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“Haru,” Makoto laughs softly into the spring breeze, the sound made more melodic by the faint jingling of a neighbor’s wind chimes. “Can I open my eyes now?”
“You asked two minutes ago, and the answer’s still ‘no’.”
“It was not only two minutes ago!”
“Three, then.”
The exaggerated groan from the brunet holds no actual irritation—as the moment after he chuckles exasperatedly—and his huge body flops down right beside Haruka’s folded legs on the new grass.
“Don’t blame me if I fall asleep waiting,” Makoto warns a minute later, a sleepy quality in his voice as though he was already drifting off. “The weather is so nice. It’s perfect for a nap.”
At the indulgence in Makoto’s tone Haruka looks from his work and back over at his best friend. A small smile, equal parts fond and disbelieving, tugs at his lips. Makoto looks every bit like the cats he so adores, sprawled out in a sunny patch as he is wearing an expression of utter relaxation and content. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to catch the faint rumble of purring, with how happy the brunet appears.
Amused by the thought Haruka allows himself to be distracted by their view of Iwatobi from their hilltop perch. The sea is calm, shimmering under the near-cloudless sky. The docks are nearly empty with a few of its inhabitants indistinguishable specks on the horizon and the streets that hug the coast are moderately busy. They lead toward the buildings that make up “downtown” Iwatobi to the right, and to the left turn more rural. The slope housing Misagozaki shrine is clearly visible and if he squints, he can make out the faint shape of the first torii.
He doesn’t stare for long. His attention returns to the mostly finished circlet in his lap and resumes deftly intertwining short, fragile stems with one another. It’s mostly clovers, the main reason the damn thing has taken so long to complete, but the pale orange of long fruit’s poppies and indigo of cobalt hakobe decorate it.
“Haven’t fallen asleep, have you?” Haruka asks lightly after a companionable silence lasting a few moments. He holds his creation in both open palms for self-inspection.
“Mmm,” Makoto hums and Haruka wonders if the noise is in response or on reflex. When he feels more than sees the shifting next to him he has to assume the former is true. “Not yet.”
“Good,” he replies, bodily facing Makoto. Adjusting to his knees so he can lean forward easier, the darker-haired of them settled the flower crown on the other’s head the best he could given the angle.
“I’m done.” Haruka announces as he sits back on his heels.
Makoto’s eyes are already open, blinking dazedly. He’s slow to prop himself on an elbow, raising the other hand to gingerly touch the clover leaves, and when he does he looks decidedly more awake. Casting Haruka a look of questioning surprise, his cheeks dusted a faint pink, he sits up all the way and carefully removes the crown with both hands. Upon the realization of what it is, the confirmation of what he thought it was, the whatever that makes him gape and deepens his blush, Haruka has to advert his gaze as heat builds in his own cheeks.
“Haru…” Makoto breathes in wonder after a few moments of nothing but the quiet rustling of trees. It prompts him to glance over and, then, scowl.
The brunet’s still holding the crown, so cautiously it’s as if it’s made of glass, looking at the thing like it’s a national treasure. While the open admiration is flattering, enough so that his heart skips, he didn’t painstakingly weave the easily broken stems of weeds and wildflowers together to be stared at.
With a huff Haruka reaches for, extracts, and deposits the flower crown back onto Makoto’s mussed hair, this time able to position it properly. It’s as he’s sitting back once again that he really sees his boyfriend and, inexplicably, experiences the sensation of falling.
Because Makoto’s expression is so soft, so unguarded. His eyes are made more vibrant by the light catching in them, by the awe and adoration in the now-chartreuse color. The flush across his face, extending all the way to the tips of his ears, is undeniably pretty and it’s unbearably cute how strands of sandy brown hair stick up at even odder angles than usual. Then, his lips quirk into a shy little smile, and Haruka curses how unfair it is.
Yeah, he’s definitely falling. But nothing so dramatic as all over again, just… deeper.
“So…” Makoto begins, trailing off and hesitant to continue. He’s obviously embarrassed for what it is he wants to say. “… Does this make me a prince, now?”
Haruka considers this with a thoughtful, “Mmn.”
He then shifts his weight from off his legs to sit on his backside and subtly scoot closer to Makoto. The notion isn’t lost on the other, and it’s no coincidence he lies back down on the soft and slightly damp ground. It’s then he’s reminded how grateful he is for their bond, that without even a word said he’s understood.
Following by example to join him in the grass, Haruka pillows his head against Makoto’s chest, right above his heartbeat just as he’s wanted to this entire time, and releases an appreciative sigh.
“No,” he finally answers. “It makes you a princess.”
He catches the way Makoto’s arm falters as it encircles his shoulders. The uneasy laugh, however, is more obvious with how it reverberates against his cheek and sounds overhead. Its reassuring intentions are lost and despite the warm, grounding weight slung over his neck trying to persuade him to remain still, Haruka folds his arms over Makoto and rests his chin on them.
Luckily, he only appears flustered. A tad puzzled, too, but nothing close to offended or upset.
“… Why a princess?”
Haruka blinks. It’s just now occurring to him he’s got to explain himself. Why it hadn’t earlier, before opening his mouth is beyond him. He wishes it would’ve, as he skirts his gaze away from meeting Makoto’s. No amount of burying his face into his boyfriend’s shirt will save him. He can’t avoid the question though, logistically, he can. They’ve always been open and upfront, and he doesn’t intend on changing that any time soon… even if this isn’t the most important or serious matter.
“Because,” Haruka manages on getting out, willing himself to ignore the heat building in his cheeks. “I’m the prince.”
Makoto’s hand comes to rest over his own, balled into a fist, and squeezes. He’s prompting for Haruka to continue.
“Princes… protect princesses.”
He feels Makoto’s heart stutter, hears it beat off-kilter and speed up. There’s a breathy ‘o-oh’ accompanying the change and the grip around his hand tightens. It ironically eases the worry knotted in his chest and Haruka can’t help scoffing to himself, at himself. Of course this would be his reaction, not to think it silly or childish and laugh but to be genuinely flattered into speechlessness.
Of course.
“But you know…” Makoto starts after the comfortable silence has continued on for quite some time. Haruka unclenches his hand, laying it flat, and Makoto’s fingers sneak into the spaces between his own. “Princes need protecting, too.”
Haruka knows the statement has little if nothing to do with being labeled as a ‘princess’. It’s not about social justice or political correctness. What Makoto means to say is it’s not a one-way street, that it goes both directions and even though Haruka is much more capable than himself he’ll be there for him when he can no longer manage on his own. While he’s not sure he believes in all that, that he’s any bit stronger than Makoto—because he’s not, really, just has strengths in different places—he wholly agrees on equality.
“Then we’ll both be princes.”