Chapter Text
1. The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and don’t love me back.
The first thing Suguru recalls when he wakes is a world he should not recall at all. The low canvas roof of the tent he lays back in looks for a moment like the expanse of a desert unfamiliar to him in this life.
In this life that is different to the last. It hits him hard and without mercy.
“Ah, you’re finally awake, princess,” Satoru murmurs from the left. He is no princess. He is bushi and the man working at his desk, the man whose tent he is in, the man he had almost risked his life to save for the hundredth time, is his king.
Satoru, it seems by some cruel twist of fate, doesn’t remember that he was once Suguru’s lover too. In another life. That Suguru can barely recall. He remembers the taste of Satoru's skin as though it were real.
He jerks up, feeling his cheeks heat at the state of his hair, the lack of his armour, the warm damp cloth that falls with a plop from his forehead and implies that his king had knelt to place it on his skin.
“My lord,” he manages, his voice quiet as though the sheer volume of it would betray the tightening and rapid clench of his heart. In this life, he realises, he loves Satoru in the most forbidden way a warrior can love their lord. In this life, he is doomed.
His lord moves from his desk, his long nimble fingers careful as they put away his ink and quill and instead sift through the strands of Suguru’s ink black hair.
“And what is this sudden obedience,” He teases, “Where has my unruly second in command gone? If all it took was a fall off your horse then I suppose I would’ve pushed you a long time ago.”
He is making light of the situation as he is always wont to do. Suguru had taken an arrow for him, the momentum had thrown him off his horse and to the stone below. Suguru had almost died for him. And Satoru, as usual, finds it hard to face the magnitude of his utter devotion.
In this life Suguru is in love with Satoru and Satoru does not love him back. In this life Satoru’s hair, a startling signifier of his heritage, of the family name he holds, is as soft as sunshine through the fog of their early training days and it falls over the sparkling eyes Suguru finds it hard not to stare into.
He raises a palm to his lord’s cheek. Holds his breath. This is further than he has ever gone before. In this life.
“Princess?” Satoru says, quirking his brow and smirking. As though they are not in the midst of war. As though Suguru’s very presence in his tent is not forbidden.
There’s a question in Satoru’s eyes, he thinks. The truth is he’s never been able to grasp the depths of them, the truth is that he’s been too scared to dip his toe in the expanse of them. The truth is that he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to do this.
He moves his hand to flick his lords forehead, hard and relentless. The moment, tension, memories, disperse with Satoru’s grunt and Suguru piles his hair on his head to ready himself for duty. “Call me princess one more time, my lord, and I’ll-“
“There he is! My grumpy wittle Sugu-“
The damp cloth lands against his lords face with a splat and the tent fills with his laughter.
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