticipation of homecoming.
Even in the sunlight, he’s too cold to shiver.
***** Heartless *****
Bianchi gives Hayato barely two days after his return.
He was expecting it, in the same distant way that he feels he could be ready
for anything, now, like the numb chill in his chest has taken the place of any
more dramatic emotions like surprise or anger or fright. Everything feels
removed, like he’s standing behind a pane of glass and watching events occur
around someone else, so even when Bianchi announces her presence by saying
“Hayato” from the shadows around a corner, he doesn’t startle.
“Bianchi.” He pauses in the middle of the corridor, clean in the warm glow of
the light. “What is it?”
She steps forward out of the cross-hallway, head up and shoulders back and
looking as regal as if she were in a formal gathering. It would be more
effective if Hayato hadn’t seen this pose on a daily basis since he was barely
old enough to walk; the intimidation factor is rather lost in the soft edges of
familiarity.
“What’s the matter with you?” It’s not the gentle inquiry it might be from
someone else; this has teeth to it, a sharp edge of judgment no less cutting
for how perfectly calm Bianchi’s expression remains. “Or are you planning to
take up melancholy as a full-time occupation?”
Hayato’s forehead creases, a twist of irritation struggling to light itself in
the constant weight on his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It
feels like a lie even on his own tongue, the certainty of misery too solid in
his mind for him to push aside for the purposes of deceiving his sister. “What
do you care, anyway?”
“It’s bad for morale,” Bianchi says, so immediately Hayato barks a humorless
laugh. “And I’m concerned for you,” softer, a little more gently, like she’s
admitting to a flaw in herself. “You’ve been like this for days now.”
“Like what?” Hayato attempts, although Bianchi’s steady consideration says his
denial is fooling her no more than it’s fooling himself. “Is the possibility of
war insufficient reason?”
“You never cared before,” Bianchi says, folding her arms in front of her.
Something about the angle of her wrist and the focused consideration in her
eyes is far more frightening than any of the shouts Hayato’s father levels at
him when he pleads against the inevitability of a conflict in the now-daily
conferences that have become more war preparations than negotiations. “I had a
change of heart,” Hayato growls past gritted teeth. “You told me to care more,
and now you’re upset that I do?”
“Not upset,” Bianchi corrects. “Worried. Have you been sleeping at all?”
“Fuck off,” Hayato groans.
“If you won’t take care of yourself--”
“I will!” Hayato shouts, and it is anger in him after all, the heat of
irritation he hasn’t felt since the ache of loss drowned every else out. “I
don’t need you to mother me, sister, I am well aware of my responsibilities to
this country!”
“Are you?” Bianchi asks, the flat tone of her voice more cutting than a shout
would be. “What happened during your visit to leave you like this?”
“Nothing,” Hayato grates, curls his fingers into fists at his sides hard enough
to press the pain of his fingernails against his palms. “Everyone was very
polite, I was shown around the palace grounds for a week by Prince Takeshi, and
the adults decided to go to war without consulting us.” His voice skids out
into scorn on the word, holds level over the middle; he’d be proud of himself
for such an excellent deception, if he dared to let his sister’s stare go for a
moment.
Bianchi’s shoulders relax. When she blinks some of the attention in her eyes
gives way to understanding, and Hayato can take a breath of relief that his lie
has apparently gone unnoticed.
“Hayato.” She steps in closer, unfolds her arms to rest a hand at his shoulder.
Hayato clings to the appearance of anger, ready to snap out at the reassurance
she will surely give that no one wants to exclude him, the simple comfort given
to a child throwing a tantrum. “Don’t say his name in front of Father.”
Hayato’s stomach drops so fast for a moment it’s nausea that hits him, all the
gravity in the world giving way to horror. “Wh--whose name?” he manages,
stuttering the question so badly it undermines his attempt before he’s even put
voice to it.
“I’m sorry,” Bianchi is saying, as smoothly as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
“It’s unfortunate for the both of you. Let’s hope your prince is better at
controlling his expression than you are.”
“He’s not my prince,” Hayato says without thinking. He’s staring past Bianchi’s
shoulder, too numb with shock to risk meeting the gaze he can feel fixed on
him.
“Oh, Hayato.” The touch at his shoulder comes up, fingers pressing gentle
comfort against his jaw, and he does look down then. Bianchi is smiling, the
expression barely touching her mouth with soft sympathetic amusement. “You
really are a terrible liar.”
Hayato can feel every beat of his heart like an explosion, every moment leaves
him shocked to still be standing. “Bianchi.” His voice is weird, low and
shaking and barely recognizable as his own. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Bianchi’s smile flickers, a shadow sweeping over her eyes. “Please,” she says,
and there’s something very close to human emotion in her tone, dipping her
voice soft for a moment. “I’m not as heartless as you think I am.”
Something like gravity comes back to Hayato’s world, an influx of support he
never expected to have. The relief is so strong it tightens his throat, burns
held-back emotion right past the wall between him and the pain, and very
suddenly his eyes are dizzy with damp. Bianchi slides her gaze away, slips her
hand free, and then she’s gone, rustling down the hallway with as much
composure as she entered it.
Hayato doesn’t need to look back to know she doesn’t. She’s always been better
at acting than he is.
***** Ultimatum *****
“Then we are decided.”
The king’s voice is clear, the carrying presence of a man who has years of
experience telling him he will be listened to, a man who has never accepted
anything but submission as his birthright. Hayato supposes, in some distant
part of his mind behind the hum of horrified resignation, that that’s why
Hayato himself grates so on his father’s nerves, with the backbone his mother
lacks and none of the politic maneuvering Bianchi is so adept in.
It’s not as if his resistance has made a difference, in the end. Hayato never
really let himself believe in any outcome but this, but certainty of a future
shadow isn’t the same as having the last glimpse of light cut off at last. It’s
almost funny to realize how flippant he was about this precise possibility
barely a month ago, when war seemed inevitable and unimportant, something hazy
on the horizon without any immediate consequences to him.
He would laugh, now, he thinks, if he weren’t so cold.
“You may leave me,” the king continues, and the room goes loud in the
simultaneous movement of dozens of bodies, boots kicking against the floor and
the weight of heavy chairs skidding back from the table. Hayato moves too -- he
can go through the motions of being present, even if he lacks the energy to
offer more immediate reaction -- is staring down at the unmarked papers in
front of him, intended for notes he never took, when his father speaks again.
“Hayato.” Distant, his name, but no colder than usual. There’s no edge to the
sound, just calm assumption of obedience. Something in Hayato bristles at that,
a spark of independence too deep-bred in his blood to stay down under even the
weight of depression, and when he looks up it’s with a frown coming at his
lips, eyes narrowing in irritation electric in his numb body. “I would have a
word with you.”
Hayato doesn’t answer. It’s enough, he feels, that he stays where he is, on his
feet and pointedly waiting for his father to continue speaking. It cannot be
anything too terrible; the king has never been shy about his rages, and were it
something he’s angry about he wouldn’t bother to give them the privacy they
will gain from an empty room. It doesn’t make an enormous amount of difference
anyway; Hayato can feel his anger rising to the surface, grating hot in his
veins like a mockery of the warmth he can’t seem to grasp these days, and it’s
not happiness and it’s not pleasure but it’s something, at least, so he clings
to it, winds it tight around both hands and digs his fingers in to keep it
around him.
“What do you want?” he snaps as the door swings shut behind the last of the
advisors. The anger feels good in his throat, burns like alcohol into his
chest, and some knot in him thrums with anticipation of a fight, expectation of
relief in the form of one of the infamous shouting matches between the crown
prince and the king of the realm. He’s ready for it, adrenaline coursing
through him and tightening every muscle in his body in anticipation; he would
almost welcome a punch, at this point, just for the explosive white-out shock
of the pain.
The king leans back in his chair, tips his head up to meet Hayato’s glare with
flat consideration without any of the fury Hayato wants. “I’m sending you out
with the rest of the army.”
And Hayato’s fire is gone, just like that, extinguished in the space of a
breath by the gust of freezing horror that spills through him. It’s not fear
for the blood or the violence or even the prospect of actually killing with his
own hands; that will come later, he’s sure. This is the ice of hope cut clean
through, the possibility so dark even Hayato’s worst nightmares haven’t given
it form.
“What?” he asks, lips working mechanically as if they are someone else’s.
“When the army marches, you’ll be going with them,” the king says, that level
tone like a wall offering no handholds for protest. “I’ll be leading the main
attack force and I’m putting you with one of the flanking parties.”
Hayato can’t think. All his protests come down to one, a wail of refusal
tangled up in memories of a soft smile and bright eyes, too-loud laughter and a
hand reaching for him in the rain. His objections to the war are no more than
that, in the end, that he doesn’t want to, that the only thing he ever really
wants anymore will be on the other side of the field and that there will be no
going back when he has the blood of Takeshi’s countrymen on his hands.
“I can’t,” he says, blurts too fast to take it back. “I’ve never been on a
battlefield, I have no experience leading men.” It’s a poor excuse, flimsy at
best when he’s never been afraid of risks before, but he’s scrambling for a
reason, any reason to keep him as far from the front as possible, as if by
keeping himself off the field he can somehow ensure Takeshi will remain safely
behind walls as well.
His father’s brows lower, his face setting into the lines of rage Hayato so
wanted moments ago. “There will always be a first time,” he says, and he’s not
standing, yet, but the tension in his shoulders says he could surge to his feet
at a moment’s notice. “This will be yours.”
“No,” Hayato says, an explosion of emotion on his tongue, and his father’s hand
comes down flat on the table, so hard the heavy weight of it rocks at it
impact.
“Do you defy me?” he shouts, the low heavy rumble of the oncoming storm, a
warning if Hayato could make himself obey it. “This is an order from your king,
Hayato.” He’s standing, Hayato didn’t even see him move, and on his feet he
barely has the advantage of height but his age gives him breadth, strength in
his shoulders and thunder in his features that overwhelms any coherent protest
Hayato could grasp at. “My affectionate tolerance only extends so far, my son.
I will not stand for your tantrums in this.” Hayato can’t speak, lacks the
voice even if there were the space of a breath between his father’s words for
him to reply. There is no room for protest, no gap in his body to allow for
himself; there is just panic, crippling and icy, until he can only stand fixed
on the spot and stare wide-eyed at the fury in his father’s eyes.
“You will have no place in my kingdom should you refuse this,” the king says,
the statement smooth and whole and utterly without mercy. “A coward is no son
of mine.”
Hayato lurches, the accusation hitting home with more force than the physical
blow he had half-hoped for to start. It’s the table he grabs at, fingers
scraping desperately against the wood as the world swings dizzy-fast around
him, and it’s the support that saves him from falling, that keeps his knees
from giving way under him as his eyes come back into focus on those telltale
blank pages.
There’s a moment of silence, hanging heavy with expectation in the little space
between them. Hayato stares at the table, blinks hard, and when he lifts his
head to meet his father’s gaze with his own, there are no tears, there is
nothing but rage cresting hot against his cheekbones.
“I am no coward,” he spits, deliberately vicious with every word.
Something gives way in the king’s shoulders, the leading edge of tension
bleeding out. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and there is no gentleness in
his voice but there might be a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, the promise
of future pride should Hayato perform well.
Hayato can remember a time he would have done anything to win that expression
from his father. Now it just leaves him empty.
***** Chance *****
“Advance,” Hayato calls out again, his throat beginning to ache with the force
of the shout. It’s hardly like it needs to carry far; he has twenty men with
him, if that, more intended for cleanup than anything else. They have ended up
on the farthest reaches of the flank, where their kingdom’s greater numbers
mean they are unlikely to encounter any but already-fallen enemies, and far
more likely to have nothing but trees to consider while the fighting rages on
miles to the east.
Hayato doesn’t care. He’s been numb with panic all day, the life-threatening
reality of possible combat enough to finally overcome the fog that has
enveloped him since his return. There’s some irony there, that the only times
he has achieved anything like real engagement with the world in recent days
have been due to fury or terror or both, but he lacks the attention to find it
even darkly amusing. All his focus is spread thin over his surroundings, panic-
taut in his periphery and clenching his fingers into fists on the reins of his
horse until he’s sure the men around him -- older men, experienced, intended he
suspects more as a bodyguard than to act as soldiers -- would laugh if not for
his position.
He doesn’t care about that, either. There will be time enough for embarrassment
later, when he’s off the field, when he’s not teetering on the verge of full-
blown panic with every motion of his horse’s hooves.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline pumping through his veins in full replacement of his
blood that lets him notice first. By any rights the scouts should have noticed
the flutter of white cloth blowing from behind a tree, the telltale color of
others’ presence. Maybe they’re scanning a different direction, or Hayato looks
up at precisely the right moment to catch the giveaway offered by the wind. It
doesn’t really make a difference. What matters is what happens, and what
happens is:
“There,” Hayato grates, his entire body seizing with a flood of terrified
immediacy. “Ahead of us.” His shoulders hunch forward, his heels kick into the
sides of his horse, and by the time he calls “Forward” he’s already moving,
accidentally bursting into the lead of the charge. There’s no time to think, no
time to logic his way through his actions; there’s only a rush of muscle
memory, his arm swinging around to slide his sword smooth from its sheath, and
a flicker of regret, a half-thought apology to someone he hasn’t let himself
think of since his father’s ultimatum.
Hayato is tense as they explode into the circle of trees, arm poised and ready
to swing at the first sign of motion. There’s color, the shine of metal and the
flutter of fabric, and for a moment it’s too much to take in, there are threats
all around and no way to decide where to look. He’s turning, twisting in his
seat as he tries to look at everything at once, but there’s no movement, and
the color is all red, and then someone says, “These are done for,” and some
tension in the air clears like electricity after a storm.
It’s obvious, when Hayato blinks the hyper-focus of adrenaline from his eyes.
The bodies around them are slumped, face-down or slanted boneless against trees
where they fall, and the ground underneath them is wet with blood that has
soaked into the earth. The air is heavy, humid and sour when Hayato breathes
in, and he didn’t know, before, that he could identify the smell of death
without any prior experience. His stomach twists, lurches unpleasantly, and for
the span of a heartbeat he wonders what the battle-hardened men around him will
think if he vomits up what little breakfast he managed this morning.
Then he turns his head, and sees blue, and all thoughts of nausea vanish to a
wave of numbing cold.
It doesn’t even feel like fear, for a moment. It feels like time has simply
halted, the glare of the sun overhead paused as surely as Hayato’s breathing
and the regular thump of his heart have stalled. He stares at the blue of the
fabric, cloth too richly dyed for a simple soldier, and then he looks farther,
to the dark hair laid bare by the helmet fallen a foot away, and then his sword
slips from nerveless fingers and everything starts moving again with the jerky
rapidity of time catching itself up.
“No,” he says, clear and careful and overloud in the air, and he swings a leg
up over his saddle. “No,” again, and he’s on the ground, he’s turning and
running over slippery ground. “No” and he’s skidding to his knees, reaching out
to drag roughly at a shoulder. There’s shouting, voices coming from a long way
off and sounding farther with every heartbeat, the world receding away from him
as he gets the limp form turned over so he can see familiar features, a soft
mouth and eyelashes spread dark over gold-tan skin.
Hayato can’t breathe. Takeshi’s skin is smudged, dirt clinging to his jaw and
caught at his cheek, his hair sweat-matted to his scalp and blood smeared down
the left side of his face, but it’s unquestionably him, the shape of his
shoulders familiar and heavy against Hayato’s arm. There’s an echo in Hayato’s
ears -- he doesn’t hear the sound of the men rushing in behind him, doesn’t
hear the rattle of armor or the scuff of boots. There’s just the sound of his
blood rushing chill in his veins, horror setting in to sweep away all his
gravity.
Then Takeshi’s head turns, his eyelashes flutter. There’s a whimper, a cough of
an inhale, and everything is back in a rush, reality sweeping back to crush
over Hayato as a hand closes on his shoulder, as outrage and concern drown out
any coherency but the impulse of emotion from the men behind him.
“He’s their prince,” Hayato snaps, twisting back to fling the words like
explosives at the crowd behind him. He can’t think through the way his arm
tightens around Takeshi’s shoulder, the involuntary motion of his other to
reach for the other boy’s waist. “Go get a fucking healer, you imbeciles.”
Takeshi is smiling when Hayato looks back at him. Between the blood, and the
dirt, and the way his eyes aren’t quite in-focus, Hayato is aware he should
probably be more horrified than relieved. But it is relief in him, strong and
hot and more real than anything he’s felt in days, and Takeshi’s smile is the
most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“What are you doing here?” Hayato blurts, the words coming out harsh with
emotion he can’t remember how to modulate. “You shouldn’t have been fighting
at all.”
Takeshi’s laugh is short, cut-off almost before it begins by a flinch of pain
that hits Hayato like he’s been punched. “What are you doing here?” he parries,
but on his lips the words are soft, slurring into affection to match the glow
in his unfocused eyes.
“Shut up,” Hayato says, and he’s reaching up, pressing his fingers in against
Takeshi’s jawline and catching his thumb at his hair. “You shouldn’t be
talking, idiot.”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums, eyelashes shifting as he blinks overslow. “Hayato.”
“You never listen,” Hayato says, that same weird roughness tearing at his
throat until he sounds more angry than the relief that is flooding him shaky
and breathless. “Just wait for the healer, Takeshi.”
“We’re together,” Takeshi continues, as steadily as if he’s not hearing Hayato
at all. “I have to tell you.”
“Don’t,” Hayato says, but when he takes a breath to continue it catches, builds
tight and painful in his chest and he can’t speak at all. His eyes are
blurring, his hands are starting to tremble, and Takeshi is still smiling, his
eyes skimming over Hayato’s face like they can’t stay still.
“I love you,” he says, too clearly for Hayato to pretend he didn’t hear, and
Hayato has to duck his head and shut his eyes against the soft of Takeshi’s
mouth on the words. “I wanted to tell you before but.” There’s a pause, enough
time for Hayato to gasp a choking inhale and enough time for him to hear the
whine of hurt when Takeshi takes a breath of his own. When he speaks again it’s
slower, drifting, like he’s not quite connected to the conversation. “It’s
later, right?”
Hayato shakes his head without opening his eyes. “I’m not going to say it,” he
manages, the words wrenching into the shape of tears in his throat to match the
burn in his eyes. When he opens his eyes Takeshi is still watching him but his
eyes are unfocused, they’ve landed against Hayato’s collar instead of at his
face, and there’s a crease in his forehead, the edge of pain etching itself
into his expression. “Takeshi. Takeshi, listen to me.”
The crease deepens. Takeshi flinches, shudders himself through another breath.
“Mm.”
“Listen,” Hayato repeats, and he’d shake him except that Takeshi’s going heavy
against his arm, that for all the dirt on his face he’s stark white under his
tan. “I’m not going to tell you, I’ll tell you next time, this isn’t going to
be the last chance.” His voice is shaking, it’s thrumming fast as hummingbird
wings in his throat, and Takeshi’s not focused on him at all anymore, his eyes
are closing and his head is tipping to fall against Hayato’s arm. “Takeshi,
Takeshi, don’t you dare,” Hayato gasps, throat trying to close his words into a
wail of desperate refusal. “Keep your fucking eyes open, look at me.”
Takeshi makes a noise, a strange plaintive whimper catching in his chest, and
for a moment his eyes come open again. But there’s no clarity in them, only
hazed-over color, and when Hayato’s vision blurs out behind a screen of tears
they fall shut, the full weight of unconsciousness dropping Takeshi boneless
into his arms.
He doesn’t say the words. Even when Takeshi is clearly well past the point of
hearing them, when Hayato would be the only one to know, he ties the confession
into a promise in the back of his head, a bargain with fate like his silence is
what’s keeping Takeshi breathing. It’s a desperate hope, with blood seeping
into his sleeve and Takeshi still and deathly pale against him, but when it’s
all he has left, Hayato will be as desperate as he needs to be.
***** Listen *****
Hayato doesn’t turn around when the door eases open behind him.
“Go away,” he says, shoulders to the entryway and eyes holding fixed on
Takeshi’s still face. “I don’t want to talk, Bianchi.”
“You said that this morning,” his sister’s voice declares. There’s the sound of
footsteps, an approach Hayato is too worn-down to attempt to dissuade further;
Bianchi stops over his shoulder, just shy of contact with the edge of the bed
Hayato’s been leaning over for two days while he waits for the worst of the
fallout to pass.
“Congratulations on your kingdom,” Hayato finally says, when the pause has
stretched long enough to itch discomfort at the back of his neck.
“It’s not official,” Bianchi says. She moves again, around the foot of the bed;
her fingers catch and trail over the sheets, and it’s all Hayato can do to not
snap at her to stop touching Takeshi, can’t she see he’s hurt? “Just the same
shouting you already heard.”
She sounds bored, disinterested, like the implications of Hayato’s very public
and very loud disownment have nothing at all to do with her. Hayato can’t help
but smile, a bitter twist at his mouth because there’s nothing else left to do,
really. “Is it dying down at all?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Bianchi’s not looking at him; she’s considering Takeshi’s
face, tipping her head to the side so her dark hair falls in a smooth sheet
past her shoulder. Even in the relatively casual gown she’s wearing today, she
looks more royal than Hayato has ever felt in all his life. “Mother’s upset
about your choice of romantic interest, I think, but Father is definitely still
furious about your departure from the battlefield more than anything else.”
“That’s a surprise,” Hayato deadpans. There’s tension all against the back of
his neck, defensive strain hunching his shoulders like Bianchi is posing any
kind of a threat to the boy lying still and silent under the white sheets.
Hayato hardly feels he can be blamed for this. After giving up everything else
for a single object, the least he can do it protect it with everything he has
left.
Bianchi cuts her eyes sideways at him “You could do with a little more concern
on your own behalf,” she points out. “You fretting isn’t helping him get better
any faster, and there was a point when Father was raging about having you
executed as a traitor.”
“He wouldn’t,” Hayato says, though there’s a chill along his spine that says he
might.
Bianchi’s smile is softer than he expects, turns her features into something
more immediate than the untouchable, regal beauty she usually cultivates. “Of
course he wouldn’t,” she admits. “But you really should think more of yourself.
When was the last time you slept in a bed?”
“When was the last time I had a bed to call my own?” Hayato throws back. He’s
aiming for a growl but it falls flat, all the edges worn down by the friction
of exhaustion in his throat.
Bianchi shrugs, silent acquiescence to a hit. “Do you intend to stay here
indefinitely, then?”
“Until he wakes up,” Hayato says. The words grate in his throat, dragged out of
him to face down whatever Bianchi has to throw at his desperate correction -
- logic, condemnation, pessimism, it doesn’t matter, he’s had them all en masse
from everyone else who has come to speak to him.
He’s not expecting the sharp nod she gives, like he’s passed a test of some
sort. “Good.” She looks back at Takeshi’s face, her fingers just skimming the
sheets at the corner of the bed. “He’ll be happy to have someone waiting for
him.”
Hayato blinks. There’s tension in his chest, like he’s aching to hold too much
emotion all at the same time, and for a moment he can’t breathe to speak the
words he knows he should. Finally:
“Thanks,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure Bianchi hears him. She doesn’t
respond, at any rate; she’s looking at Takeshi still, her expression devoid of
any judgment positive or negative and her fingers still brushing the sheets.
“He’s cute,” she finally allows, for all the world as if she’s giving a
verdict. “I see why you like him.”
“What,” Hayato says.
“So,” Bianchi continues, brushing right over Hayato’s flatline response. “Were
you sleeping together while he was here, or was that only after you volunteered
yourself for the delegation?”
“What,” Hayato says.
Bianchi turns, reaches for the chair pushed up against the wall, the unused
match of the one that has become Hayato’s over the last two days. “I want to
know,” she says with perfect calm, dragging the chair over and settling into it
with every appearance of a child anticipating a story. “I already know about
you denying your feelings to yourself--”
“I did not,” Hayato chokes.
Bianchi’s smile has something of a knife-edge it in, amusement at what Hayato
is absolutely sure is his expense. “You’re such a child, Hayato.” But then her
eyes slide down, while Hayato is still spitting incoherent protest, dark eyes
outlining the dyeless white of his shirt and skipping to the pale sheets under
his elbows, like she’s drawing an invisible line between Hayato and Takeshi’s
form, unmoving but for the shift of breathing against the white.
“Perhaps less so, now,” she allows, and something in Hayato cracks at the touch
of almost-pride in her voice. His words die, his eyes burn, and when he ducks
his head to stare at the sheets his vision is blurred with overhot moisture
against his eyelids.
The silence is very long, this time. Hayato takes it, uses the drawn-out
seconds to catch his breath and blink back the surge of unexpected emotion.
It’s not until he’s drawn some modicum of composure back around himself that he
raises his head, and Bianchi is still waiting, watching him with her
inscrutably endless patience.
“We weren’t,” Hayato answers, finally, his voice tense with the fought-back
tears but stripped of the defensive edge he layered on before. He looks away
from Bianchi’s face, back down to the soft of Takeshi’s mouth, the dark of his
hair ruffling against his forehead. “Not at first.”
The words come quickly, once he’s started. The reservation that has always made
Bianchi seem so distant makes her an ideal audience; she doesn’t interrupt
Hayato at all, barely blinks, just sits still across the bed and listens to
Hayato talk for minutes, for an hour.
It’s strange to find how easy it is to talk when someone is willing to listen.
***** Relief *****
Hayato doesn’t remember the last time he got a good night’s sleep. It had to be
before the fight, before he was stripped the reassurance of a place in the
world, before the confines of his world narrowed the the space of a chair and
the width of a bed. But it was probably before that, too, because if he can’t
remember sleeping well he can remember the dread, impending doom and the weight
of depression joining forces to keep him hazy during the day and wide-eyed at
night. So before that, too, and then he’s back too far, he doesn’t want to let
himself think about that, not now. He avoids the memories as much as he can,
even when he’s awake and idle with nothing to do but stare at features he
memorized long ago, to fret the edges of clean-wrapped bandages with his eyes
if not his fingertips.
Eventually the exhaustion builds up enough, leaves him so heavy and worn-down
he thinks he could fall asleep on the floor if he had to. When it gets that bad
he ends up collapsed over the edge of the bed for an hour, or spread out with
his arm thrown wide, the weight of his arm across Takeshi’s legs to wake him if
anyone tries to move the other boy while he sleeps.
That’s how he’s sleeping now, he realizes as he comes up from the depths of
unconsciousness, dragging himself up to alertness in response to some stimulus
he can’t yet place. His cheek is pressed into his sleeve, his head heavy
against the uneven support of Takeshi’s legs, and he frowns as he places
himself back in his sense of self, opens bleary eyes and tries to blink the
cobwebs out of his mind.
Then “Hayato?” in a voice not his sister’s, and all the adrenaline in him hits
his bloodstream at once.
He makes a weird gasping noise, the startled incoherent sound of someone coming
fully awake in the gap between two heartbeats, and he’s jerking upright, all
but flinging himself up even as pessimism sweeps in to crush down the surge of
violent hope. There’s no way, it can’t be, it could be the doctor or a servant
come to change the bandages or--
Gold eyes meet his, and everything, even the voice in Hayato’s head, goes
silent.
“Oh,” he says, the word shocked open and clear of any emotion. “Takeshi.”
The smile Takeshi gives him is careful, easing onto the other boy’s face like
he’s not quite sure of his movements, but the familiarity burns straight
through Hayato’s body, kindles some flame gone dormant in his chest, and when
he blinks the world is bright with color again.
“You,” Hayato says, takes a breath of air gone radiant with light. “You had me
worried.”
“Ah.” Takeshi blinks, tries for a laugh; it seems to catch somewhere in his
chest, twists into a flicker of pain on his features, but his smile lingers,
goes soft in his eyes. “Sorry.”
“You should be,” Hayato grates, and he has to look away from Takeshi’s eyes,
then, it’s too much brightness to take at once. He reaches out instead, fits
his fingers in against Takeshi’s left hand, the one not splinted and wrapped
into immobility; it seems casual enough, in his head, but then Takeshi twists
his hand over and palm-up, tightens his fingers carefully against Hayato’s, and
he’s right back at the edge of tears again.
“Where are we?” Takeshi asks, slow on forming the words while Hayato is
blinking fiercely to stem the burn in his eyes.
“The infirmary,” Hayato growls, dropping his voice an octave to try to cover
the catch of tears. “Idiot.”
That gets him another breathless laugh, a squeeze of fingers against his.
“Okay,” Takeshi says. “Where is the infirmary?”
“My castle,” Hayato says without thinking; then, in the first biting rush of
memory, corrects: “My father’s castle.” He takes a breath, makes himself look
up to meet Takeshi’s steady gaze. “You’re a hostage, technically.”
Takeshi doesn’t look around at their surroundings; he just keeps watching
Hayato, eyes hazy with the weight of too much sleep but his fingers tight at
the other boy’s. “What about you?”
Hayato flinches, looks down and away from the soft almost-sympathy in Takeshi’s
gaze. Better to look at their hands, the tangle of their fingers the only
steady thing in the world, to breathe in a deep lungful of air while he waits
for the first crush of emotion to fade.
“I’m not really anything anymore,” he says to Takeshi’s fingertips. “I’m not
welcome here, at least.” His laugh is dry, tearing raw in his throat. “And I
don’t imagine your side will want much of me either.”
“I want you,” Takeshi says, soft and quick. When Hayato looks back up at him
his gaze is steady, absent the wrenching pity he was afraid of seeing; there’s
just the pressure at his hand, fingers digging in with more strength than he
would have expected Takeshi capable of, under the circumstances.
“I love you,” Hayato says, sudden and harsh in his throat, and Takeshi’s
features go blurry when he blinks. It takes him a moment to realize he can’t
breathe, that the pressure in his chest is building unbearable heat under his
skin; then he chokes an inhale, and it comes out as a sob, and he’s hunching in
over the bed without thinking, relief at what he hasn’t lost as heavy as the
ache for what he has.
Takeshi’s fingers slide free of his, come up to push into his hair instead, and
he’s saying something, “Hayato, hey” gentle with comfort but Hayato can’t
answer yet. There’s still too much tension in his body, the darkness of the
possible future giving way to hope blinding even in its faint illumination,
until he can’t calm even for Takeshi’s weak attempts at comfort, can only reach
out to wrap an arm gentle around the other boy’s bandaged waist and sob himself
hoarse on the relief and pent-up reaction to the stress of the last few days.
By the time he’s done he’s shaking, trembling helpless to exhaustion against
the sheets of the bed, and he doesn’t want to lift his head to try to deal with
the complexities of speech just yet. But Takeshi’s fingers are still in his
hair, sliding through the strands like he’s untangling nonexistent knots with
the motion, and when he says “Hayato” again it’s as warm and affectionate as if
Hayato hasn’t spent the last several minutes falling to pieces on the bed
alongside him. Some of the shivering fades at the sound, the reassurance of
Takeshi’s fingers enough to push back the too-recent fears, and when Hayato
takes a hiccuping breath it comes out as a sigh, his body giving in to the
relaxation he has been fighting for so long.
He’s asleep before the movement of Takeshi’s fingers drifts into the still
weight of sleep.
***** Negotiation *****
Everything seems easier after Takeshi wakes up.
It’s the relief, Hayato thinks, the removal of the constant weight of panic
over him that makes him feel so light with joy. It doesn’t make much sense -
- he is still breathing borrowed air, still pressing his presence where he’s
clearly not wanted -- but it’s true anyway, that he sleeps better with
Takeshi’s fingers pulling idle at his sleeve even if he’s still hunched
uncomfortably over the edge of the other’s bed, that he can keep his attention
on the pages of the books Bianchi brings to him far better knowing Takeshi is
breathing steady in healing sleep instead of the weight of dangerous
unconsciousness. There’s hope in the air, the shape of a future Hayato can’t
trust in but can let himself imagine, sometimes, when Takeshi’s sleep has left
him free to stare at the other boy and see possibility in the shadows of his
eyelashes.
And then the ambassador comes.
They don’t get any warning before his arrival. Takeshi’s propped up on a half-
dozen pillows, his broken arm still locked into immobility but his left free to
play with Hayato’s sleeve, a distraction Hayato can’t even manage anger at in
spite of the total destruction it wrecks on his attempts to read. He’s not
looking at the page in front of him -- he’s leaning in sideways, actually,
pressing his shoulder against Takeshi’s and watching the way the other boy’s
gaze is going hazy in expectation of a kiss -- and he doesn’t hear the sound of
the door coming open anymore than the tread of approaching footsteps. It’s not
until there’s a cough, the abrupt sound of a throat clearing, that Hayato jerks
back, startling away from Takeshi’s mouth so they’re both caught wide-eyed and
guilty by a man dressed in Takeshi’s royal blue and Bianchi, just lowering her
hand from her mouth after the pointed sound.
“Your highness,” she offers, carefully formal on the words, offers Takeshi a
nod that is nearly but not quite deferential. Takeshi nods in return, his mouth
tight on what Hayato suspects is a giggle of nervous energy, and for a moment
Hayato is forming the words of an excuse, a snappish remark about giving more
warning next time. Then he realizes that there’s no greeting forthcoming for
him, that the ambassador and Bianchi both are as fixed on Takeshi as if he’s
not even present, and a chill of realization runs down his spine.
It’s hard to get used to being no one of importance.
“Hello,” Takeshi offers, his voice still taut with that unvoiced adrenaline. He
lifts his left hand, offering his fingers in the outline of a wave. “I know
you, don’t I?”
The man ducks his head. It’s strange to see that casual deference applied to
someone else, Hayato thinks, odd to see how easily this stranger gives way
before a boy currently unable to sit up unassisted. “Basil,” he supplies as he
lifts his head again. “I’ve come on your father’s behalf to negotiate the terms
of your ransom.”
“Oh,” Takeshi says, sounding a little faint. Hayato glances at his sideways; he
looks pale, the smile usually clinging to his mouth while he’s awake gone.
“Right. Yes.”
“The details of the treaty are still being discussed,” Bianchi puts in. Her
head is up, her shoulders back, everything about her position a model of regal
calm. Next to Basil’s formal self-control, it would be impossible to know they
are representatives of two sides of a war that was occurring not three weeks
before. “But we are confident we can come to a decision amenable to all
parties.”
Hayato doesn’t need to have heard the discussions to understand what she’s
saying. There’s not much Takeshi’s kingdom can offer except surrender, not if
they want their prince back.
“We will have an agreement in place by the time you are fit to be moved,” Basil
says without any hint of bitterness in his tone at what they must be giving up
in the negotiations. “I am glad to see you well.”
“Right,” Takeshi says, and then “What about Hayato?” with a strange edge to his
voice, the threat of a shadow at the back of his throat.
Hayato was just fitting himself into the lack of attention. Now it’s all on him
at once, Basil’s brief glance and his sister’s sympathetic consideration and
Takeshi, Takeshi reaching sideways without looking to fumble clumsy fingers
around his wrist.
“We’ll do what we can,” Basil says, the lack of commitment clear in the waver
of his voice. “The negotiations are as yet incomplete.”
“I’m not going without him,” Takeshi says, and his voice is that of a stranger,
his throat resonant with all the royal self-assurance Hayato never expected to
hear from him. “He’s coming with me.”
“Your highness, it may be impossible.”
“No.” It’s not a shout, it’s not even a growl, but Hayato doesn’t dare look up,
doesn’t think he can stand to see the shadow he can hear darkening Takeshi’s
eyes. The fingers at his wrist are twisting tighter, pressing hard enough that
Hayato would wince if he weren’t so cold at the idea of losing what he’s only
just started to trust in again. “I won’t go.”
“You’d rather stay here?” It’s clearly intended as a rhetorical question,
however gently delivered, and just as clearly Hayato can feel the unexpected
answer grinding hard against his hand. He stares at Takeshi’s fingers rather
than looking up, uncertain if he’s flushing with embarrassment or with the
threat of tears and unwilling to show either to his audience.
“Yes,” Takeshi says, and his hand is going slack, his fingers sliding down to
fit between Hayato’s before the other can decide if he wants to drag his hand
free entirely, to slip away and leave them to this discussion of his relative
value in peace. “I would.”
There is a pause, fraught with tension; Takeshi is crushing Hayato’s hand now,
Hayato can see the strain pressing white against his knuckles. He can’t tighten
his own fingers, can’t lift his head, can’t think; there’s just cold, the storm
coming for him again, the chill he will never be able to escape.
Then Bianchi clears her throat again. “Hayato.”
Hayato looks up, startled into reaction by the sound of her voice. Bianchi is
watching him, her arms relaxed at her sides and hands folded into gentle
interlacing in front of her. She looks calm, at ease, her position far more
comfortable than Takeshi’s anxious hold on Hayato’s unresponsive fingers or the
stress-tight hunch of Basil’s shoulders.
“Do you have a vested interest in remaining within the kingdom?” Her tone is
level, as straightforward as if she is asking him about the weather.
Hayato blinks, unclear on her goal and unable to read it from the dark of her
eyes. “Not particularly. I don’t have anywhere to stay here, you know that.”
“Mm,” Bianchi hums, then glances sideways at Basil. “Declarations of exile have
been known to be overturned, in the past.” Hayato can feel his forehead
tensing, irritation settling in -- when has their father ever gone back on one
of his declaration, Bianchi should know better than that -- but Bianchi is
continuing, still watching Basil instead of Hayato. “And male heirs are
preferred, when it comes time to pass on dominion of the kingdom.” Down, at her
dress, her hands unfolding to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric. “Of
course, if a potential heir disenfranchises himself, of his own volition, he
does so permanently and without hope of rescinding it.” And up again, her eyes
locking with Hayato’s. “He becomes simply another citizen, then, free to do as
he pleases.”
Hayato may lack Bianchi’s penchant for political machinations, but he can
recite back a statement when he’s fed it. “I’ll do it,” he says, fast and hard
as his fingers seize tight on Takeshi’s painful hold. “Anything I need to do,
I’ll do it.”
Bianchi rolls her eyes, exasperation at this undermining of whatever elaborate
verbal dance she was initiating, and Basil rocks back on his heels, the shock
across his features knocking all his strain clear off his face. But Takeshi
sighs, a breathless sound of relief, and when Hayato shifts his hand the
fingers digging against his skin go gentle, ease off from the edge of
desperation they had, and it’s enough.
***** Resolution *****
There are far fewer people in the room than Hayato expected.
His formal resignation of his claim to his father’s throne is to be done in one
of the enormous halls, the ones that are only ever used for official
pronouncements to hundreds of people. He’s been provided with a change of
clothes as well, crisp and perfectly, painfully white, if absent any of the
color and embroidery to which he is accustomed. Between the clothes and the
space, he is anticipating a crowd, dozens if not hundreds of people to hear his
formal statement. But when the doors are pulled open in front of him there is
nothing but space, empty and hollow and echoing, the path to the cluster of
people at the end made longer by the quiet.
It’s a longer walk than he remembered. There’s no one at his side or pacing out
at his heels, nothing to relieve the sound of his boots echoing in the vast
empty space of the hall as he approaches. His heart is pounding, his breath
catching desperate with adrenaline in his throat, until by the time he
approaches what minimal audience he has he’s dizzy with lack of oxygen and
faintly nauseated from the way his stomach is swooping.
He comes to a halt a little distance from the throne. It’s never seemed
imposing before, when he was approaching from the other side; in this direction
it seems enormous, his father’s stony expression weighted with all the
disapproval Hayato has earned from him over his entire life. The seat next to
his father is empty -- indication of the queen’s absence -- and Hayato isn’t
sure if he’s more relieved or hurt that she isn’t here to see this.
Bianchi is present, stoic and still over their father’s shoulder, and there’s a
handful of advisors, men Hayato has seen but doesn’t remember. They’re not
important at the moment; even Bianchi pales in comparison. This is a
conversation between himself and his father.
“Hayato,” his father says. The name sounds like judgment itself, the final
echoing toll of a funeral bell. “You have deserted your position on the
battlefield, colluded with the enemy in secret, and played the role of a
traitor rather than that of a member of this household.” His tone leaves no
space for argument, and Hayato has heard all this before; it’s nothing new, to
have Takeshi’s smile and laugh and warmth condensed into icy scorn in his
father’s voice. “You intend to disavow your right to inherit my throne, your
position within this royal family, and your citizenship of this nation.”
Hayato keeps his head up, his shoulders back, his eyes hard. “I do.”
His father’s chin goes up, his eyes flare hot with barely-restrained fury. But
there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been shouted over dozens of times, and
they have an audience, however small, and that means they have some thin veneer
of formality to maintain.
“You are resolute in this?” Hayato’s father asks. “This is no game, Hayato.
Once done you will have forsworn all connection to myself and to this country.”
Hayato tosses his head, the loose fall of his hair shifting around his face,
musters as much haughty sincerity into his voice as he can find. “Don’t insult
me,” he says, “I’ll show you my resolution.”
It’s very quick, after that. There’s only a few words to say, near-repetitions
of what has come before enough to sever the official bonds between them, to
render father into king and prince into nothing. Hayato feels bare as the words
come free of his mouth, even before he has reached for the pen offered him to
set his name to the documents sealing his words into permanency. The shirt over
his shoulders feels too-thin, the air moving more easily across the back of his
neck and along his spine, and all his movements are stiff with uncertainty,
like the stripping of his title has taken his coordination with it.
No one speaks, after it is done. There is a pause, Hayato hesitating at the
foot of the dais; he knows better than to search for sympathy in his father’s
anger, but they hold each other’s gaze for a long moment anyway, each looking
for something in the other and finding nothing.
Then he steps back, and offers a bow, the lowest of his life to date. The
motion floods his body with electricity, sends him dizzy with the action and
leaves him lightheaded as he turns to proceed back towards the faraway doors.
It’s a strange feeling, to have all the responsibility and reassurance of his
position stripped from him at once, and by his own words; half of what he’s
learned in life is useless, now, much of the rest barely applicable or
inappropriate. But the walk out is easier than the strides in, each step
smoother the farther he goes, and by the time he pushes the door open, Hayato’s
mouth is pulling into something that is very, very near a smile.
He’s leaving his title behind, but he’s gaining something priceless.
***** Farewells *****
“I still think it’s too soon for you to be travelling,” Hayato grumbles in a
tone barely loud enough for Takeshi to hear.
No one’s listening to him anyway. There’s a handful of people in attendance,
escorts for their trip back to Takeshi’s home and servants ready to leap to
attention at a word from...well, anyone not Hayato, at this point. Even Bianchi
is here to stand in for the king and queen; Hayato is faintly impressed at
their dedication to never seeing him again, and mostly relieved that he’ll be
spared any kind of dramatic explosion as he leaves. Bianchi’s near the front,
speaking in low tones with Basil, and Hayato doesn’t have any need to listen in
on the polite nothingness passing for communication between them.
By any reasonable standard Takeshi should be there, too; he is the reason for
all this, in the end, and his political status is still entirely intact. But
he’s been hovering at Hayato’s shoulder since they left the infirmary, like
he’s making up for his inability to move while he was confined to bed by
sticking as close as he can now, and Hayato doesn’t have it in him to tell him
to leave. Takeshi smiles, now, a bright flash of joy that makes it all the way
to his eyes, borne on the surging energy he only recently recaptured, and
there’s no reasonable way he ought to be able to get his horse in so close and
reach for Hayato’s sleeve with just one good arm, but he manages somehow,
fingers catching and tugging idly at the other’s clothes as his eyes go warm.
“I’m fine.” He’s tipping in, now, his gaze dropping to Hayato’s mouth, and
Hayato is very sure he should pull away but he doesn’t. Takeshi is tugging hard
at his sleeve, he can’t draw back now without risking the other’s safety if he
throws him off-balance, and he doesn’t want to move away, anyway. It’s been too
long with just overly-careful kisses in the infirmary, fingers brushing gently
through hair instead of across bare skin, and Hayato has had every reason for
patience but that hasn’t stopped his store from running low.
“You are a fucking idiot,” he says, drops a hand off the reins so he can reach
out and make a fist of Takeshi’s shirt instead. It’s heavier than his, well-cut
on royal orders, and even if the color is all wrong it looks good on him, makes
him look real and alive in a way the white bandages in the infirmary never did.
“The things I do for you,” and Hayato is leaning in well over the point of
stability to meet the offer in Takeshi’s eyes with a kiss. It’s at an awkward
angle, the strain of them both leaning forward preventing anything more than a
moment of rushed friction, but Takeshi makes a noise like he’s begging for
more, and for a heartbeat Hayato considers giving it to him, sanity and balance
be damned.
Then his horse shifts, and instinct overrides impulse, and he’s pushing away to
flail desperately for his balance again. Takeshi’s hold on his sleeve goes, the
other boy rocks forward to catch himself at the edge of his saddle, and Hayato
has a moment of panic for Takeshi’s barely-healed injuries before he starts to
laugh, the easy burst of sound enough to assuage any concerns Hayato has at the
present moment.
“Be careful,” Hayato growls as he gets both hands back on the reins and his
horse back under control. “If you hurt yourself I swear I’m going to kill you,
Takeshi.”
“After all that work to keep him alive?” a voice asks, and Hayato jerks his
attention up to Bianchi. She’s watching them with her arms folded, the very
corner of her mouth tight like she’s holding back a smile; Hayato has no idea
how long she’s been there, but the unexpected interruption alone is enough to
flush his cheeks burning with self-consciousness.
“Shut up,” he snaps before recalling who she is, and who he is, now,
and where they are, with an audience of some dozen people likely to be less
than forgiving of his slip into impropriety. But Bianchi doesn’t rebuke him,
doesn’t even raise an eyebrow; she just smiles, a sudden burst of affection so
rare it shocks the embarrassed irritation right out of Hayato’s blood. He’s
still gaping at her in stunned silence when she tosses her head and waves a
hand.
“Wait over there,” she orders, regal certainty back in full force. “I need a
moment alone with Prince Takeshi.”
Hayato doesn’t move. He narrows his eyes instead, fingers tightening on the
leather under his palms. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to have a conversation,” Bianchi says, her tone completely level.
“One which doesn’t concern you.” When Hayato still doesn’t move she sighs,
offers a flicker of what might be an eyeroll in a less composed expression. “I
have no intention of assassination, Hayato. I’ll return him to your tender care
as soon as I’m done.”
Hayato flushes again at that, debates the relative merits of continued
resistance versus the embarrassment likely to result from whatever else Bianchi
might say. But he has no good reason to refuse, other than painful curiosity,
and Takeshi is blinking from one of them to the other with complete unconcern
all over his face, and finally Hayato twists his mouth and ducks his head and
guides his horse sideways by several feet.
It’s a short conversation, after all that. He’s well out of earshot of
Bianchi’s carefully quiet speech, and if he can see the way Takeshi smiles at
whatever she is saying he can’t make out the movement of his lips clearly
enough to make even a guess at his response. Takeshi glances at him, once, but
it’s not like Hayato didn’t know who they were talking about to begin with, and
his irritated curiosity can hardly get any worse.
He’s prickling with jittery energy by the time Takeshi nods and Bianchi turns
away to join Hayato. Her expression is utterly composed, absent any trace of
self-consciousness about whatever she was just saying, even when Hayato frowns
at her from his advantage of height.
“What the fuck were you saying?” he demands.
Bianchi looks up at him, her gaze not allowing that she’s heard his question at
all. “Hayato. Get down.”
Hayato glares at her. “Why?”
Bianchi blinks. In the shadow of her eyelashes her gaze goes soft, eases itself
into human warmth, and Hayato’s chest goes tight with a pained emotion that is
something between gratitude and hurt.
“Because I want to say goodbye,” Bianchi says.
Hayato gets down.
They don’t say very much, in the end. With his feet on the ground Bianchi has
the advantage of height on him, if barely, enough that when Hayato ducks his
head to hide the tears prickling at his eyes his face ends up pressed against
her shoulder as she wraps her arms around him. It’s weird to be held, strange
to have his sister’s arms gentle around him, and he can’t pick apart the
pressure in his chest into distinct emotions but he can’t stop crying either,
caught in shuddering waves of relief and adrenaline and loss so strong it’s a
long moment before he can even get his arms up to return her embrace. On his
own he’s not sure he’d be allowed to linger without interruption, but with
Bianchi no one speaks, no one comes to pull them apart.
It’s later, after some untracked period of time, that Hayato catches his
breath, and Bianchi lets him go, and they step apart. He swipes at his eyes,
the sleeve of his shirt rough against the tender-swollen skin, and by the time
he dares to look up there’s no moisture left on Bianchi’s face either, even if
her eyes look far redder than he’s ever seen them before.
“You did well,” she says, her voice clear and steady and unmistakably proud,
and Hayato’s throat goes tight again with the threat of another wave of tears.
“Be happy.”
She saves him the impossibility of trying to speak by turning away, moving out
to bid a final farewell to the escort, and by the time she’s done Hayato has
managed to get himself back on his horse and has cleared his throat of the
worst of his emotion.
Takeshi is watching him as he falls back into position. Hayato glances at him,
frowning at the possibility of comment, but the other boy doesn’t say anything
about the flush of color on his face. He just looks down at Hayato’s wrist,
reaches out to touch his sleeve again like he’s grounding himself.
“What did she say to you?” Hayato asks, willing his voice into the most clarity
he can manage. He still sound gruff, the words dragging against the lingering
roughness in his throat, but they come out clear enough for comprehension.
Takeshi shrugs, still working over the edge of Hayato’s sleeve. “Lots of
things.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth going soft into a smile to
match the affection in his eyes. “I’ll tell you later.”
“You were talking about me,” Hayato says, rather than asks.
Takeshi’s smile flashes wider, his eyes go softer. “Yeah.” He drops Hayato’s
sleeve, reaches out to hold onto his reins one-handed as the gates in front of
them start to come open. “She said she’d have me assassinated if I hurt you.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Hayato groans.
Takeshi’s laugh comes easy, spilling past his lips like water, and Hayato
doesn’t want to smile but the tears have left him defenseless to the ever-
contagious delight of Takeshi’s amusement.
“Come on,” Takeshi says, and his voice is an invitation all on its own. “Let’s
go.”
***** Cover *****
It starts to rain as they’re finishing dinner.
There’s not much to it at first; it’s a drizzle more than anything else, barely
enough to be an inconvenience. But Basil looks up to consider the sky with a
critical eye, and when he announces, “We should get under cover before it gets
worse,” no one puts up a word of protest.
Hayato certainly doesn’t. The damp collecting against his loose hair is enough
to be unpleasant as it is; it’ll only get worse if it soaks into his shirt, and
he’s almost done eating anyway. He studiously doesn’t look at Takeshi, sitting
so close to him their knees are touching, and definitely not at the tent set up
for them both to share; better if he keep his thoughts in the present rather
than getting distracted by possibilities of the very near future. Still. He’s
nearly done, another bite and a quick motion to brush lingering crumbs off his
shirt, and then it’s only reasonable that he retreat to the cover of the tent
to kick his boots free, to keep himself dry more than from any kind of
impatience to achieve some level of privacy. Takeshi’s still recovering, after
all, his arm still tied up in the support of a sling, and he’s likely exhausted
from the travel and--
“Hayato,” Takeshi says, dropping to fall alongside him. Hayato looks over at
his name, reflex too immediate to repress, and Takeshi is too close, his eyes
are huge and he’s starting to smile, the warm wide expression that makes him
look like he’s glowing from the inside out. Even the exhausted pale of his
cheeks isn’t enough to dim the pleasure written all over his expression or to
hide the softness in his eyes when he leans in to bump Hayato’s shoulder as he
drags his boots off. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Hayato growls, quietly, because he can feel the eyes of
every member of their escort on the pair of them. “You should be resting.”
“I’ll rest,” Takeshi soothes, but he’s not retreating back into the tent,
doesn’t actually show the least sign of moving. “I’m fine, Hayato, really.”
“Shut up,” Hayato snaps, reaches around to push gently against Takeshi’s
shoulder to urge him farther into the space made shadowy by the clouds
overhead. Takeshi goes, laughing in easy capitulation, and Hayato tugs at the
tent flaps, fumbles clumsily at the ties until they fall loose to let the
weight of the canvas drag them shut. He slides backwards, in over the pair of
bedrolls laid out for the two of them, and if he’s embarrassed by how close the
bedding is arranged -- actually touching all along the middle line -- there’s
gratitude far sharper in his chest, an anxious knot unwinding itself when he
reaches back and touches Takeshi’s shoulder without trying.
“Hayato?” Takeshi’s voice is whisper-soft in the darkness, like he’s speaking
in expectation of a far later hour than it is in actuality. A hand comes up,
fingers feeling out Hayato’s wrist and sliding up his arm, and there’s another
laugh, fainter and softer than the first. “Wow, I can’t see you at all.”
“Your eyes will adjust,” Hayato says without really thinking. He’s shifting
backwards, centering himself on what is ostensibly his side of the tent, but he
keeps reaching out, fumbling blind in the near-absence of light to touch a
knee, an elbow, a feathery lock of hair. “It’s not like you really need to see
anything anyway, right?”
“I want to see you.” Takeshi’s voice is soft, nearly plaintive in the dark. The
touch at Hayato’s arm drags up, catches at the ends of his hair, and Hayato
knows he’s in trouble in the breath before Takeshi’s thumb catches against his
jaw and fingers skim against his neck.
“Want help with your shirt?” Hayato manages, fighting for any kind of coherency
as Takeshi’s fingers slide up under his ear and press into his hair.
“Okay,” Takeshi says, so close Hayato almost startles at the heat of the words
on his lips. He’s leaning in before he thinks, reflexive response to the
proximity, and their mouths catch together for a moment before he can recover
himself. Takeshi hums satisfaction over his lips, turns to angle in closer, and
even when Hayato draws away he doesn’t make it far.
“Everyone’s going to know what we’re doing,” he hisses, an undertone that
barely makes it over the sound of the rain hitting the tent and won’t make it
past the canvas at all. Takeshi’s shirt is falling open under his fingers, the
rich cloth parting like water to the touch, and tired or no Takeshi is leaning
in closer, a knee fitting between Hayato’s by touch rather than sight while the
hand at his hair braces against his neck.
“They already suspect,” Takeshi says against the corner of his mouth, sounding
soft and liquid and overheated. It’s not an argument, not really, but the soft
of his mouth is; Hayato twists the last of the other’s buttons open, pushes the
shirt half-off his shoulder, and when he reaches back it’s to slide his hand
down between Takeshi’s shirt and undershirt, to fit his fingers in against the
silky-thin fabric warm from proximity to Takeshi’s skin.
“God.” The undershirt is soft under his fingers, slides free of Takeshi’s pants
so he can fit his fingers in underneath to press against bare skin. Takeshi
shudders at the contact, ducks his head like he’s seeking out another kiss, but
Hayato dodges back, keeps gasping at the overhot air in the dark space rather
than capitulating. “They all must think I’m crazy.” His hand fits in against
Takeshi’s waist, slides sideways to fit into the curve of his spine, and
Takeshi whines at his mouth, arches himself in to press flush against Hayato’s
shirt.
“I don’t,” Takeshi volunteers. He rocks up over his knees, takes an overlarge
breath of air against Hayato’s hair. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“You wouldn’t,” Hayato huffs. “Let go of me, I can’t get your shirt off.”
Takeshi’s fingers slide away obediently and Hayato extricates his hand from the
other’s skin, unloops the sling on Takeshi’s still-bandaged arm so he can push
the heavy shirt off his shoulders. The undershirt goes next, a little more
complicated to work up over Takeshi’s head and off his arm, but then it’s free
as well, and this time when Hayato reaches out blindly it’s just warm skin his
fingers touch.
“What am I even going to do when we arrive?” he asks, the words falling easy
into the darkness as Takeshi’s good hand finds the bottom of his own shirt and
starts to urge it up off his chest. Hayato lifts his arm, lets Takeshi drag the
clothing up over his head, and then he’s free too, shaking his hair back around
his shoulders as Takeshi hums a wordless note of pleasure. “You can hardly keep
me hidden away in your rooms all the time.”
“Mmm,” Takeshi purrs, the sound dipping low and delighted until Hayato is
grateful for the growing volume of raindrops hitting the tent over their heads.
There’s motion, Takeshi’s lips pressing against Hayato’s cheekbone, and Hayato
can feel the warm of his breath when he sighs. “I’m going to declare you my
consort.”
It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not like Hayato has had any lack of evidence
of Takeshi’s sincerity, not like he’s been doubting his own very permanent
commitment. But it still is shocking, somehow, the title sparking through him
with a promise of belonging, of a place to fit himself, and when he reaches to
grab for stability it’s Takeshi’s hip that ends up under his hand.
“Fuck,” he says, clear and too-loud even with the cover of the rain. “Are you
serious?”
Takeshi’s laugh is faint, more a cut-off exhale than real sound. “Unless you
don’t want me to.”
Hayato rolls his eyes in the dark, grateful for the shadows that cover the
helpless smile at his mouth. “Yeah,” he growls. “I exiled myself from my
kingdom and followed you across the country, but you’re right, this is asking
too much of me.”
“Aww,” Takeshi laughs. Hayato pushes at his hip, urges him back down over the
unseen soft of the bedrolls; they end up sprawled out next to each other,
Takeshi’s fingers sliding against Hayato’s neck and down his shoulder while
Hayato traces along the top of Takeshi’s pants to find the laces at the front.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to persuade you?”
“We’ll see,” Hayato purrs, like he’s really turning the possibility over in his
mind as he fits his fingers under Takeshi’s laces to tug them loose. Takeshi
hisses a quick inhale, tips his hips up towards Hayato’s touch, and Hayato
grins into the shadows, leans in close enough for his mouth to brush warm
against Takeshi’s jaw.
“Hold still,” he orders as the cloth comes loose and open under his touch.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” Takeshi’s burning to the touch, hot and hard
against Hayato’s fingers, and it’s a loss to pull away from the prospect of a
kiss but it’s worth it for the sharp startled inhale Takeshi takes as Hayato
starts to move down, the way the hand at Hayato’s shoulder pushes sideways to
make a fist in his hair.
“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, loud enough to hear clearly, and Hayato has to shut
his eyes even to the darkness around them, has to press his forehead in against
the tremor of Takeshi’s stomach while he composes himself.
“Quiet,” he says, and Takeshi shivers again, his fingers pushing hard over
Hayato’s scalp. “Everyone will hear you, shut up.”
“Okay,” Takeshi says. Hayato isn’t sure he’s listening, not really, but it’s
been weeks since they were this close and he doesn’t have the patience to push
for certain comprehension.
“Just stay still,” he says, and slides down the last few inches to lick against
the salty-slick head of Takeshi’s cock. There’s a choking inhale over him, the
start of a groan before Takeshi audibly catches himself, and the fingers in
Hayato’s hair go tense and desperate in exchange for the sound. Hayato’s
thoughts are hot and blurry, everything outside this darkened space drifting
into unimportance, and he’s sucking up against Takeshi’s length, catching his
lips past the ridge of the head of his cock and licking hard at the bitter salt
clinging to the hot skin. Takeshi is shaking, gasping little stuttering inhales
and dragging hard against Hayato’s hair, but Hayato doesn’t try to hold him to
stillness or pull away to demand silence. The rain is loud enough, he tells
himself, the patter of water echoing on the canvas over them as much cover as
the tent walls, and Takeshi’s fingers are pressing against his scalp and
Takeshi’s hips are rocking up against the brace of his fingers, and then Hayato
tightens his mouth and shifts his tongue and Takeshi comes apart under him all
at once. The hand at his hair goes slack, the building tension in Takeshi’s
body melts away, and Hayato’s mouth is full of sticky salt, the taste burning
heat against the back of his tongue to stifle the whine of surprise he makes.
It’s easy to swallow, at least, far easier than an alternative method of
cleanup; Hayato pulls back while Takeshi is still shivering breathlessly, tugs
his pants back into place and slides back up over the bedding to reach out and
touch his fingers to Takeshi’s face.
“That was fast,” he observes, not even able to muster much teasing around the
molten heat in his throat. Takeshi’s laughter is hot against his lips, he’s
turning in instinctively to meet Hayato’s motion, and for a moment conversation
is lost between their mouths.
“It’s been weeks,” Takeshi manages when Hayato draws back, the words still
shivering with the heat Hayato can feel humming under his hold at Takeshi’s
hip. “And I’m no good with my left hand.”
“Does that mean I’m on my own?” Hayato asks, the pout in his tone more for show
than anything else. He’s anxious with desire, fire licking up along his spine
to fill in for the worry he’s nursed over the whole length of Takeshi’s
recovery, but this is more than he was hoping to get before they make it to
their destination, the satisfaction of Takeshi humming pleasure against him
enough to sate the sharp-edged want in his chest. He’s not expecting the shaky
laugh Takeshi gives against his mouth, the fingers at his hair sliding down his
chest to the front of his pants, and he’s still drawing in a sharp startled
breath when Takeshi’s fingers press against him through the fabric.
“I can manage,” Takeshi says, and then he’s moving, wiggling down against the
bedrolls before Hayato can convince himself he should stop him. He is clumsy
with his left hand -- his attempts at Hayato’s laces are fumbling at best and
ineffective at worst -- and Hayato only holds out for the space of a startled
inhale before he’s reaching down himself to work the clothing open.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he warns, but Takeshi is kissing at his skin, the gentle
friction of his tongue tracing the line of Hayato’s hip, and Hayato is
shivering with the heat of his breath before he even has his pants open.
Takeshi’s left hand closes at his hip as soon as the fabric is loose, his thumb
settling in like it was meant to press into Hayato’s skin, and then Hayato’s
cock is in front of Takeshi’s mouth, the humid heat of the other boy’s
breathing spilling over him.
“Fuck,” he says, louder than he intends, and he’s reaching out to fit his
fingers in against the back of Takeshi’s head as the other boy opens his mouth
and touches his tongue in against the underside of Hayato’s cock. Hayato’s eyes
are wide in spite of the darkness, his mouth open and breathless, and Takeshi
is humming a long sustained note of satisfaction as he slides in to take Hayato
deeper into his mouth. Hayato’s tension comes unwound along his spine, unravels
into heat in his blood, and he doesn’t think before he arches forward to rock
into Takeshi’s mouth.
There’s an apology on his tongue for the impulse, an attempt to draw back from
the force of his motion, but Takeshi groans something unintelligible with heat
and tightens his hold at Hayato’s hip to keep him where he is. Hayato hesitates
for a breath, clinging to whatever restraint he has left to him for a span of
heartbeats; then Takeshi tightens his lips, licks up over him, and it’s gone,
he’s shutting his eyes and gasping and thrusting forward, bracing Takeshi in
place so he can slide farther into the heat of the other’s mouth. The sound of
the rain is blurring into steam, the shadows filling his vision flickering hot
and bright-edged, and he’s barely clinging to silence, choking back the sound
in his throat into just telltale heavy breathing too quiet to be heard outside
the walls of the tent. Takeshi’s hair is soft, his lips are hot with friction,
and Hayato can’t tell if it’s Takeshi’s tongue or the vibration of noise in the
back of his throat jolting electricity up his spine and he doesn’t care, it’s
enough to have Takeshi’s mouth on him and Takeshi’s hair fitting between his
wide-spread fingers.
“Shit,” he says, clear and breathless. “Takeshi, I’m--” and Takeshi’s fingers
tighten against his hip, and Hayato’s gone, toppling over into shuddering
satisfaction that swamps all his senses into overheated pleasure for a few
endless heartbeats. His fingers in Takeshi’s hair fall slack, go gentle instead
of bracing, and by the time he can take a breath and blink at the dark inside
of the tent he feels like the tension of weeks has dissipated to leave him
boneless and melted over the bedding.
Takeshi shifts back up over the bedrolls while Hayato is still staring unseeing
into the dark, contemplating possible coherency and not able to think through
the value of any rational communication. There’s a breath at his mouth, a
humming note of satisfaction, and Hayato leans in without thinking to press his
lips to Takeshi’s. He tastes like salt, the weight of bitter heat clinging to
his tongue when Hayato licks into his mouth; it makes Hayato smile,
satisfaction pulling at his lips until he has to draw back just to smile warm
into the shadows. Takeshi follows, trailing his movement like he’s on a string
until the soft of his lips bumps the corner of Hayato’s mouth. Hayato can feel
Takeshi’s sigh, the slow pleasure of it as the other boy lets his arm fall
around his waist and eases into languid relaxation against him.
“I love you,” Takeshi says, faint and warm with exhaustion.
Hayato heaves a sigh, shuts his eyes to the whisper of Takeshi’s breathing
against his jaw. “Yeah,” he allows, aiming for rough casualness he falls far
short of to land somewhere around tenderness instead. “I know you do.” Takeshi
laughs, presses in closer against him, and Hayato reaches to settle a hand at
his hip in casual possessiveness. He holds the words on his tongue, patience
lingering along with the warmth in his veins.
He can wait as long as he wants. Takeshi will still be here in the morning.
***** Welcome *****
By the time the door opens to let him into the entrance hall, Hayato has
resigned himself to the worst.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” is what Takeshi had said, pressing affection
against his fingers and flashing him a smile so warm Hayato almost doesn’t see
the shadow of worry in his eyes, wouldn’t at all if he weren’t looking for it.
But he is, and he does, and he’s not really surprised when five minutes are
followed by ten, when a half hour passes without the summons he’s waiting for.
At least it’s quiet. He can’t hear the shouting that would accompany this
conversation were their positions reversed, and that seems tentatively
promising. But the longer he waits the darker his mood dips, until he can’t
even manage to keep his shoulders straight under the lines of the dark shirt
borrowed from Takeshi’s closet. By the time the door eases open he’s slumped
against the wall alongside it, picking at the mud of travel caught at his boots
and trying not to think about what he’ll do if Takeshi’s request is rejected.
He looks up at the sound, expecting a servant or similar, but it’s Takeshi
himself, flashing another smile and reaching out to pull Hayato to his feet. He
looks a little better -- there’s a hint of color in his cheeks, now, rather
than the nervous pallor he had when he disappeared into the room -- but Hayato
can’t take a breath of relief yet, can barely get his hand to loosen on
Takeshi’s fingers.
“Come,” Takeshi says, his tone dropping into the casual command of born
royalty, and kicks the door open so he can lead Hayato into the room. Hayato’s
expecting the hold at his fingers to go slack as they step inside, but it
doesn’t; if anything Takeshi tightens his grip, cutting off the possibility of
the other sliding his hand free. By the time Hayato lifts his head to look
where they’re headed he’s flushed with self-consciousness, hyper-aware of the
way Takeshi’s fingers fit against his, and feeling decidedly out of his element
as he approaches the king and queen.
They’re not sitting. Hayato had expected a formal reception for his
confrontation with a pair of rulers to beg for their leniency with regards to
his relationship with their son. But they’re standing instead, on level with
him and Takeshi, and if they’re well-dressed it’s nothing beyond the ordinary
silks and satins of their position. The king is smiling, even, a lopsided grin
so like his son’s Hayato is taken aback, and if the queen looks less outright
pleased the considering tilt of her head isn’t actively aggressive either.
“Father, Mother,” Takeshi says, his voice carrying to fill the space of the
room. “This is Hayato.”
It’s far from the formal introduction Hayato was expecting. There’s a distinct
lack of titles, for one thing, none of the stilted tone he expects, and that’s
before he even considers the dip of affectionate warmth in Takeshi’s voice, the
way his gaze slides sideways to catch bright against Hayato’s features. Hayato
can’t even tell the cause of his blush anymore, if it’s from uncertainty or
nerves or embarrassment, or maybe just self-consciousness flaring hot from the
way Takeshi’s fingers are laced with his and the too-obvious softness in his
eyes.
“Hayato,” the king says, stepping forward to offer his hand. Hayato drags his
fingers loose through sheer panicked force of will and reaches out to offer his
too-warm hand for the king’s greeting. He feels off-balance, flustered and
itchy against the back of his neck, but the handshake is easy at least, gentle
pressure closing against his fingers in a motion so familiar even the
unprecedented situation doesn’t override Hayato’s learned reflex. “It’s nice to
meet you.” His smile flashes wider, touches his eyes, and Hayato very nearly
jerks backwards out of sheer surprise at how human it makes him look. “Again, I
suppose.”
“Our son has made it clear he intends to take you as his official consort,”
Takeshi’s mother says. When the king lets Hayato go and steps back it’s the
queen who’s looking at him, again with that alarming intensity in her eyes,
like she’s trying to see right through him to the blood in his veins. “I hope
he’s mentioned this to you before?”
“Uh,” Hayato says, as intelligibly as if this is the first time he’s spoken to
reigning monarchs. His traitorous memory helpfully offers up the exact
circumstances of Takeshi’s declaration -- the overheated darkness, the soft of
his voice on the words -- and if he was red before he’s crimson, now, more than
representing his native country’s colors in the sea of blue around him. “Yeah.
Yes. Your highness.”
The queen looks him over. Hayato can feel heat spreading down his neck, across
his shoulders and over his chest, painting him flushed and uncomfortable under
her scrutiny. He’s not even sure what she’s looking for, exactly -- it’s not
like this is the first time she’s seeing him, if perhaps it is the first time
she’s given him real consideration -- but all his upbringing is failing him
now, panic telling him to fall back and retreat into the safety of hunched
shoulders and a glare to extricate himself from the situation.
There’s a touch at his wrist, fingers curling in around his own. When Hayato
risks a glance sideways Takeshi is looking at him, eyes wide and sympathetic
and mouth soft on a smile. He can see the reassurance in the expression, wants
to jerk his hand away and snap that he doesn’t need the support, but what he’s
doing instead is tightening his hold, digging his fingers in desperately hard
against Takeshi’s like he has no intention of ever letting go again.
“Understand our hesitation,” the queen says, and Hayato’s attention skids away
from Takeshi, his grip pressing harder in response to this framework for
negation. He’d worry about hurting the other boy except that Takeshi is
squeezing right back, the pressure of his fingers grating Hayato’s knuckles
against the small bones of his hand. It aches up Hayato’s arm and he doesn’t
ever want Takeshi to let go. “You are the prince of the country that nearly
killed our son, that did kill many of our citizens in pursuit of dominion over
our lands. We have a treaty in place at present, but as the heir you must know
how fragile those have been in the past and are likely to be in the future.
Your presence is a risk to us, a danger to our entire country, and you are
asking us to accept it on your word that you will not betray us.”
Hayato’s heart is thrumming in his chest, so fast the beats are frantic static
rather than distinguished pulses. His hand aches, his throat is tight, and when
he speaks it’s involuntary, a spill of words desperate with the fear of losing
everything now, when he’s so close, when he has nowhere left to go. “I’m not.”
The king clears his throat. “What?”
“I’m not.” Hayato coughs, tries to shed the tremor from his throat, but when he
speaks again his voice is still audibly unsteady. “I’m not the heir. Or the
prince.”
The silence is deafening, absent even the rustle of shifting fabric. Hayato
takes another breath, resists the urge to cough as his cheeks flare hot again.
“I disavowed all connections to the country and the royal family before we
departed.”
“Why?” the queen asks.
Takeshi is still looking at him. Hayato can feel the weight of his attention
against him, the wide-eyed heat of his gaze. He doesn’t look sideways to meet
it.
“It was the only way I could leave,” he starts, pauses, clarifies. “With
Takeshi.”
His shoulders are hunching in farther, his blush aching like a sunburn across
his features, and some forgotten part of his mind catches up, points out to
whom he’s speaking and the formalities he’s entirely flouting. “Your majesty.”
There’s a pause, spanning enough time for Hayato’s blush to fade into ice, for
resignation to sweep through him in a wave of cold. There’s no way they’ll
agree, not after this, it was too much to hope for. He’ll have to leave, have
to find a home for himself with nothing at all, he’ll --
“Very well,” the queen says, and the king picks up as smoothly as if they’ve
passed off the thread of the conversation one to another.
“It will take a few days to prepare the ceremony, but we can find quarters for
you in the meantime. Will your previous guest rooms be sufficient until after
the announcement?”
“What?” Hayato says blankly. There’s a bubble of delighted laughter from beside
him, Takeshi’s voice ringing clear into the space, and the pressure at his
fingers goes slack all at once, the other’s hold easing into something far more
comfortable.
“Can’t he just stay with me?” Takeshi asks while Hayato is still staring in
shocked-silent confusion at the monarchs in front of him. They’re both smiling,
now, and if the queen’s expression remains somewhat more reserved than her
husband’s the king is beaming, smiling all over his face in a dead match for
Takeshi’s effervescent delight.
The queen sighs a negative, but it’s the king who answers. “After the formal
announcement we’ll have larger chambers arranged for you both. Until then keep
the separate rooms in name, at least.” He turns his attention back to Hayato,
straightens his shoulders into his title again. Hayato can see what’s coming
this time with enough warning to work his hand free of Takeshi’s and offer it
before the king has even moved.
“Welcome,” the king says as he shakes Hayato’s hand again. “We’re glad to have
you.”
Even when he looks for it, Hayato can’t find any insincerity in his eyes.
***** Staying *****
The rooms feel different this time.
It’s probably a shift in his perspective, Hayato reasons. The first time he saw
the plush of this bed and the high span of the window set into the wall he was
wet, cold and miserable and ready to fling himself over the soft sheets and
never move again. By the time he left the walls had formed a sanctuary, the
weight of the door a barrier to the public he had learned to resent; it’s
strange to stand in the familiar outline of the space and feel none of the
warmth it had when he was here last, like the lingering hints of Takeshi are
gone, carried away with the change in the sheets.
Hayato paces out the floor, idle exploration of the room so familiar to his
eyes and so foreign in his memory. He doesn’t remember this shelf of books,
doesn’t recall the view of the grounds below when he leans in to look out the
window. The ledge in front of the glass is Takeshi’s preferred perch, not his,
but the thought alone is enough to make him smile into the gathering dusk
outside. The candlelight is enough to illuminate everything clearly, the golden
glow more than sufficient to turn the space warm and welcoming, but that’s
weird too, to feel like he has a place to belong here. It was only ever a
visit, the last time, no matter how much Hayato pressed the shape of sleep
against the blankets; dawn always brought him one day closer to farewell, no
matter how long he tried to drag the nights. It’s strange, to have the constant
timekeeping gone from the back of his head, to have nothing he needs to make
himself forget.
He’s staring unseeing out the window and starting to frown at the mental
discomfort when there’s a knock on the door, the careful shape of a question
ringing into the space, and he knows who it is before he turns to close the
distance to the entrance. His frown fades, his feet move him forward of their
own accord, and he’s smiling, even, inadvertently radiating happiness when he
pulls the door open with all the speed he can muster. It leaves Takeshi with
one hand upraised, evidence of his intention to knock again, but he looks not
at all embarrassed; his faint smile just goes wider, his eyes go softer, and
his raised hand comes out instead, drawn as if by magnetism to the fall of
Hayato’s hair.
“Hey,” he says, so carefully that the word is shaped like a whisper. Fingertips
skim across Hayato’s cheek, brush the trailing ends of his hair, and a shiver
flickers out into Hayato’s blood, thrumming not-quite-visibly under his skin.
“Hey yourself,” Hayato manages, with far more volume and far more roughness on
the words than he thought he could manage. Takeshi’s fingers are catching on
the embroidery at his shoulder, pressing into the shapes printed there like he
doesn’t know them intimately already, like this isn’t his own coat liberated
for the purposes of the royal audience this afternoon. “What do you want?”
Hayato is aiming for teasing, reaching for the slick bite of a taunt across his
tongue. In practice it just turns rough, grating itself into harshness over the
heat of anticipation in his throat, but Takeshi doesn’t seem to notice. He just
smiles wider, bright and shaky like he’s helpless to the expression, takes a
half-step in closer to the other boy.
“They unwrapped my arm,” Takeshi offers, half-lifting his right hand as if to
demonstrate. Hayato can see the movement in his periphery, and under other
circumstances he would look, but Takeshi is too close and too hazy-breathless
and there’s nothing that could persuade Hayato to look away from his eyes.
“That’s nice,” he says in a tone that says the opposite. “Why are you here and
not in your own room, Takeshi?”
Takeshi makes a meaningless noise, a humming whine in the back of his throat,
and he’s leaning in, the hold at Hayato’s shoulder is going firmer to catch his
balance. “I wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me,” Hayato says, turning his head up towards Takeshi’s as the
other dips in closer. “Is that all?”
“Mm,” Takeshi says just against his lips. “No.” And he opens his mouth, and
Hayato rocks forward, and it’s barely been two hours but everything is
different, now, with the clean gold of candlelight to illuminate them and the
weight of the door still held open instead of safely closed. Takeshi feels
warmer, brighter, his touch easy with the lack of anxious desperation they
shared before, and when Hayato reaches out for his hip the other boy sighs
against his mouth and leans in closer. Hayato licks against Takeshi’s mouth,
catches the taste of him onto his tongue, and when he pulls back he’s tingling
warm, helpless to the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Are you planning to stand there all night?” he asks.
Takeshi’s sigh of satisfaction stutters into a laugh, his fingers sliding up to
press higher against Hayato’s neck.
“No,” he admits, and when Hayato steps back into the room to let the door swing
shut Takeshi follows so closely they nearly stumble over each other. Takeshi’s
hand comes out to catch at Hayato’s shoulder, his fingers fitting into the soft
of his shirt, and Hayato’s smile is breaking wider, spreading out all across
his face as the door swings shut.
“Is your arm okay?” he asks in the gap between flutter-light kisses, into one
of the spaces of Takeshi taking a slow breath like he’s trying to breathe
Hayato in.
“Yeah,” Takeshi says, drawing back enough to hold up his right hand to
demonstrate. His left lingers at Hayato’s shoulder, slipping up to curl into
the other’s hair, but Hayato doesn’t protest the contact, makes no move at all
to shy away from the motion. He reaches out instead, curls his fingers into a
gentle hold around Takeshi’s healed wrist; it’s a little thinner than he
expects, the motion of it faintly jerky instead of demonstrating Takeshi’s
usual fluid grace, but it’s nice to have the bandages gone, to have the
constant barrier of the sling between them removed.
“It doesn’t hurt?” Hayato asks, just to make sure, just to soothe the last of
the tight knot of worry pressed up flush against the inside of his ribs.
Takeshi’s smile is slow, spreading easy across his features. When he moves it’s
to draw his right hand free of Hayato’s hold, to settle his fingers in
carefully at the other boy’s waist.
“It’s fine,” he says, and his fingers curl to form a gentle fist on the fabric.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“You had better tell me if it does,” Hayato growls, turning relief into the
sound of irritation on his tongue, and Takeshi laughs against his mouth. Hayato
turns his head up and Takeshi dips his down and any words, agreement or
otherwise, are lost to the heat of Takeshi’s mouth opening to Hayato’s. He
tastes familiar, sweet and clean and warm like candlelight, and Hayato’s hands
move of their own accord, draw their way across Takeshi’s shirt to seek out the
fastenings lining the front. It’s easier without the sling in the way, the
pattern of movement falling into a familiar rhythm, and then the fabric comes
open and Hayato’s fingers slide in underneath to press Takeshi’s undershirt
flush against the warmth of his skin.
“Wait,” Takeshi manages, and Hayato blinks himself into attention, notices the
fingers working at the front of his shirt. “Wait, you’re getting ahead of me.”
Hayato leans back an inch, far enough that he can raise an eyebrow at the line
of concentration across Takeshi’s forehead. “What’s the problem?” he asks,
twisting his fingers into loose fabric and tugging to drag Takeshi’s undershirt
free of his pants. “Don’t you remember how to take clothes off?”
“I do,” Takeshi allows. Hayato slides his hand up under the loose undershirt,
grins at the way Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter at the contact, the way he rocks
forward like he’s going to collapse against him. “Ah. I do, but my fingers
won’t do what I want them to.” Hayato fits his hand into the curve of Takeshi’s
spine, pushes up in a slow slide, and Takeshi’s fingers fist at the front of
his shirt, dragging to steady his balance as he tips in to gasp at Hayato’s
shoulder.
“And you’re distracting,” he finishes, the deciding point in his argument. It
makes Hayato laugh, makes him dig his fingers in against Takeshi’s back to drag
gentle lines against his skin. That gets him a laugh of response, the ghosting
touch of lips at the line of his jaw, and Hayato turns his head to allow the
contact, reaches for the front of Takeshi’s pants with his free hand.
“Not as dextrous as usual, huh?” The question is rhetorical, the answer obvious
in the fumbling attempts that have made it barely halfway down the front of
Hayato’s shirt. “Guess I can’t leave you to take care of yourself like I was
planning to, then.”
Takeshi’s laugh is its own reward, even before he abandons his work at Hayato’s
buttons to settle his fingers against the back of the other boy’s neck. “You
weren’t.”
“I was,” Hayato insists as the laces slide loose under his fingers, as his
hands fit against Takeshi’s hips so he can catch his thumbs under the line of
the other’s pants. “I was just going to go to bed, you’re the one who decided
to show up at my door and beg for more.”
He’s expecting Takeshi to laugh off this claim, maybe to offer some kind of
gentle retort to the patently absurd statement. But it’s a sigh he gets
instead, warm and pleased against his neck, and then: “Please, Hayato,” simple
and straightforward and wholly absent the heat of self-consciousness Hayato was
anticipating. The sound shocks through him like physical force, rushes heat
into his blood before he can think, and suddenly it’s his hands that are
shaking, his hold that has to draw tight at Takeshi’s hips to hold himself
steady.
“Fuck,” he says, and he’s turning his head, catching his mouth at Takeshi’s jaw
in lieu of waiting for a better angle. His hands slide past fabric, press in
against warm skin, and they’re stumbling backwards without any intention on his
part, a slow-motion echo of their first time in this room. But this time
Takeshi is laughing, grabbing at Hayato’s shoulder to keep his balance, and
when they get to the bed Hayato pauses, resists the urge to angle Takeshi back
over the sheets and drops to sit at the edge himself instead. Takeshi stutters
to a stop, his shirt unfastened and undershirt untucked. All Hayato can see is
rumpled fabric and a hint of dark-tan skin and it’s not enough, he’s pushing
against the edge of the other boy’s pants to ease them down off his thighs even
as he catches a breath to speak.
“Do you have to leave?” he says, carefully deliberate with the words as the
fabric slides free to catch at Takeshi’s ankles. The other boy rocks his weight
back, keeping just his hold at Hayato’s shoulder to brace himself while he toes
his boots off, and then he’s kicking free of his pants, baring the long line of
his legs for Hayato’s eyes. “Since I’m--” but he can’t manage the weight of the
words, has to retreat to the safety of euphemism. “Since the ceremony hasn’t
happened yet.”
There’s motion in his periphery, a dark head moving; when Hayato looks up
Takeshi is shaking his head, his lips parted on unconscious heat and his throat
working around a swallow. “No,” he says, and Hayato has never known that one
word to run so deep before. “No, I don’t have to leave.”
Hayato takes a breath, lets it out all at once. “Good,” he says, pushing to his
feet. Takeshi is so close his open shirt catches at Hayato’s, promising contact
if either of them leans in at all; Hayato’s hands fit into the open edges of
the fabric to urge the weight back over Takeshi’s shoulders. “Let go.”
Takeshi does, eases his hold obediently off Hayato’s shoulder, and Hayato is
pushing before the movement is done, sliding the fabric down off the other’s
arms with the care he’s learned over the weeks of Takeshi’s recovery. Then the
shirt is off, the undershirt following almost before the first hits the ground,
and then there’s just Takeshi, his skin glowing gold in the light and breathing
so fast Hayato can see the inhales coming quick in his chest. There’s a shadow
marring the gold skin, the jagged line of a dark scar wandering across his
chest until it catches into a sharp turn against the shape of his ribs; it
makes Hayato’s chest tighten, seeing the tracery of danger etched so clear
against Takeshi’s body, the angle of the injury so terrifyingly close to the
shift of his breathing.
He doesn’t look up. He’s not sure what face he’s making, doesn’t want Takeshi
to see past the curtain of his hair, but he does lift his hand, presses his
fingers in hard against the dark line of the fresh scar over the other’s skin.
It’s warm, warmer than he expects, warm like Takeshi always is, and some of the
tension in his hand eases, lets his fingers splay wide and easy against the
other’s chest. He can feel Takeshi’s flush under his palm, the heat of his body
rising to meet Hayato’s touch, and it’s enough.
Hayato reaches with his other hand to close his fingers at Takeshi’s hip.
“Bed.”
“Okay,” Takeshi says immediately, and it sounds a little like a laugh but he’s
moving, stumbling to the side and half-falling over the soft of the as-yet-
unrumpled sheets. Hayato has a moment of panic as he falls, short-term habit
learned too well that says Takeshi can’t catch himself with just one arm, but
it’s both hands that come out, his right arm as quick to respond to the fall as
his left.
It’s tempting to topple in over the bed himself, to let the soft of the sheets
press against his hands and curl in to fit himself over Takeshi’s warm skin, to
press between the willing angle of his knees over the sheets. But they’re in no
rush, Hayato tells himself, turning the idea over in his mind like he’s rolling
a sip of wine on his tongue, and even when Takeshi pushes himself upright and
reaches encouragement towards him he doesn’t move in. It’s his shirt he reaches
for instead, catching his fingers at the half-done job Takeshi abandoned, and
the clear invitation in Takeshi’s eyes flickers into understanding between
blinks, a shadow of appreciative want clinging to his expression.
It doesn’t take long. Hayato’s not wearing much; he kicked his boots off as
soon as he came into the room, and his shirt is half-open already. But it feels
like forever, the anticipation drawn endless by the dark of Takeshi’s eyes
tracking his movements, time going slow on the way the other’s mouth falls
unconsciously open as he watches, on the thoughtless catch of his tongue at his
lip when Hayato reaches to work the laces of his pants open. Self-consciousness
makes Hayato flush but desire keeps him moving, his hands pushing the faster at
his clothes for the tremor in his fingers. He’s hard by the time he’s kicked
his pants free, the heat of his cock bumping the inside of his wrist as he
reaches to strip his undershirt off, and Takeshi makes a faint whimpering noise
against the bed, shifts to roll onto his stomach as Hayato drags at his shirt.
When Hayato emerges he’s stripped of his clothes, bare skin to match Takeshi’s,
and Takeshi is lying across the bed with his fingers working against the
bedsheet, his head tipped sideways so he can watch Hayato with eyes gone night-
black in the familiar shape of his face.
Hayato’s grin is impulsive, spills over his mouth without any conscious
thought. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, and if the words shake with self-
consciousness in his throat it doesn’t seem to affect Takeshi’s reaction. His
eyelashes flutter, his throat works, and when he lets the blanket go to stretch
out a hand Hayato doesn’t need words to understand.
“Fuck,” he says, the word skidding high and telltale in his throat, and he’s
moving in, crossing the distance and dropping a knee onto the bed to bring
himself in closer. Takeshi is moving too, sliding over the blankets and onto
his side, his arms coming out to catch around Hayato’s neck and drag him down.
Hayato laughs, a burst of involuntary sound as he falls, and when he lands
there’s just warm skin under him, Takeshi arching up against his weight and
shifting his legs to try to fit himself around Hayato’s hips. It’s inelegant, a
tangle of limbs and uncoordinated movements; by any reasonable standards Hayato
should be laughing instead of gasping. But Takeshi is tipping up for a kiss,
fitting his lips against the corner of Hayato’s mouth, and it’s gasping that
Hayato is doing, inhaling a shocked rush of air before he turns his head to
catch Takeshi’s mouth with his own, to pin him down against the sheets with the
pressure of his lips and a steadying hand at the back of his neck. Takeshi’s
legs fit around his waist, the other boy arches up to drag Hayato in closer,
and Hayato loses his balance and they press together, the texture of Takeshi’s
scar flush with his chest and the heat of his cock falling into alignment with
Takeshi’s.
“God,” he gasps against the whine at Takeshi’s lips, drags up a laugh from the
fire in his veins. “Impatient, huh?”
“I missed you,” Takeshi says, instant sincerity to Hayato’s teasing, and Hayato
can feel his fingers tense into involuntary desperation at the back of the
other boy’s neck. “I missed you so much, Hayato.”
“Idiot,” Hayato manages, twists himself sideways so he can fumble against the
drawer next to the bed with a prayer that this too is as unchanged as when he
was here last. “I’m here, I’ve been here this whole time, I’ve barely left your
side.”
“Not like this,” Takeshi says, rocking up in a way that short-circuits Hayato’s
thoughts and blows the air from his lungs in one rushing groan. His fingers
tighten, his logic vanishes, and if it weren’t for the familiar shape under his
reaching hand he might give up on this plan entirely, or at least put it on
hold as a follow-up after hands or mouths. But he’s found what he’s looking
for, the promise of lubrication cool under his hand, and the anticipation is
enough to pull him back and away from Takeshi’s skin for the moment it takes to
spill oil over his fingers.
“You’re so demanding,” Hayato manages, trying to cling to stability with the
familiar tones of teasing as Takeshi gasps a breath of raw heat and tilts his
legs wider in offering. Hayato drops a hand to Takeshi’s knee, pushes his leg
up and open so he can reach down with slick fingers and press friction against
the other boy’s skin. Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his hand reaches out as if
to grab and instead just trails against Hayato’s chest. It’s hard for Hayato to
not to lean into it, to keep his position over his knees so he can angle his
hand where he wants it.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Hayato growls, the low rumble of a promise, and tilts
his hand to push a finger inside the other boy. Takeshi’s touch skids, presses
against his waist for a moment, and he pushes in deeper, an easy slick slide
while Takeshi sighs as if in relief, collapsing languid over the sheets like
all his tension is releasing with the contact. He’s warmer than Hayato
remembers, burning hot around the other’s touch, and Hayato’s going harder than
he thought he could be, all the ache in his spine collecting to remind him how
long it’s been, to backdate the weeks together and apart and come up with too
long, too long like a chant in his head.
“We’ll just stay like this,” he says, a reckless promise into the air, and
Takeshi whimpers, rocks his hips up like he’s pleading as Hayato draws back for
another thrust. “Like my last day here except all the time, days and days,
weeks if you want.” Takeshi’s mouth is open, his throat working on incoherent
sound; Hayato eases his hand back, tries a second finger with as much careful
patience as he can muster. Takeshi takes a breath, shudders it free of his
lungs, and from the heat in the sound Hayato can make incoherent encouragement.
He pushes in deeper, breath catching at the way Takeshi is tensing around him,
and words spill over his tongue like water before he can think.
“We don’t have to leave,” fast, sliding overquick on his lips, and Takeshi is
rocking up to meet the motion of his hand, his eyes wide and dark and fixed on
Hayato’s face. “You don’t have to leave, right?”
“Right,” Takeshi says, the sound hot and shaking on his tongue, and Hayato
turns his fingers, presses inside the other boy so he knocks Takeshi’s head
back and turns the word into a groan instead.
“I’m going to stay,” he says, and then again, because the words burn under his
skin like all Takeshi’s heat is bleeding into him: “I’m going to stay, Takeshi.
With you.” Takeshi sighs, a sustained note of satisfaction, and Hayato slides
his hand back, lets his knees go wider and steadying while he wraps his fingers
around his cock and strokes what remains of the liquid over himself. It feels
good, the friction glows in his blood, but Takeshi is reaching for him still,
gentle fingers trailing against his skin, and Hayato can’t resist the draw of
them. He lets Takeshi’s knee go, reaches out to brace himself against the bed
as he leans in, and Takeshi’s legs catch around him, draw him down and the
other boy up as fast as Hayato can lean into the right angle.
“Fuck,” Hayato says. He can feel himself trembling, anticipation spilling into
motion in his veins. “Takeshi, I--”
“I love you,” Takeshi blurts, fast like it’s a race, like he’s stealing the
words off Hayato’s lips. He looks dazed, his eyes drifting over Hayato’s
features like he’s never seen them before, his mouth soft and open into an
invitation.
Hayato laughs, a note of sincere amusement. “You interrupted me,” he growls in
mock irritation. His knee fits under Takeshi’s thigh, his cock fits against the
other boy’s entrance, and when he starts to rock forward it’s with the slow
motion of patient certainty. Takeshi shivers as he eases inside, his body
tensing against Hayato’s cock, but Hayato stays slow, drags his voice down to
the shape of composure as he continues.
“I’m not going to tell you, now,” he declares as his blood burns into heat, as
all his attention draws in around the friction of his motion. “You’ll have to
wait.”
“Hayato,” Takeshi gasps, the sound too wide-open for Hayato to tell if it’s
pleasure or a plea in the word. There’s an arm around his neck, fingers in his
hair, and as he thrusts forward Takeshi urges him down, offers the irresistible
temptation of his mouth for a kiss, and Hayato gives up on speech in pursuit of
Takeshi’s lips instead. He tastes clean, the flavor of chocolate and the smell
of rain, and Hayato doesn’t think before he’s licking against Takeshi’s mouth,
reaching for more with the same unthinking instinct of their first kiss, when
his whole body tasted home against the mouth of a total stranger. It feels more
real, now, like that first time was just a premonition of what was to come, a
hint of this foreign room in an adopted country turning to the comfort of
familiarity with the heat of Takeshi to fill up the space.
Hayato almost doesn’t have to think about his movement. It’s easy, instinctive,
the draw of Takeshi’s legs caught around his hips and the tilt of the other
boy’s motion to meet each slick forward glide. He’s breathing hard, each inhale
tasting like Takeshi on his lips, and then Takeshi rocks up enough that his
cock bumps Hayato’s stomach, the slick at its head a reminder for Hayato’s
attention. Hayato tips onto an elbow, draws his movements a little slower and
more deliberate so he can keep his balance; the shift is worth it, when he gets
his freed hand down to drag his fingers against Takeshi’s length and feels the
way the other boy gasps and shudders with the sensation.
“I love you,” Takeshi says again, sighing over the words as Hayato closes his
fingers into a steady grip and starts to stroke up against him. The fingers in
Hayato’s hair tighten, fall slack, slip over the back of his neck with
unconscious affection to match the heat-hazed drag of Takeshi’s gaze across his
features. “Hayato, I love you.”
“You keep saying that,” Hayato says, snaps his hips forward hard enough that
Takeshi groans, his eyes falling shut as his head tips back on the sound.
Hayato’s blood is going hot in his veins, burning up along the dip of his spine
and flickering incoherency into his thoughts, but he’s smiling too, a hot curve
of pleasure at his mouth that draws him in to kiss at the vibration along
Takeshi’s throat. That just draws another sound, a whining note of
appreciation, and then Hayato tightens his grip and drags up harder and Takeshi
goes taut under him, arching himself as far off the bed as he can get with
Hayato’s weight pressing him down. The movement pulls friction over Hayato’s
cock, breaks his smile into a gasp of reaction instead, and he’s falling to
pieces, his attention fraying as his fingers work with desperate haste over
Takeshi’s length. He’s not going to make it, he’s sure, there’s too much
tension building under his skin and too much breathless heat spiking into his
veins and he’s going to -- and it’s Takeshi who gasps his name and shudders
hard under him. Hayato groans as much as relief as victory, the feel of Takeshi
shaking against him more than enough to shatter what resistance he has left,
and he’s spilling over into the bright white of pleasure before he’s stilled
the slide of his hand over Takeshi’s cock. Everything is warm, sound and
sensation and vision all blending together into a sustained note of heat, and
when Hayato takes a breath he can taste Takeshi on his tongue.
He doesn’t move away, even as his vision drifts back into clarity, even as the
heat of pleasure gives way to the chill of sweat clinging between his
shoulderblades and in the angle of his elbow. Takeshi is radiant against him,
still wound around Hayato like he never intends to let go, and even with the
stickiness clinging to Hayato’s skin he’s not opposed to that idea. He lets
Takeshi take his weight, reaches up to fit his clean hand into the other’s
hair, and Takeshi laughs, a faint hum of sound more felt than heard. It makes
Hayato smile, carefully, pressed in against Takeshi’s shoulder where he can’t
be seen. There’s still more heat there than he is quite ready to show, a
greater threat of relieved emotion in his throat and behind his eyes than he
can trust himself with. But he does take a breath, shifts his arm in to fit
better against Takeshi’s shoulder, and when he speaks the words fall clear as
pebbles dropped into still water.
“Takeshi.” Soft, gentle, a slur over the sound like a caress on his lips. “I
love you.”
Takeshi doesn’t speak, almost doesn’t move. But his hand dips up, his fingers
fit into Hayato’s hair, and when he sighs it sounds like perfect satisfaction,
contentment in its purest form.
Hayato thinks he knows what that feels like, now.
***** Grace *****
“It’s going to rain,” Hayato declares, looking at the clouds hanging overhead
because it seems safer than watching the joy shining in Takeshi’s eyes.
“It won’t,” Takeshi says, and avoiding his gaze is apparently not enough to
save Hayato because there are fingers catching at the sleeve of his brand-new
coat, he can feel the heat of the other boy’s hand curling into a hold against
his own. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Hayato tells the clouds. Takeshi’s fingers tighten against
his skin, the pressure bursting bright into his veins. “I’m just being
reasonable.”
“It won’t rain,” Takeshi says, and he’s laughing, now, there’s a bubble of
amusement audible in his throat. “I promise, Hayato, it’ll be fine.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Hayato grumbles, forgetting his intention to avoid
Takeshi’s gaze in the urge to fix the other boy with a glare. He makes it about
halfway there -- his chin is tipped down, his brows drawing together in
irritation -- before he gets a good look at the other boy’s face and all his
attention shatters into bright incoherency. It’s not teasing at Takeshi’s lips;
it’s delight, happiness so effervescent on his features he looks helpless to
it, his eyes wide and his lips parted like he can’t hold back the smile
breaking past his lack of effort to restrain it. It makes Hayato’s stomach
drop, pulls all his gravity away like he’s falling, like he’s reorienting
himself into a new world, and the tension at his forehead converts smoothly
into the almost-pain of too much heat in his chest, a pressure swelling against
his ribs until he can’t take a breath for the weight of it. Takeshi looks
ecstatic, looks like all the sunshine absent from the sky has collected into
his eyes, and Hayato can’t so much as move for staring, can feel his throat
closing up too-tight on whatever he might want to say in response.
“I’m not laughing at you,” Takeshi says, the words so far from the echoing
struck-bell hum in Hayato’s thoughts he has to struggle to place them. Takeshi
is leaning in closer, edging himself into Hayato’s space until his forehead
bumps the other boy’s, until Hayato can feel the warmth of his smile against
his mouth. “I’m just happy. Really, really happy.”
“God,” Hayato manages. “You’re ridiculous” but he’s tipping his head up anyway,
seeking out the comfort of Takeshi’s mouth on his to push away the buzz of the
crowd waiting for them, the volume rising with expectation and dragging his
nerves taut with it. Takeshi doesn’t feel nervous at all -- his hold is gentle,
absent all the strain Hayato can feel thrumming through his own blood, and his
mouth is as unthinkingly soft as it ever is, whether they’re alone in Hayato’s
room or about to step out in front of an audience of hundreds. But as calm as
Takeshi feels Hayato is tense, spine tingling with almost-panic, until he can
anticipate the breathless quiet that settles over the crowd a moment before it
actually falls, is pulling back from Takeshi’s mouth as silence settles with a
rush of adrenaline that steals all the calm from his voice.
“Go,” he says, wrenching his hand free of Takeshi’s and shoving at the other
boy’s shoulders instead. “Go, go, they’re waiting for you.”
“Okay,” Takeshi laughs, but he’s not going, he’s leaning in for another kiss at
the corner of Hayato’s mouth, so quickly Hayato doesn’t have time to react or
protest before the other is falling back, ducking out from the cover of the
hangings behind the dais to join his parents. It leaves Hayato alone, able to
listen in silence to the king’s brief introductory speech, and he thought this
would be better, thought it would be easier alone, but it’s not, it’s far worse
without the comfort of someone else to ground himself on. He can feel
anticipation hanging thick like a storm in the air, electricity collecting
static at his skin until he’s sure his hair is lifting with it, until he can
feel each individual fiber of his painfully new clothes itching over his clammy
skin. The air is heavy with moisture, the threat of rain obvious in the shadows
overhead, and Hayato has the horrible thought that it will open up on him just
before he emerges, that on top of all the other inevitable disappointments he
will be the excess of effort put into his appearance will go for naught as
well.
He’s so certain of it, so resigned to waiting for the crack of thunder to
announce the inevitable, that it takes him a moment to identify his name and
another to realize that the hush has gone even deeper in expectation. His heart
skids out in his chest, his breath stopping in his lungs entirely, and when he
makes for the dais the movement is too rushed to give him any time to freeze
up. He doesn’t think about how graceful his entrance is, doesn’t think to look
out at the sea of people staring at him; he just moves, barely avoiding
tripping over the edge of the dais, and then he’s there and his head is
swimming and the king is turning to greet him, shoulders back and spine so
straight that he retains his regality even when his smile flashes warm for an
instant.
“Hayato,” he says, voice ringing clear into the wide-eyed hush of the crowd.
There’s a beat, a breath for Hayato’s mind to go entirely blank; then he moves
in a rush as memory sweeps back in, drops into a bow lower even than is called
for by the gap in their positions. He is meant to hold it for a few seconds,
but they feel like an eternity, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears with a
nervous energy he’s never felt before in his life.
“Rise,” that resonant voice says, and Hayato straightens too-fast, his vision
swimming into haze for a moment with the speed of his motion. There’s movement
in the blur of his eyes, pressure at his shoulder, and then he blinks and it’s
a hand, the warm weight of the king’s fingers resting at his shoulder.
“You have my approval,” he says formally, the words breaking loud into the
quiet of the audience Hayato doesn’t dare look at. His heart is thudding
against his chest, he can’t breathe and doesn’t remember how to move; then the
fingers at his shoulder tighten, the level expression breaks into a smile, and
when the king speaks again it’s soft enough that only Hayato hears the words.
“Welcome, truly,” and something in Hayato caves in, panic falling into the
lines of emotion unidentifiable except as too much, and all he can do is nod
and stumble forward at the subtle press of the hand on his shoulder.
The queen is next. She has her head up, her hair pinned into a smooth dark knot
at the back of her head; she looks pristine, dark-eyed and smooth-faced and as
certain of herself as if she’s singlehandedly responsible for sapping all
Hayato’s self-confidence. They are nearly of a height but her poise makes
Hayato feel like the supplicant he is, begging for an impossible boon with no
expectation that it will be granted.
“Your majesty,” he manages this time, folds into a bow while some part of his
head calculates the probability that she will refuse him after all. This is
intended to be more ceremonial than anything else, going through the motions
instead of truly asking for the rulers’ grace in becoming their son’s consort,
but this feels more real than anything else has since Hayato arrived, his too-
loud heartbeat giving panicked voice to the very real uncertainty in his mind.
The pause feels heavier this time, goes on so long Hayato is certain the queen
will refuse, can feel his hands starting to shake in anticipation of rejection.
His thoughts are spiraling, his breath catching in his throat, when:
“Rise,” she says, and there’s a hand at his shoulder, fingers brushing the
embroidery made into the outline of leaves against the fabric. Hayato does,
feeling giddy with the rush of relief, and the queen is smiling now, too, a
softer expression than her husband’s but one that is still warm enough to turn
her eyes gentle and affectionate like her refusal was never a possibility.
“Make him happy,” is all she says, and Hayato barely has time to start flushing
at that before the queen is stepping out of the way, and he looks up, and
Takeshi is waiting for him.
He doesn’t think at all from there. The forward movement is unconscious,
unthinking action to cross the distance as rapidly as he can, and Takeshi is
reaching for him, any formality achieved by the clean lines of his clothes
completely undone by the obvious want in his outstretched hands. Hayato is
crimson in truth, now, his face burning with self-consciousness, but Takeshi is
smiling, Takeshi is laughing helpless delight, and they really were supposed to
wait but Takeshi is dragging him in for a kiss and Hayato can’t turn away from
the promise of his mouth. There’s noise in the background -- the crowd
dissolving into a cheer, the king declaring Hayato’s formal acknowledgment over
the roar -- but Hayato doesn’t hear the details, is too distracted to even
notice when the cloud-dim lighting gives way as if on cue to the glow of
sunlight around them.
He’s not worried about the rain anymore.
***** Distraction *****
Takeshi is being distracting.
In general Hayato is grateful to the advantages provided by sharing a single
oversized room. The bed is enormous, for one thing, easily large enough for
three or four people instead of the two they are, and combined with Takeshi’s
demonstrated tendency to wind himself around Hayato while they sleep Hayato
sometimes feels adrift in the middle of the mattress, like they’re on a very
comfortable island intended just for them. And there’s the advantage of
privacy, because for all that Takeshi can and does sneak kisses during
breakfast or link his fingers with Hayato’s when they’re out in the gardens,
there is only so much Hayato’s official title will excuse, and there is only so
much Hayato himself can take before he has to retreat with Takeshi behind the
closed door of their room. There’s other consequences too, the all-too frequent
confusion of whose clothes are whose still more charming than frustrating and
the advantage of a willing audience for Hayato’s occasional rants, all of which
add up to a benefit, overall.
But the distraction is a constant, endless issue, and sometimes -- like now -
- it’s particularly noticeable.
“Stop it,” Hayato growls at the page of text in front of him.
There’s a spill of a laugh from behind him, sincere confusion humming a
question into Takeshi’s throat. “I’m not doing anything, though.”
“You are,” Hayato insists. “You’re looking at me that way you do, I
can feel you doing it, stop.”
“But you’re nice to look at,” Takeshi says, his voice dipping slow and warm
until Hayato can all but see his head canting to the side in consideration.
“Especially when you’re really focused on something. It’s cute.”
Hayato growls at this particular adjective choice, twists around in his chair
to fix Takeshi with a scowl. “It is not.”
Takeshi smiles radiant at him from where he’s sitting in the cushioned window
seat. He’s far more distracting when Hayato turns around -- his hair is ruffled
up on end and damp with sweat from his fencing training, the same training
responsible for the loose white shirt sliding wide on his shoulders. Hayato’s
eyes drift down, catch at a bare collarbone, and it’s to that that he speaks
when he goes on, “What are you even doing up there anyway?”
“Watching the rain,” Takeshi says immediately. “And waiting for you to be
done.”
“Idiot,” Hayato says without looking away. “You’re planning to just wait there
for hours?”
“Sure.” Takeshi’s mouth is still caught on a smile, his shoulders tipped into
comfort against the edge of the window. There’s a blanket tangled around his
legs, covering all of him but one outstretched ankle, his leg spanning nearly
the entire width of the ledge. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“I mind,” Hayato declares. “Is that from the bed?”
“Yeah.” Takeshi reaches out for a corner of the blanket, idly tugs it up around
his waist. “It’s more comfortable like this.” His fingers slide free of the
cover, reach out instead in a suggestion. “Wanna see?”
“I’m not done,” Hayato insists, but that has no bearing on his movement, no
effect on the way he pushes back from the desk to cross the gap between them.
Takeshi slides his leg wide, making an invitation of his position, and Hayato
growls incoherent protest to this even as he takes it, coming in to fit his
knees between Takeshi’s legs and scowl at him from close-up. Takeshi looks even
more comfortable this near, his eyes hazy with the complete calm of physical
exertion and his irrepressible smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.
“You look stressed,” he observes, reaching out to press fingers against
Hayato’s forehead. “You should take a break once in a while.”
“I’m fine,” Hayato grumbles, but he ducks his head when Takeshi’s fingers drift
up to slide over his pulled-back hair, even though the motion ruffles the
smooth of the strands loose of their ponytail. “I just take some things
seriously. Unlike you.”
“You take everything seriously,” Takeshi hums without judgment on the words.
He’s tugging at the tie on the other’s hair, now, but Hayato doesn’t try to
stop that either; Takeshi’s fingers feel good sliding against his scalp, the
comfort of his touch easing the knots that have collected in Hayato’s neck.
“Of course I do,” he says as his hair falls loose, as Takeshi’s touch presses
in against the back of his neck to urge him to lean in closer. “I have to be
worthy of my role as consort to the crown prince, don’t I?”
“You already are” Takeshi says, the words simple on sincerity in his throat.
“Whatever,” Hayato growls, the curtain of his hair hiding the flush of pleasure
that crests across his cheeks at the statement. “The point is you shouldn’t be
trying to distract me.”
“I’m not trying to,” Takeshi protests, as if the lilt of his voice isn’t a
distraction, as if his fingers aren’t wandering along Hayato’s neck to slide
just under the collar of his shirt. “I was waiting for you.”
“Yeah.” Hayato reaches out, catches his fingers at the loose fall of Takeshi’s
shirt; it’s half-untucked already, rumpled out of line by his training earlier,
and it takes almost no effort to press his fingers underneath and slide up to
fit fingerprints at the other boy’s hip. “Like you don’t know exactly what you
look like up here.”
He’s expecting the laugh against his hair, the breathless sigh Takeshi makes as
Hayato’s fingers push up under his shirt to trace out the lines of his chest.
Takeshi arches into the contact, his leg sliding in around Hayato’s hip as his
fingers skid lower, and when he says “What do I look like?” the words are
thrumming with heat in his throat.
Hayato looks up, blinks into focus on Takeshi’s shadowed eyes, on the dip and
flutter of his eyelashes as he meets Hayato’s gaze. His mouth is coming open,
his eyes sliding down to land at Hayato’s mouth, and when Hayato laughs it
comes out low and rough enough to answer on its own. Takeshi’s mouth curves up
again, he leans forward in expectation, and Hayato could tease him but he
doesn’t really want to, not with the other’s lips so close to his own. He ducks
in instead, reaches out to press his fingers to the faint sheen of salt at the
back of Takeshi’s neck, and when their lips fit together Takeshi opens his
mouth in invitation before Hayato has even licked at the heat of his skin.
It’s a good position, Hayato decides. He can rock up on his knees to get
closer, gaining the advantage of height as well as proximity, and Takeshi
capitulates easily, leaning back at the wall behind him and letting his hold at
Hayato’s waist steady his balance. His skin is flushed warm under Hayato’s
fingers, his shirt loose enough that it gives immediately to the slide of the
other’s hand to let Hayato trace out the faint pattern of the healed-over scar
trailing across Takeshi’s chest.
“Distracting,” Hayato says without pulling away, growling the word against
Takeshi’s lips. Takeshi starts to giggle, startled sound falling between them,
and Hayato shifts his weight, brings his knee out so he’s straddling Takeshi’s
thigh instead of settled between the other’s legs. It’s an easy change, hardly
requires any thought at all, but it gives him a better angle for the movement
of his hips, lets him tip his weight forward so he can press up against the
other’s waist.
Takeshi’s response is immediate. He takes a stuttered-short inhale, his hand
dropping from Hayato’s waist to cling to his hip, and then he’s rocking up too,
his motion easy enough to belie the all-over exhaustion that usually leaves him
hazy and languid after training. The position isn’t ideal -- there’s a little
too much of a gap between them, Hayato’s knees aren’t close enough to actually
press them flush together -- but it’s enough for Hayato to feel the heat of
Takeshi’s cock through his pants, to make out the outline of pressure digging
in against his thigh.
“Very distracting,” he repeats, slow and dragging over the word as he trails
his hand back down Takeshi’s chest to fit his fingers along the top edge of the
other’s pants. Takeshi takes a deep inhale, heat audible in the breath, and
when Hayato hesitates into stillness he whines, arches up to press in against
the other’s hand like he’s pleading with movement instead of with words. Hayato
could keep teasing him, decides not to; he’s going hard to match, anyway,
Takeshi’s evident interest enough to fan heat into his blood, to send his pulse
pounding hard in his veins as he slides his hand down farther and presses his
palm against the laced front of Takeshi’s pants. That gets him Takeshi tipping
his head back, groaning appreciation into the air, and Hayato grins, blinks
himself into focus so he can watch the flutters of pleasure wash over Takeshi’s
features in response to the movement of his fingers against the other boy. It’s
thrilling to have such an immediate reaction to his motion, like he has all
Takeshi’s attention at the very tips of his fingers, and he’s smiling wider,
satisfaction unwinding hot under his skin before he rocks back over his heels
and draws his hand away from Takeshi’s clothes to fumble with his own.
It’s an easy process: the laces come free at a tug of his fingers, the slick
fabric of his shirt slipping out of his waistband as quick as he urges it.
Takeshi blinks himself back into some measure of coherency, draws his hands
back from Hayato’s hip and shoulder so he can manage the ties of his own
clothes. Hayato doesn’t pause to get them stripped farther; the air of the room
is cold enough that the blanket tangled around their legs is welcome, the heat
of desire not quite enough to stand up to the cool temperature. Besides,
Takeshi is reaching for him, replacing his fingers at Hayato’s hips to pull him
in closer and urge them into each other’s space. When Hayato shifts his knees
Takeshi makes room for him, spreading one leg sideways and angling the other up
so they can press together, and the immediate closeness is more to Hayato’s
taste than anything more deliberate or lengthy.
“Come here,” he says, like they’re not already pressed in against each other,
like Takeshi’s head isn’t tipping forward to brace against his shoulder as
Hayato reaches to wrap his fingers around them both. It’s a stretch for his
hand, a little more than he can quite manage, but the heat of Takeshi’s cock
pressed flush against his is worth the loss of a little dexterity, nearly as
good as the groaning whimper the hold earns him. Hayato can hear every breath
Takeshi takes, the heat of the air blowing hard against his shoulder in time
with the tension of fingertips digging in at his hips, and he’s still grinning,
delight as bright in him as the pleasure of his fingers sliding up over
himself. When he turns his head his mouth fits in against Takeshi’s hair, his
smile forming itself to the shape of a kiss, and Takeshi inhales hard, turns
his head halfway to meet the pressure. Hayato shifts his hand, steadies his
grip, and then starts moving in earnest, stroking up over them both with the
deliberately steady rhythm he usually favors for himself. It’s familiar, the
pattern of his movements promising rapid satisfaction for his own purposes, but
more importantly it makes Takeshi shudder against him like he’s embodying
electricity, knocks him breathless and trembling until the weight at Hayato’s
shoulder becomes a lean in truth, until the hands at his hips are clinging to
balance instead of just the ease of contact.
“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the sound flushed on his tongue. Hayato presses his
thumb in against himself, bracing his movement so he can tighten his hold
against Takeshi and get the other to whine a note of reaction shaped around his
name. “Hayato.”
“Yeah?” he manages, sounding breathless and shaky himself, but it doesn’t
matter; Takeshi’s fingers are working against his hips and Takeshi’s breathing
is coming fast enough that how Hayato sounds won’t matter at all. “What do you
want?” He turns his hand, drags friction in over the dark-swollen head of
Takeshi’s cock; he can feel the full-body tremor that runs through the other
boy, the desperate gasp in his breathing as he tries to rock his hips up to
thrust against Hayato’s hold.
“Ah,” Takeshi pants, “More,” and his hand is pulling away, his fingers dropping
to fall into alignment with Hayato’s. It interrupts Hayato’s movement, catches
at his fingers and stalls him still for a moment, but it’s only for a breath,
barely long enough for him to growl frustration at the loss; then Takeshi’s
hand is lining up with his, fingers meeting thumb on either side, and when
Hayato moves again Takeshi’s hand does too. It’s better immediately, even
though their motion is slowed by the delayed reaction before Takeshi catches
the rhythm; the friction of Takeshi’s fingers against him aches instant heat
under Hayato’s skin, fractures his thoughts into raw want, and the sounds
Takeshi is making against his shoulder are just further encouragement. They’re
inhales, mostly, but coming out of pattern and shaking in his throat to match
the tremor in his body until Hayato thinks he could track Takeshi’s pleasure
just from the arrhythm of them.
“Fuck,” Hayato says, the word nearly involuntary against Takeshi’s hair.
Takeshi’s moving in sync with him now, gasping air against his shirt, and
Hayato’s starting to tense, his legs trying to press him closer and his back
arching with the anxious want building under his fingers. “Fuck, Takeshi, you
had better not stop.”
“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the syllables clear in spite of the way his voice is
melting open on heat. He’s leaning hard against Hayato, his weight digging in
against the other’s shoulder, but his hand is still moving without hesitation,
still tracking Hayato’s rhythm without stopping. “I’m…” The words are lost to a
choking exhale as Hayato’s fingers catch against the head of Takeshi’s cock
again; Hayato closes his hand hard at Takeshi’s shoulder, braces him in place
as he keeps moving. “I’m.”
“I know you are,” Hayato growls, gasping around the drag of air into his
desperate lungs. “Just don’t stop, Takeshi.”
“Okay,” Takeshi pants, agreement coming so easy Hayato’s not sure he’s
listening at all, and then, before Hayato can ask: an open-throated moan, hot
and helpless, and Takeshi’s shuddering himself into pleasure as he comes across
the tangle of their fingers. Hayato’s exhale turns into a purr of satisfaction
in his throat and Takeshi was listening, enough that even as his shoulders
shake through the waves of pleasure his fingers keep moving, urging the tension
in Hayato’s body closer to the breaking point. It only takes another few
strokes; Takeshi is encouragement enough on his own, with the half-convulsive
whimpers of reaction he’s spilling against Hayato’s shirt, and Hayato was
thrumming with tension even before. His fingers tighten, press indentations
against Takeshi’s shirt and shoulder at once, and then his thumb catches with
Takeshi’s fingers and he’s gone, he’s gasping into Takeshi’s hair and coming
over Takeshi’s shirt and everything is white, the calm of satisfaction sweeping
through him to knock him loose-limbed and endlessly warm.
Takeshi sighs a note of pure relaxation against Hayato’s shoulder. “That was
fun.”
“Your shirt’s a mess,” Hayato observes.
Takeshi tips his head down to consider without lifting the weight from Hayato’s
shoulder. “Mm, yeah.” His fingers loosen, his hand slides free, and when he
reaches for his shirt it’s to wipe his hand clean at the edge of it before he
leans back to tug it up over his head.
Hayato can’t keep from smiling, his expression made soft with the fond
affection he usually tries to restrain. It doesn’t seem important right now,
with Takeshi emerging flushed and warm from his shirt and offering it as Hayato
eases his sticky hand free of his lingering hold. Hayato wipes his fingers more
or less clean, pulls his own clothes back into order as Takeshi does the same,
and by the time he’s tossing the balled-up shirt aside to deal with later
Takeshi is reaching out for his shoulders again, leaning forward to wind his
arms around Hayato’s neck and draw him back down to sprawl across the window
seat.
“I wasn’t done studying, you know,” Hayato points out as he capitulates
completely to let himself tip forward and lean against the support of Takeshi’s
chest.
“That’s okay,” Takeshi says. “You can take a break for a little while, right?”
“Give me the blanket,” Hayato growls instead of answering, and then, when
Takeshi is laughing and tugging the blanket up over them, he leans in to catch
the corner of the other boy’s mouth with his. Takeshi hums, turns to meet
Hayato’s lips more fully, and Hayato presses closer, curls a hand around the
back of Takeshi’s neck more for the skin-to-skin contact than to hold the other
boy in place.
He doesn’t need to hold Takeshi here. Neither of them are going anywhere.
***** Unmasked *****
“You don’t need to do that,” Takeshi points out from where he’s sitting at the
edge of he and Hayato’s bed. “We’re probably going to have new clothes made for
the ceremony anyway.”
“Shut up,” Hayato says as he tugs another coat from the wardrobe to eye as
critically as everything else he’s looked at so far. “You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty sure,” Takeshi says with no trace of irritation at Hayato’s tone.
“It’s kind of a big deal, welcoming the visiting queen on her introductory
tour.”
Hayato snorts, drags a coat free without looking at it and turns to toss it at
Takeshi’s smile. It flutters through the air, the fabric catching too much air
resistance to be an effective projectile; if Takeshi didn’t lunge forward to
catch it, it wouldn’t hit him at all before landing harmlessly to the floor.
“I’m aware,” Hayato snaps, turning back to the clothes because it’s easier to
look at the array of bright colors than to try to meet Takeshi’s gaze while he
speaks. “She’s my sister, I’m perfectly fucking aware.”
There’s a pause, the room hanging breathlessly quiet as Hayato closes his eyes
and tries to push back the emotion constricting in his throat. In the silence
the sound of the coat landing on the bed is perfectly clear, as easy to make
out as the rhythm of Takeshi’s careful footsteps coming closer. Hayato doesn’t
try to move away any more than he turns around; he just waits, eyes shut and
throat tight, as Takeshi presses in against his back and fits his arms around
Hayato’s waist.
“It’ll be okay,” Takeshi says, his voice clear with the optimism that he has
always been better at than Hayato. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
“It’s been six years,” Hayato manages, achieving something closer to a growl in
his throat instead of the threat of a sob it feels like. “How do you know
that?”
“She loves you,” Takeshi says, simply, like it’s an obvious fact. “Like I love
you.”
That makes Hayato laugh, a sharp burst of amusement that startles him as much
as it unknots his shoulders. “Not quite like you love me, I hope.”
“Mm,” Takeshi hums, sounding warm and amused at his shoulder. “I guess not.” He
presses close against Hayato’s hair, nudges against the weight of it until he
can fit his lips against Hayato’s forehead in a kiss made no less warm by the
comfort of familiarity in it.
“Idiot,” Hayato says with no fire in his voice, with nothing but the low purr
of affection on his tongue. He tips his head to the side, lets Takeshi press a
trail of kisses against his hairline while he reaches out towards their
combined wardrobe again with far less of the nervous energy that started him on
this process.
He doesn’t immediately recognize the coat he touches next. The embroidery is
familiar, the suggestion of birds across the shoulders tugging at some near-
forgotten memory; he’s frowning at the fabric, working the edge of the sleeve
through his fingers, when Takeshi lifts his head and says “Oh” in such a
starstruck tone that Hayato turns to look at him without thinking.
“What is it?” he asks, still grimacing at the itch of almost-recollection at
the back of his thoughts.
Takeshi slides one of his hands free, reaches over Hayato’s shoulder to catch
the fabric in his fingers. “I didn’t know I still had this,” he says, sounding
awed and warm.
“What is it?” Hayato repeats, frustration starting to settle in his throat.
Takeshi’s laugh is shocked, like he’s remembering something pleasant and
private, and Hayato is about to snap tell me what the fuck it is when he says,
“It’s my costume for your masquerade ball,” and all Hayato’s irritation
evaporates into a burn of sudden heat.
“Oh,” he says, in the first blank surprise. “Oh.” He reaches out, shoves the
other clothing aside, and it is, the color and pattern clear as the coat comes
into view. Hayato remembers the texture, now, remembers the catch of silk
threads against his hands when he grabbed at the front of this jacket, the
faint shocked-pleased sound the stranger -- Takeshi -- made when their lips
met. “Fuck.”
Takeshi’s fingers slide over the patterns, trace out the lines while Hayato is
still too frozen by shock to move. “You were so beautiful,” he says, slow and
dreamy like he’s years in the past instead of pressed flush against Hayato’s
shoulders with an arm around the other’s waist. “I thought so even before I saw
you on the balcony.”
“I can’t believe I kissed you.” Hayato’s fingers tighten on the fabric,
remembered frustration sliding into his veins in a ghostly echo of the original
sensation. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was you.”
“You said not to,” Takeshi says, simple and straightforward.
Hayato huffs exasperation. “Do you always do whatever anyone tells you?”
“Mm.” Movement, another kiss, against the edge of Hayato’s jaw, this time. “I
do whatever you tell me.”
Hayato reaches up to smack Takeshi’s shoulder without any force and gets
himself a laugh for his trouble. “Idiot,” is what he says, but he’s smiling,
now, pleased in spite of the embarrassed flush spreading over his cheeks. “What
were you supposed to be, anyway?”
“A swallow,” Takeshi says, tugs at the sleeve of the coat so Hayato can see the
silver threads outlining a rather artistic representation of wings across the
shoulders. “The mask had feathers, too.”
“It did not,” Hayato insists. “I would remember those, at least.”
“It did.” Takeshi unwinds himself from Hayato’s waist, steps in closer to reach
up to one of the higher shelves; he fumbles for a moment, brow knitting in
concentration, before coming back with a mask pinned between his fingers.
“Here, see?”
It’s more than strange to have the cause of so much past trouble in Hayato’s
hands. Hayato recognizes the basic shape of the mask -- the silver framework,
the elaborate gilding around the eyes and the edges. There are feathers after
all, sprays of them on either corner, but he can see now why he didn’t notice
them, when all he could remember were the color of the eyes they were framing.
“Put it on,” he says, offering it back to Takeshi. He retreats back to the bed,
leaves the wardrobe open behind him while he takes Takeshi’s previous perch at
the edge of the mattress. Takeshi ducks his head, ties the mask on with a
tangle of dark ribbon, and when he looks back up he’s very much as Hayato first
saw him, if more casually dressed. His smile is the same, the tremor of his
laugh the same, and when he pads across the room to join Hayato at the edge of
the bed his eyes are the same, all gold color and dark lashes like Hayato
remembers. The pattern of the feathers is nearly lost in his hair, the dark
blue of their color fading into the black of the locks; Hayato reaches out to
trace them, running his fingers along the pattern while Takeshi watches his
face with soft attention in his gaze.
“I should have recognized you,” Hayato says idly. It’s hard to believe, now,
that there was ever a time he didn’t, when he didn’t know the lines of
Takeshi’s face or the curve of his smile with or without a disguise.
Takeshi’s smile goes wider as he turns his head to press his mouth to the
inside of Hayato’s wrist. “You did,” he says. “Eventually.”
“We could have had that week too, though,” Hayato growls. It’s a common
complaint, one made easy with habit and meaningless with time, but he offers it
anyway because it makes Takeshi laugh, brings him rocking in close enough for a
kiss.
“Haven’t we made up for it?” Takeshi asks.
“Hm,” Hayato says noncommittally, and tips forward to catch Takeshi’s mouth
with his in one rushed movement. His hair catches on gilt, strange nostalgia
for a memory long past, the warmth of Takeshi’s mouth fitting as perfectly
against his as it ever has. It’s an odd feeling, like he’s coming unstuck in
time, and when he pulls back it’s so he can tug at the ribbons of the mask to
pull it off. It goes easily, gives way to the urging of his fingers so he can
set it aside, and then it’s just Takeshi in front of him, his features as
familiar to Hayato as his own.
“I like you better like this,” he says, and Takeshi laughs and pulls him back
into another kiss.
In a week Hayato will see his sister again for the first time in years, will be
reintroduced to the newly crowned queen of his native country as the consort to
the prince of this one. Right now, with Takeshi’s smile against his lips and
the patter of rain outside their window, he’s more hopeful than nervous.
As long as he has Takeshi with him, he can face anything.
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