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Wataru works to the sound of Keito’s breathing.
It goes in, goes out, in stressed little huffs as if he were still back in that student council room, scribbling away at formalities and obligations. And with each breath Keito takes, up goes Wataru’s paintbrush along the boards that will form the castle wall. And with each little sigh that escapes Keito’s lips, the brush comes down, filling any gaps and holes with the deep gray they chose for the stones.
So Wataru hears precisely when that rhythm evens out, grows softer. His brush stills, the bristles soft on the wood, and he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder.
Ah, he thinks with a smile on his lips, that bed can’t be comfortable—Though it’s stacked atop an ornate bedframe so meticulously assembled by Shu, the bed itself still just made with cardboard, after all. And yet, there he is, his arms tucked under his head for want of a pillow.
His glasses are askew on his face, slipping ever so precariously down his nose, and Wataru’s smile only grows. He reaches behind him just far enough to pluck them off his face.
“Now, now, Keito-kun,” he whispers so gently, as not to wake him, “we can’t have you go breaking these.”
Keito shifts just slightly, the thick quilt wrinkling beneath him. When he breathes out again, a little groan comes with it.
“How ambitious you are, to try and steal the role of Sleeping Beauty from me.”
Keito says nothing, true to the role indeed.
“Perhaps, then, I shall play the prince?”
When Keito remains asleep, Wataru quirks his head to the side, allowing the little idea creeping up his neck to wiggle its way into his ear. When it’s securely in place, he stands up and spins on the ball of his foot, hair flying around him. He pays no mind to the strands which grasp for Keito’s arm as if to pull it along with him, no—There’s work to be done.
And so he slaps the eager hair down and darts away, toward the open cans of gray paint and their heady fumes.
He finds the rack of unfinished costumes behind the wooden castle walls, trim half-sewn and appliqué barely started and hems so long they pool together along the floor in a sea of vibrant color. He parts the sea with his toe and rummages through the lineup until his fingers graze along a fine silk that shimmers elegantly under the light.
The dress comes off the rack with a flourish of rippling, iridescent detailing, the netting that’s sewn into the front of the dress shining brilliantly against the deep rose of the gown.
He appraises it with a grin, lip curling up to reveal his teeth as his idea spins fantasies faster and faster upon the spindle.
And like that he returns, first peeking out from behind the castle wall to check that Keito is still fast asleep—And when he hasn’t stirred, Wataru alights with ecstasy and bounds back to him in just two quiet taps across the stage floor.
“A princess should look the part,” he sings to himself in soft undertones as he gets to work, picking at the dress so carefully, working the sleeves down his arms as Keito’s head rests heavy on Wataru’s shoulder. He’s big and heavy, quite unlike his experiences dressing up Mademoiselle in the beautiful clothes Shu had sewn for her.
The doll that’s in his arms now is warm, soft in the most unexpected places, and he smells of the tea that couldn’t quite keep him awake. It’s different from the blonde curls he’s pushed aside to button up a tiny cotton dress; even though Wataru has to crane his neck, he can see down Keito’s back without obstruction, and the zipper goes up smoothly, without even a strand of hair caught in its teeth.
Still, he thinks, there are some similarities here. For one, Keito is completely limp, and Wataru has to do everything himself. But more than that, he realizes when he lifts Keito’s head off his shoulder and gets a good look of his work, he’s just as lovely as any doll.
Pleased with himself, he lays Keito back down on the cardboard bed, fanned sleeves framing his face where hands meet cheek.
Amazing, his mind shouts where mouth stays closed. A prank of the highest quality, fully realized without so much as a wince of Keito’s eyes. In fact, it seems his sleep has only deepened, his little breaths drawing out into tight-lipped snuffs and snores. Wataru briefly considers the events that might have led him to such exhaustion but ultimately realizes it could be any number of possibilities—Amazing!
So he thanks the gods for the opportunity he’s been given and moves on quickly from that train of thought; it doesn’t matter anyway. Sleeping Beauty slumbers peacefully as Wataru twirls away to admire his masterpiece—and it is a masterpiece.
Though the walls of the castle are half-finished and crumbling around him, Keito looks every bit the picture of the poor fabled princess. His hair falls across his eyes and creates a short curtain, and his frown is deep as his sleep. They haven’t yet adorned the bed with all the trappings they’ll use during their performance, and yet Keito fills the bed with his aura of grandeur alone, the unfinished dress custom-made to fit Wataru’s build draped over the edges of the bedframe.
Wataru hums. Such a princess needs a prince befitting of her, a prince to rouse her from such accursed sleep—and so he realizes that his prank has not yet reached its climax.
He dances away to the costume rack.
The prince’s costume is tucked between the glittering ball gowns of the fairies, all tulle and sparkles and massive skirts that protrude with grace from the bodice. The prince is more muted and small, a tight green linen tunic and tan leggings. It’s nothing so extravagant as the fairies or the Beauty, herself, and Wataru almost turns his nose up at it. Still, off the rack it comes, taking with it the magic dust and glitter that clings to the fabric.
If it’s a role he’s been given, then he’ll perform it perfectly.
The belts and other adornments haven’t yet been procured, and so the tunic drapes over him like a curtain, no embellishments to accentuate his body or flatter the eye. But he looks every part a prince, standing tall and proud in knee-high leather boots that wrinkle just a hair around his ankles.
He takes a step back from the rack—and an echo follows.
Wataru’s ears prick up when another step comes, and another, and then all at once they stop.
“The heck’s going on here?”
Leo’s voice carries through the castle walls—well, of course. They are just wooden boards. And oh, what a pity. He’s been found out before he can complete his prank.
He goes to reveal himself—
And stops short when Keito’s snore is cut off with a gruff shout swallowed by sleep. “Wh—?! What’s going—?!”
Leo bursts out laughing, fanciful melodies passing over the castle walls like arrows and assaulting Wataru in a barrage of quick whoops. “You’re all red, Keito! What’s up, you eat something too spicy?”
“Tsukinaga—” Keito starts, voice low and threatening. But he cuts off with an almost comical yelp, and Wataru’s ears grow as they listen for Amazing. “What the…? D–did you do this, Tsukinaga?!”
Leo’s sweet melodies become riotous cackles. “Nope! But I wish I did!”
Wataru can’t take it any longer—He leaps out from behind the wall with a shout that causes both of them to jump. Keito falls back in the bed and just narrowly avoids tumbling over entirely.
“Hibiki?!” Keito accuses, hand grappling desperately for his glasses.
“It was I!” he announces so graciously, confetti popping before him to accentuate his grand entrance. “Your very own Hibiki Wataru…!”
“Like hell you’re mine—!” Keito continues fumbling, red face deepening until his skin melts into the rose of his gown. “And just where are my glasses?!”
Wataru fixes them on his face, leaving him sputtering and reeling backward from their too sudden proximity.
Now that Keito can see properly, he takes another look at his attire, up at Wataru’s, back down at his own. His fist grips the quilted spread beneath him and he takes a few deep, centering breaths—although all three present know just how well that works for him. When he’s let out a final breath, he sucks it back in quick and angry and—“Is this your doing, Hibiki?!”
It’s Wataru’s turn to cackle, and he does so with great gusto, pulling Keito up in one motion and spinning him around as rose petals descend around them, a perfect picture for the silver screen. “May I have this dance, Princess?”
“Don’t—! Don’t just—!”
“Oh, are you too flustered? Have I been too bold?” Wataru teases, leaning in close so that his breath tickles Keito’s ear. “As have you, my fair lady. Stealing away with another man? What’s a poor prince to do?”
“Stealing away?!” Keito repeats, but it seems all he’s capable of as his eyes dart around the set and between them and out to Leo as if to beg for assistance.
Leo does no such thing, the perfect unwitting accomplice for Wataru’s charades. Instead he laughs and does a spin of his own. “Good one, Wataru! Next time let me be the princess, though!”
“But of course!” Wataru promises as he dances across the stage with Keito in his arms. “Your wish is my command!”
“I’ll hold you to it!” Leo promises, rummaging through a box nearby, a growl in his throat.
“You’re both insane!” Keito shouts in varying degrees of panic as Wataru lowers him into a dip.
“Is that what you think of me, Princess?” Wataru says, hair falling over his shoulder and brushing gently against the fabric of Keito’s dress.
“Quit—Stop calling me that!” he demands.
Leo’s rummaging gets louder until he lets out a little wordless shout and produces a stack of papers from deep within the confines of junk. “My score! Just what I was looking for.”
“What the hell was it doing there…?” Keito groans miserably.
“Lost it!” comes Leo’s simple explanation. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to—whatever you’re doing! Buh-bye!”
“Wait, don’t just leave me here with h—!” Keito tries so hard, but Leo rushes away without ever looking back. And then they’re alone.
Keito dares to look back at Wataru.
Wataru tilts his head, loose hair trailing over Keito’s arm. “Now, aren’t you going to apologize?”
“Apologize?” Keito repeats, batting Wataru’s hair away. “That’s my line.”
“Oh, but we’ve switched roles, haven’t we?” Wataru gestures down at their costumes as he pulls Keito back up, spinning him around once more until he lands unceremoniously into Wataru’s arms. “And now you’ve become the coquettish princess who’s cheated on her prince. Oh, what drama! What tragedy! Amazing!”
When Wataru flings his arms wide, Keito goes tumbling with them, feet heavy on the stage as he tries to keep some sort of balance in the trailing dress pooling around him. “Cheated on you? Where did you get that idea?”
“Sleeping Beauty awakens with true love’s kiss,” Wataru explains, drawing in close. A single finger runs along Keito’s jawline, and Keito freezes, watching it move as best he can with his eyes alone.
“That’s—” Keito swallows. “That wasn’t—”
“What a dreadful twist,” Wataru laments, sagging into Keito’s arms. “To think the poor prince, who had fought so bravely to rescue his beloved, would be betrayed so cruelly!”
Keito grunts under Wataru’s weight and wiggles around, tugging and pulling at the dress not made for him. “I didn’t betray you, Hibiki. Stop being so dramatic.”
“And now the princess has sentenced the prince to his death!”
“Jesus—” Keito’s grip on Wataru tightens, then tugs and pushes at him until Wataru is standing somewhat upright. “Fine. Fine, I’ll prove it.”
“Oh?” Wataru’s tears dry up instantly as he listens intently. “And what will you do?”
Keito barely looks at him as he leans in, his face little more than a scowl. But it’s enough for Wataru when lips meet lips. And so true love saves the day, the metaphorical fireworks exploding behind them like the emotional ending scene of a beloved childhood movie.
When Keito pulls away, the scowl is replaced by something softer, a gentle dusting of pink sloping over his nose and cheeks, and he still won’t look at Wataru. “There. Happy?”
Wataru, for all his years of practice and expertise in improv, can’t hide his smile. “Oh, I am delighted—The kingdom is saved! The princess is rescued! They all lived happily ever aft—!”
“Hibiki!” Keito shouts in a display much more suited to him, pushing Wataru away gracelessly, stumbling a little over the hem of his dress. “For the record, this doesn’t mean anything. It was just to get you to shut up.”
“Oh, yes yes, of course.” Wataru nods along seriously, watching as every conflicting emotion plays on Keito’s face. He never has been a good actor—He’s far too genuine.
“It will never happen again!” Keito insists, stumbling a little over his words this time.
“I never said it would, Princess,” Wataru retorts with a sly grin, a knowing grin, and Keito stammers wordless noise and twists up his face in something that doesn’t quite resemble anger.
“You—” Keito stops there, words cut off by the emotion that seems to spill out of his mouth. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “You are utterly incorrigible.”
Wataru throws back his head and laughs, guiding his hands closer until they’ve wrapped around Keito’s. “Fair lady, don’t you know that movies are supposed to end on a happy note? So please—let us finish our dance.”
Though Keito’s breaths are jagged and sharp, he says nothing and allows Wataru to lead him through the motions. He spins Keito around and then becomes bold, empowered—
He draws him in for another kiss, a simple kiss that lingers on his lips long after Keito has twirled away. He pays no mind for the incoherent shouting around him—only the man before him, dripping in decadence and silk, face red and curses irate but steps never faltering, always perfectly in sync as Wataru leads him across the stage.
Wataru thinks that perhaps, the kiss meant a little more than nothing.