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“Momota-chan, hey.”
Momota looks up from his sword, tossing the cloth he was using to polish it over his shoulder as he lifts his gaze to meet Ouma’s. The prince is standing in the doorway of Momota’s room, arms folded and a single eyebrow raised, gazing down at Momota in the way that he only can when Momota is seated. He’s dressed surprisingly casually in stockings, a simple dark purple tunick, and his characteristic black and white checkered neckerchief.
It’s not so uncommon for Ouma to seek him out, but Momota’s still a bit hesitant as he lifts a hand and waves. Ouma would usually have said what he wants by now, if anything, and the look on his face—mild but expectant, his eyebrow lifted—makes it impossible to tell what’s on his mind. Momota shifts under the weight of his gaze and lifts a hand in greeting.
“Hey, your highness,” he says, inclining his head. “What’s—”
“Dance with me,” Ouma interjects. Momota blinks.
“Huh?”
“You’re just polishing your weapons right now, right?” Ouma strides forward, bumping the door shut with his elbow and crossing the space to stand right in front of Momota. Their knees are close enough together to brush. Momota stares up at him, doesn’t protest as Ouma reaches out to take the sword from him. “It looks pretty clean to me! So put it aside and dance with me, okay?”
Without actually looking at the blade, Ouma tosses the sword onto the bed and puts out a hand. Momota stares at it, feeling heat rush to his neck, his ears. Ouma hadn’t even really looked, not that Momota thinks he would’ve cared if the weapon had actually been dirty. But still, he has to have some kind of game here, doesn’t he? Momota has only been serving as Ouma’s personal guard for a few months, but he knows the prince well enough by now to know that he never does anything without a good reason. He’s cunning, despite his innocent appearance—he must want something. It can’t be as simple as wanting Momota to dance with him.
Thus Momota doesn’t reach up and take Ouma’s hand, looking up at his face instead in the hopes of finding his answers. Ouma’s smiling now, a daring grin that crinkles the edges of his eyes, and it’s ridiculously distracting, but he’s stupid if he thinks Momota’s just going to dance on his command. Figuratively and literally.
Without breaking eye contact, Momota reaches back for his sword, feeling around carefully until his fingers close around the hilt. “I’m busy, your highness. I’ve got a lot more shit to polish right now—it’s not just about looking good, you know? It’s about maintaining the quality of my equipment so it lasts longer—”
“But what about maintaining the quality of your prince’s life?” Ouma retorts, a pout on his face. He blinks, and tears well in his eyes. “What about spending time with me, Momota-chan? You never spend time with me.”
“H-Hey, don’t—” Momota sputters. “Come on! Don’t talk like I’m being a lousy friend, man, I’m your guard, it’s not like I’m honour bound to entertain you when I’m off duty!”
Ouma leans into Momota’s personal space. “But you’re required by oath to obey any command I give you, aren’t you?” His voice pitches low, eyes darkening as he gazes down into Momota’s eyes. Momota swallows, his hand stilling on his blade where it still rests on the bed behind him. “You have to do what I want you to, when I want you to… I am the heir to the throne, after all.”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of Momota. “You hate that rule,” he points out, lifting his chin in defiance. The weightiness of Ouma’s gaze is raising goosebumps on his skin, and not in a bad way—but still, he can’t indulge those feelings, can’t stare into the enchanting violet of Ouma’s eyes for too long, because— “You wouldn’t tell me to do something if I didn’t want to do it. Don’t try and play me like that, I won’t fall for it.”
“Oho, sharp, Momota-chan.” Ouma’s lip curls. He walks his fingers up Momota’s chest—and with his armour off, Momota can feel every point of contact, shivers as Ouma’s hand dances up his bare neck—until he reaches Momota’s chin. The touch is so bare, so light, Momota barely feels it at all, but it’s still enough to make him have to swallow, heart pounding against his ribs. “But I’m sharp too, you see? And I know that Momota-chan doesn’t really not want to dance with me… or he would’ve gotten mad by now, wouldn’t he? He would’ve told me to leave.” His fingers hook around Momota’s jaw. “He would’ve pushed me away the second I touched him, if he really wanted me to go.”
Damn this prince. Momota could lose his position if anyone else saw this, and he knows it. There’s a spark of something in Ouma’s eyes, though, tucked in there alongside the smugness and the defiance, and Momota can’t identify it. Or, no… he can, but he doesn’t want to; the answer is too dangerous.
Knowing that doesn’t stop him from leaning closer, though, one of his hands creeping up to rest against Ouma’s waist.
“I don’t know how to dance,” Momota says quietly, sincerely. “So even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. You would have to teach me.”
“Awww, what a shame!” Ouma grins, sharp at the edges, his eyes gleaming like he thinks the exact opposite. “I would hate to have to do that… have Momota-chan in my arms, trusting me and following my lead… really, that would just be the worst.”
Momota bites his lip, and Ouma giggles, pulling away. He taps Momota on the nose once before withdrawing completely, taking a few steps back so there’s a good amount of distance between them. Once he’s situated, he puts his hand out again, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s your call,” he says lightly. “I don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, and I set up a wild goose chase scavenger hunt for Toujou-chan if she does end up come looking for me… nobody will think to check here.” His eyes crinkle with a more earnest smile. “Momota-chan knows I wouldn’t force him, but I think it would be an awful shame if he didn’t know how to dance with some very pretty girl at the next ball.”
Momota snorts, releasing his sword and getting to his feet. “Yeah, right,” he says, brushing off his pants. “Like I could dance with a girl the way you’re gonna dance with me.” Still, he steps forward and takes Ouma’s hand, allows the shorter man to draw him in nearer and rest a hand at his waist. Exhaling, Momota puts a hand on the prince’s shoulder and closes his eyes, knowing that Ouma can hear how heavily his heart is beating.
Before Ouma moves, he leans closer and whispers, “Maybe not. But that’s exactly how I like it, you know.” He squeezes Momota’s hand, continuing, “Nobody else gets to see Momota-chan like this but me.”
“I’d let you see me however you wanted,” Momota returns without thinking. He tilts his head forward, allows Ouma to guide him into a movement. “Even if it wasn’t a royal order.”
Ouma hums, low, and Momota feels it through his chest because they’re standing so close. After a few moments of silence, Momota hears the prince shift, and opens his eyes just in time to watch Ouma rest his head against his chest, settling in like he belongs there.
God. There’s no way he doesn’t hear Momota’s heartbeat now. He can tell, too, that Ouma has noticed, because he smirks, a quiet little thing on his otherwise peaceful expression. When one of his eyes opens, it’s ridiculously, soft, his hand squeezing Momota’s.
“I know,” he says. “You couldn’t make it clearer if you tried.”