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Sunlight fractures against stained glass windows, illuminating the massive room with colors of light that danced across the marble floors and bounced off of stone walls. The room is cold, a draft that permanently swirls around the people’s feet, leaving goosebumps and involuntary shivers in its wake.
Usually, servants would be bustling around, holding trays and pitchers, fine cloths of woven silk or crisp scrolls and hardback books for the king and his court. There is always a sense of urgency within the servants’ souls as they go to and fro, always on a mission, always in a rush.
Today, it is empty.
The silence is too much yet too little, settles into corners of the vast room and leaves behind a suffocating aura. It leaves a longing for business, an ache for relief from the stifling atmosphere.
They walk side-by-side, one with his head held high and the other with a hand resting on the hilt of a sword. It’s just the two of them, and there’s no need for a show of formalities, but it’s been ingrained into their systems by now. There’s no point in ignoring years of teaching and conditioning.
To anyone walking past the great hall, they might see a prince and his royal guard, both rigid and quiet in the way they move towards the thrones. Perhaps speaking in low tones about the upcoming events the prince was to prepare for. Perhaps the prince seeked advice from the king, even though everyone knew the king was away on political business.
The maids liked to make up stories. About the prince and his knight. How they were best friends since birth. How the royal guard saved the prince one day and they’ve been inseparable since. How the prince tells all his woes and fears to his guard, who vows to never breathe a word. How they go on many adventures and return with scars and excellent stories to woo the women.
But for a prince and his royal guard, it’s something entirely different. They are still rigid, still silent. Barely a word is spoken. But every-so-often, shoulders brush together, fingers come in contact with fingers. The pair act as if nothing happens. But they know better.
Or at least, they should know better.
Deep amber eyes spare a glance, just a quick personal indulgence of the eyes, to the knight strolling beside him. A moment too long, but a welcomed sight nevertheless.
He’s ethereal. It’s the only way to describe it. The way he holds himself, so regal-like, one might think he was the prince and not Hajime. Eyes greener, brighter than his own, deeper and full of loyalty, thoughtfulness.
If only he could stare longer.
But he doesn’t. The moment ends, and they’re standing in front of the three thrones, eyeing the largest with mixtures of distaste and disinterest. All three are beautifully crafted, carved wood and glistening steel meshed together to form seats worthy of the highest kings
He’s going to sit there someday. Akaashi says as much, head tilting ever-so-slightly to peer at the prince through his lashes. Hajime nods in acknowledgement, the beginnings of a scowl forming at the corners of his royal-resting-face facade. As every prince and king before him, and probably every prince and king after him, the thrones were meant to be sat upon. The thrones were meant to be ruled over.
“Let’s go.” It was a bad idea coming here. He thought it would help ease his nerves, help stop the worries and responsibilities of being the prince that weighs heavily on his shoulders. Help to come to conclusions about his place in this hierarchy of a society.
Hajime sweeps out of the room, robes billowing in his wake as his guard walks two steps ahead to clear a path for him.
He wishes they were side-by-side again.
. . .
It’s quiet outside. The palace ballroom is to their backs, illuminated with chandeliers and thousands of candles. Warbling, melodic music drifts from inside, bouncing off the golden arched windows with ease. The tittering laughter of guests is muffled, sounding drowned and underwater from where the prince is perched on an uncomfortable stone bench facing the royal garden.
“Dance with me.”
Dark brown, speckled with amber, turns its gaze from the silent darkness, blinking in quick succession. Processing the other’s words. Those same eyes flicker between the grand windows revealing the festivities, the stoic man in front of him, and the deserted gardens far to their right. There’s a glaze of uncertainty at the edge of his upturned mouth and furrowed brows.
The air is much cooler out here, Hajime notes. The ballroom had been stuffy, nearly suffocating in his tailored gala outfit, the jewel-adorned coat twinkling beautifully in the light but sitting heavy on his weary shoulders. Dancing with multiple people, multiple young women seeking his hand, did not help with the impending heat stroke and itching need to escape.
Knowing with a glance just how uncomfortable the prince felt with these royal formalities and the stuffy, boring people, his personal guard had easily escorted him out. A quick word to the king, a nod, and Hajime was swept away, bidding goodbye to the kind girl from some faraway kingdom his father was in a treaty with.
A hand presses against the small of his back now, a gentle touch that sends shivers down his spine. It hasn't moved from that spot since the pair retreated outside, hastily avoiding the awning windows with their two-way views.
He still hasn’t given Akaashi a response, still regards his knight with the stupid expression of someone caught off guard.
Keiji doesn’t move, stares back with all the cool, level-headed confidence that Hajime wishes he exhumed.
“Won’t we get caught.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A matter-of-fact statement, one they both know is true, one that can ruin their lives if they try anything. But that doesn’t stop the prince from standing, Akaashi’s hand slipping away as he takes a step towards the shadows.
The shadows are welcomed here. In the moments when they can breathe. In the moments when they push boundaries and step over stones. In the moments when they can turn a blind eye to customs and hierarchy tiers. The shadows keep their secrets safe.
“Not in the shadows.” Keiji graces him with a smile, not those tight lipped, fake ones meant for everyone to see but a real, genuine smile aimed for Hajime and Hajime only. And god, how he treasures each and every one of those ethereal smiles.
Ethereal. He’s always so ethereal. Another being, so high and far out of his reach yet always right here, right in front of him, within touching distance but with no way to close the ever rising gap between. He just wants to touch him without prying eyes, without rule or regulations, without titles. Without treason hanging over their heads.
To the shadows we go. To the safe space, the one place they lay in wait, in secret, in the stillness of nights and corners and the unseen.
Hands gently run down his body, smoothing out his collar and nimbly adjusting his stupidly heavy jacket before slipping to rest against the curve of his waist. Hajime hisses, unused to the contact but welcoming it nevertheless as Keiji steps closer, into his space, into his world, into his heart. Those hands squeeze his sides, a sweet reminder that they don’t have much time.
There’s never enough time.
The pair sway together. It’s quiet, as usual. Nothing ever really needs to be said between them. It’s always conveyed through actions or not at all. That’s how this relationship— or whatever it may be— operates.
The music continues to warble some sad tune, the guests continue to titter in overly fake laughter, and two young men hold onto each other and dance as if this is their last night on Earth.
There’s just never enough time.
. . .
Pale fingers graze through the flowerbeds, caressing the soft petals of nature’s beauty. Hard, gunmetal blue eyes gaze upon the royal garden, shoulders alert and tense as the hand recoils to fall lifelessly at the knight’s side.
It’s all one fluid, captivating motion.
He can’t help but watch, standing a few feet away from the kneeling man, entranced at the gentle movements. How he was careful to tend the flowers budding, how his fingers flitted between the soil and stems, as if this were a job designed for him only.
The urge to pick one of these sweetly scented blossoms is stomped down, along with the twinge of an ache to give away his pickings to the one kneeling, though nothing good could come from the sentiment. Nothing good could come from such a gesture.
Hajime turns instead, surveying the family garden. The plants stand tall and proud, another sign of just how tall and proud his father’s kingdom is. The prince can’t help but grimace, mouth curling into a displeased scowl. A tall and proud kingdom, indeed. Full of hatred and lies, deceit and trouble. Even with a just and wise ruler like his father, the kingdom and surrounding villages would never understand the work and dedication their patriarch put into keeping them alive. How many nights spent salvaging and preserving the good name of their home. How many lives were sacrificed for the sake of another new day. How many supplies—
“Sire.” The voice is quiet, but firm. Iwaizumi follows the sound, grateful for an interruption from his impending thoughts. His royal guard is staring up at him, still crouched in front of the bushes of hydrangeas that his mother had so meticulously picked out to be part of the expansive collection. The prince swallows, fists releasing, trying to remember when he’d tensed to the point of Akaashi noticing. But he nods, acknowledging the other’s voice, staring back and silently daring the man to say something.
“We should head back inside.” He’s drawing to his full height now, towering over Hajime by a couple of inches, but he’s never felt small in the other’s presence. Not even with the cold, uninterested stares, or the placid expressions and words. Akaashi was a trusted advisor, after all. His guard. Perhaps his friend, in some circumstances. But mostly someone who’d sworn an oath to protect the prince and the royal family until his dying breath.
Hajime hopes his friend never sees that day.
The prince spares one last glance at the garden’s beauty, noting that soon, winter will come and wilt away the petals and colors of these flowers. Much like the withering away of his alignment, where he stands, what he feels. But he wouldn’t dare voice that.
They walk side-by-side, silent as always.
Up the stairs, into the interior, into the safety of the only home he’s known. Into the awaiting expectations from a royal bloodline longer than he can trace back.
It’s always safe within here.
. . .
It’s midnight, give or take. The moon shines brightly, presents its luminescence that filters heavenly into his private quarters. It’s cool to the skin, even with the linens around him, the warmth beside him.
An arm is wrapped lazily around his bare waist, a soft breath fanning his exposed neck. It raises goosebumps along his flesh, makes the hair at the back of his neck rise in protest. It keeps him shivering, even while indulging in the warmth.
“I’ll need to get back soon.” It’s murmured into his shoulder, mouth pressing a sweet kiss there, then another, and another. Hajime groans softly, shying away from the affection. He’s much too sleepy, much too tired for this. He just wants to bask in this afterglow.
The plea to stay is on the tip of his tongue, there to hang in the air, hoping that it’ll be granted as his latest wish. But no sound leaves his throat. It betrays him, encloses and swallows back his words, never to be heard.
The warmth leaves him, just enough so that deep blue pools of light are staring into his own amber ones, shining with something close to mirth. His heart seizes, swells in size, screams at him to do something about it.
He doesn’t.
Hajime chooses to admire instead, calloused hand reaching up to brush through curls, locks of black that are soft to touch. He dwells in this moment, watching as Keiji’s eyes flutter shut, a sweet sigh of pleasure slipping out as he leans into the strokes. Putty. He’s absolute putty in the prince’s hands and if he was being honest, Hajime was just as moldable and willing as Keiji. Possibly even more so.
“I really have to go. They’ll be changing shifts soon.” His finger move on their own, tracing the outlines of this familiar face in front of him, catching the edges of sharp cheekbones, arched brows, full lips. He maps everything out, once, twice, wanting to follow this sea of smoothness that will never be enough.
“I will see you in the morning. Early practice?” It earns him a quiet smile, a submissive nod. They were never straying too far from each other, no matter the physical distance of one room and the other. No matter the changing shifts, tours of the countrysides, diplomatic meetings. Where one was, the other wasn’t too far behind.
“Until then.” Keiji whispers, leaning forward to cage the prince with his arms, eyes flitting over his face, holding his gaze. And Hajime basks in it, loves this attention from someone so dear and close to his heart. If only he could keep him here, stay in the moment forever.
Forever.
What a concept. He never imagined he’d find someone to feel this sudden need to spend forever with. And yet here he is, thinking such desirable thoughts with an angelic, otherworldly being that’s found favor in him.
Hajime smiles. Genuinely, brightly smiles at the man above him. Smiles with all the warm feelings he can muster as he props himself up to close the gap and press a gentle kiss on the other’s soft mouth.
They stay like that for a bit longer. Mapping out each other’s lips. Breathing in the same air, tasting the sweetness of the other. A moment of bliss in a never ending sea of worries and doubts, travesties and hardships.
But he’s leaving soon enough, whispering a final goodbye and a promise to see him at morning practice in a few hours. To get some rest, he’ll need his strength when they’re training for the day.
Hajime settles back after he’s slipped out, welcoming the cushioning linens and pillows. The bed feels empty all of a sudden.
He misses the warmth.
. . .
The attack was expected.
They’re an easy target, riding along with only a few guards, trying to travel light from one kingdom to the next for diplomatic purposes. It was a show, a trap really. Meant for the other party, not theirs.
Still, it doesn’t help that his newest royal guard is this pretty boy who looks five seconds away from toppling off his horse from how heavy the knight’s sword weighs him down. And the pinched expression he wears only sours the prince’s own mood.
Curse his father for supplying a personal guard to follow him everywhere. Was there no sense of privacy anymore? He’s perfectly capable of handling troublesome things on his own, as done for years now. Hajime doesn't acknowledge his self-proclaimed babysitter, choosing to focus on the mission at hand, the one that will bring another reward to the ever expanding kingdom. It’s always about the kingdom, always about expansion. When was it not?
The bandits ambush the small party on the outskirts of the next town over.
He’s on the ground before the others, sword drawn, teeth baring in a wicked snarl. Blood thrums against his eardrums, the smell of victory tangible, his skin warming in anticipation. How long since his last fight? Since the last time he drew swords and drew blood? Hajime admits it’s a sick sort of treat, always used to being shoved aside and told to “stay put Your Highness” and “the guards’ got it, this is exactly why they’re around.” Bullshit.
A glint of silver catches his eye and Hajime watches in dismay as his newest knight forces himself between the two groups, armor shining brightly in the afternoon sun, sword pointed non-threateningly towards the bandit leader.
Nothing is said, but the fire that blazes behind this guard’s cold eyes lights something deep within his gut that can’t be extinguished by a gentle gust of wind. Somebody whistles, and the two parties tense, although it’s his newest guard that speaks.
“Leave. Now.” It’s firm, a voice that is just as cold as the expression on this pretty guard’s face. An idiot snickers, unshaken by the command. The raven-haired man tilts his head, deep green flaring with something almost primal. He’s staring unblinkingly at the one who uttered a sound. “Unless you’re willing to face the consequences.”
Someone grunts. Metal scrapes against sheaths, iron flashes in the setting sun. Everything is covered in yellowing hues, oranges and pinks fading into the corners. It’s a rather beautiful sight, if it wasn’t for the commotion erupting around him.
He slices through them as if they were butter. It’s fluid, a dance of a movement, as if practiced and rehearsed for years. Hajime barely registers the brawl before this guard is kneeling in front of him, brows furrowing in concern. When did he end up on the floor? Why was his head throbbing? The vague, fleeting thought that this is the first time the other expressed any sort of emotion crosses the prince’s mind before he’s angrily shoving the knight away.
“That was reckless.” He all but spits, struggling to his feet and refusing the help others offer.
“It was inevitable.” Those cool eyes stare back at him, once more tucking away any emotions that could indicate that he’s of human origin. Hajime growls, turning his back without hesitation, already moving to secure his steed. He knows the other follows behind him, the footsteps give it away.
He knows he’s right. Hates to admit it, hates to even consider it. But it’s true. The fight was inevitable. The spilling of blood is always inevitable in the kingdom. Hajime tsks softly, the thought dampening his anger for a moment.
But just a moment.
He vows to find out this reckless man’s name from his father, demand that he’s taken off the royal guard roster. He refuses to have someone with this attitude, this perception of thinking, be the one to watch him daily.
Then things will go back to the way it was.
. . .
“Keiji.” It’s breathed out, barely a whisper, barely a sound. It’s muted against another’s mouth, as the mantra of a name is repeated. Over and over and over again. Two syllables that roll off his tongue so perfectly, as if the name was made for him and him only.
There is no response, but the softness underneath his fingertips is enough of an answer. The insistent clash of mouths, teeth, gums, is a dead giveaway. The pale fingers that grip the front of his nightshirt is sufficient. The soft gasps for oxygen is enough.
“Keiji.” He murmurs it again, pulling the other closer so their bodies are flush, wanting so desperately for the moment to never end. A hand is tangled in his hair, the other now gripping a broad shoulder as if he were an anchor against a stormy night at sea. His own hands have woven under the fabric of a shirt, coming into contact with warm skin. Something flutters within his chest as the touch he never realized he craved. It’s all heat, all cold, not enough, too much.
“Ha—“ The voice is cut off with another hard press of a kiss, stealing more breath away in its wake, lips retreating and reattaching, hands and fingers scrambling for purchase on the warmth enveloping them. Yet he tries to speak again, pushing the word out in choked syllables. “Hajime.”
Everything is on fire now. He feels too warm, too hot in his own skin. Clothes are weighing him down, he needs freedom, escape. A getaway from worlds to a small island of paradise, where the only things that matter most are right in front of him. Under him. Beside him.
Movements are frantic, breathing becomes labored, paradise is found. They end up in a tangled pile of limbs on the bed, warm and floaty, on a cloud and in the sky, never to tumble back to the land below. Never to see reality again.
What they have isn't natural. They know this. It isn’t approved, isn’t for the good of the kingdom, isn’t going to make Hajime a better king. It’s not a lot of things, to outsiders. But it’s something to them. To him.
It’s heaven. It’s hell. It’s limbo.
And he can’t get enough of it.
. . .
Cutting loose ends should hurt less.
The pair walk silently, accompanied by many others, who fuss over the attire and presentation of their prince. Nothing new, nothing out of place. Perfect, like their prince should be. Like he’s meant to be.
It should not sting, not burn him inside out, not make him want to weep like one of the newborns in the nursery. It should not leave him empty or cold. Nor should it root him in place, unable to move.
Akaashi looks straight ahead, eyes never straying. Never giving anything away. Like always. That was one of the things that he admired most. The royal guard is stiff, fingers twitching slightly as Hajime finally passes by, the fabric of the floor-length cape catching at the edges of those fingertips. What he wouldn’t give to reach out and intertwine their fingers. To bask in the warmth and cold and home that is Keiji. To hold on and never let go.
It was forbidden. It was scandalous. It was down-right disowning.
People murmur, point. Applause comes later, when he’s finally seated. It’s uncomfortable. Trumpets sound, someone announces the proclamation. Everything falls into place. His head feels heavier now than it did before. The world rests on his shoulders once more.
It rips through him, guts him from the inside out. Physical torture sounds far better than the mental and emotional toll saying goodbye does to a person.
He makes the mistake of sparing a glance. Just a peek. Just one last look, for old time’s sake. His appointed knight is making the effort to stare at the ceiling, those pretty blue eyes glazed with something close to unshed tears. It seizes at his heart, has him longing to reach out and cradle the man’s face in his hands.
But he doesn’t.
After all, this was never meant to be a love story.
Keiji— Akaashi kneels in front of him, fist over his heart, head bowed in submission. His throat feels tight, taking in the scene. The entire world seems to spin, all too fast and not fast enough. Blood thrums against his eardrums once more, but it’s no longer from anticipation. This is dread, disgusting and heavy in the pit of his stomach. The hoarse, quiet words pierce his cold flesh.
“My King.”
Porcelain shatters that day.