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Wherever Ryoma wishes, Saizo will go, even if it’s to his knees. Ryoma has never demanded anything of Saizo that he wasn’t already yearning to give, and he isn’t demanding of him now, although he could be. Instead, here in Ryoma’s bedchambers, Saizo takes the hand he offers, and they fold into each other in the evening light.
Their “feelings,” whatever those may be, aren’t hidden anymore — Orochi would jest that they never were to begin with — but for some time there's been an ember waiting to be fanned into a flame. Saizo feels the singe of it every time Ryoma’s fingertips meet his skin. Here, with his thighs straddling his prince’s lap and Ryoma’s broad hands at Saizo’s waist, pulling him closer, it’s a wonder that he hasn’t yet sparked into a wild brush fire.
Ryoma sighs Saizo’s name against his collarbone. Saizo doesn’t normally see him from this angle, considering the several inches of height Ryoma has on him; the dim lighting is warm on Ryoma’s cheekbones. Then he tilts his chin to look up at Saizo, almost playful, flush against his chest. “I want this, if you’ll have me,” Ryoma says carefully, as if to prevent his voice from faltering.
Saizo exhales a short breath of laughter. “If I’ll have you?” The kiss had already left him light-headed, but this stops his breath in his throat. The very idea. “Well, I doubt anyone has refused you before,” he ventures wryly, “and I won’t be the first.”
Unexpectedly, Ryoma’s grip on his waist slackens, and he lowers his gaze. Nearby, a candle flickers. In the split-second before he responds, Saizo freezes, immediately fearing he’s overstepped.
No, knowing he’s spoken beyond his station, and that he should have never have felt comfortable enough to tease in the first place. His stomach twists. Surely Ryoma will tell him —
“You are the first, in fact.”
Saizo frowns. He briefly tries to process the implications but comes out with nothing. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never done this with anyone but you,” Ryoma says simply, far too honest for his own good.
It strikes him silent. Ryoma feels Saizo’s muscles tense and meets his eye again, this time cocking his head to one side, loose hair falling over his shoulders. He trails a hand up and down the side of Saizo’s waist, thumb grazing the ribs in an attempt to relax Saizo that only makes him feel vaguely ill. “Does that surprise you?”
Saizo leans away, rocking back onto the balls of his feet, and it nearly kills him. “Mil —” he begins, then catches himself, “Ryoma. We should… I should stop.”
Saizo watches Ryoma’s hands fall to his thighs. Unlike Saizo, he keeps his voice level and cool, even though the furrow in his brow betrays his concern. “Yes, of course, but. May I ask why?” Saizo shuts his eye, trying to steady his breathing. “Are you alright?”
For all his political sensibilities and tactical cleverness, sometimes Lord Ryoma is, at best, willfully ignorant. Other times, a fool. Asking Saizo if he’s alright.
Saizo has to swallow down the uncomfortable burn in his throat before he can speak again. “I should not be the one to —” He opens his eye again, but averts his gaze. “I cannot ask this of you. My apologies. I’ll go.”
He doesn’t move quickly enough. “Oh.” Ryoma stills him with a hand on his wrist. “Saizo, please.”
He’s taken off-guard enough to glance back up at him. “Milord?” He doesn’t notice the mistake this time until it’s too late. Then again, he thinks with more than a hint of regret, he always knew keeping a professional distance was for the best.
But Ryoma’s gaze on him is soft, like the red glow dancing on the bedroom walls. There’s no laughter or mockery, but there is a faint smile when he continues, “I asked you here, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” He did. Privately and sweetly, in a quiet hallway barely an hour before, his palm resting against the small of Saizo’s back.
When Ryoma asked him to, Saizo followed him to his room without hesitation. Knowing full well that he could have refused, and that at the end of the night, he would still be his father’s son.
Saizo lowers back onto the mat. Sensing that he’s here to stay, Ryoma closes the distance between them again, and Saizo is grateful in spite of himself.
He opens his mouth against Ryoma’s and Saizo’s body immediately responds to the closeness, the heat of him; idle fingers find the nape of Ryoma’s neck, tangling loosely in his hair. When they pull apart to breathe Saizo tugs gently, tipping the prince’s head back to bare his throat. He kisses him there instead solely to savor the sound of Ryoma’s gasps.
“Saizo, tell me,” he begins again after a moment; he’s exploring the planes of Saizo’s skin beneath his shirt. The scarf and mask were discarded long ago. “If I don’t share this with you, then who else?”
No one, is what Saizo immediately wants to say. No one else. There will be no one left for me, either, after this.
Again, he’s not fast enough. As he’s sliding Saizo’s shirt haphazardly off his shoulders, Ryoma manages to read his thoughts. “There’s only you, Saizo. Yours is the only body I plan to learn, if you’ll teach me.”
His mouth is hot against the crook of Saizo’s neck, his words heavy with suggestion. Saizo's lungs feel tight. “Ryoma,” is all he can seem to say in return, “Ryoma.” The name tastes different on his tongue now, ashen like the aftermath of a controlled burn.