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Citron is borrowing oxygen when he kisses Itaru. He’s pressing closer, breathing in the scent of his skin, fingers in his hair. He doesn’t even pay attention to the movement, only the way Itaru feels on him.
When Itaru pulls back, Citron licks his lips and grins. “I love you,” he says breathlessly.
Itaru smiles back with a bright pink flush on his cheeks and doesn’t say anything, leaning his forehead against Citron’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Citron in lieu of saying anything back.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Citron says adoringly.
Itaru makes a noise. “You’re killing me here,” he says, turning his head so his lips tickle against Citron’s neck. “Stop that.”
Citron bursts out in laughter. “I tell no lies!”
Itaru laughs too, a giggle in his voice. “I’m not cute, but you are, Citron.” He pulls back and smiles, above Citron and looking angelically disheveled, because he’s Itaru and he doesn’t know how to look anything but perfect. Maybe it’s not a trait Citron should admire—but he’s jealous of it, in a way.
Itaru is lovely, and Citron is in love. Citron can’t see his traits as flaws—he almost wishes that’s how he looked, too.
Citron has been chasing perfection just like Itaru—chasing love that follows him wherever he goes, chasing a world where he’s seen as a perfect prince. The two of them are creatures from different worlds, and Citron can’t help but adore the way Itaru changes with the environments he finds himself in, without need for exaggerated masks.
Everything Itaru does, every step he takes, every word out of his mouth—it’s all Itaru.
Citron stretches himself up to bring Itaru down into another kiss. It’s hard to reach him, but he does anyway, bringing Itaru down to him like the sun meets the earth’s horizon. Itaru obliges easily, kissing him back without releasing Citron from his hold.
Citron pulls back, lies down against the couch and doesn’t strain himself. “You didn’t say it back.”
“Hm?” Itaru runs a hand through his hair—instinct, maybe, to smooth it out again. “Oh,” he smiles, leaning closer until he’s almost kissing Citron again. “I love you too.”
Citron believes it like he believes everything Itaru tells him. Even if back when he joined Mankai, he wouldn’t believe for a second that Itaru saying I love you would be a possibility, anything more than a trick or a ploy.
It’s hard to believe that Itaru ever didn’t adore him like this.
Now, he runs his fingers through Itaru’s hair and messes it up all over again. Ruining perfection isn’t a bad thing if it’s the two of them, who play their games and know that it’s not expected of them; these are things they’re not supposed to have. Their time is better spent on other things out in what others call the real world, but Citron is quite content here.
Making out is a better use of his time than kingship or work.
And then they’re kissing again, and Citron is still wondering how he does anything but love Itaru. How his life doesn’t revolve around love—the family they’ve made, the company they’ve found themselves in, and this moment.
A part of Citron’s heart still belongs to the crown, but the rest of him still belongs here, against Itaru’s lips and on Itaru’s couch, legs tangled together like Citron would never have been allowed before. Little things that break convention, and larger things that change his entire life.
The thing about changing is that Citron hadn’t even realized it happened until it was already too late.
Citron melted slowly into a new shape—from a king-to-be into something different, an actor taking different roles and a person who was able to love without doubt. Before, Citron wouldn’t believe a word of love, only knowing the competition of brothers, the need to be adored by the people without considering his own feelings.
Citronia was a cold person on the inside.
But Citron isn’t like that anymore. He shields the cold parts from view, holding it close and hoping that proximity will warm it up.
He’s not sure it has. Citron has a thousand faces, all of them not quite fake; all of them true in that they’ve shaped Citron into himself. He only knows that he believes in love now, pulling back from Itaru and kissing his cheek instead, the places his makeup has been washed off to show his light freckles, the bags under his eyes.
He wears it to work to hide flaws that don’t seem too imperfect to Citron’s eyes, rose-tinted though they may be.
He admires Itaru when he pulls back from kissing his cheek, and keeps his hand against the back of his head, trying to stop him from moving. Stay with me right now, he doesn’t say. Look at me.
Itaru stays still, and Citron wonders if he’s admiring him too, if he sees something in Citron that Citron never does when he looks in the mirror. For Citron, it was only natural to shape himself into what he was supposed to be, not thinking of his own feelings the way Itaru does—the way Itaru does what he can do to be what he himself needs.
Or maybe they’re the same. Citron wouldn’t mind that; he still wants to absorb Itaru, breathe in his air and know that there’s something there that only they have—similarities that can’t be erased.
They are in love. It doesn’t matter if they’re princes or actors or businessmen or gamers.
All they are is right here.
Citron holds onto that thought as he brings Itaru closer again, hand against his cool cheek. Citron will keep taking Itaru’s oxygen, breathing him in until he can see himself the way Itaru does. “I love you,” he says again when he pulls back.
This time, Itaru doesn’t hesitate. “I love you too. You were studying me pretty carefully.” He blinks, long eyelashes against his cheeks. His eyes are bright, and Citron wonders if that, too, is love.
Citron studies him—the softness of his skin, his gentle self, shining with sincerity. “I was thinking,” he says.
“About what?”
Citron doesn’t think he knows how to explain the way he used to live—the small glances at Itaru, the attraction with nowhere to go. The way he bottled himself up to be a prince, and the way he didn’t believe he could exist with love at first.
The way he loves Itaru. The way he wants to hold onto him forever, his perfections and imperfections.
Citron hums. “You,” he says, as if he’s smooth and romantic instead of complicated.
Itaru laughs softly again, like it’s a small joke—and it is, in the way that Citron puts on this mask to protect himself, but can’t help being genuine at moments like this, rubbing his thumb against Itaru’s cheek.
“I’m being serious,” Citron says, an impulse that widens his smile. “I’m thinking of you, and how beautiful you are.”
It’s so simple, to say that to Itaru, who turns slightly pink again, kissing Citron again. “I’ll take the compliment,” he says. “But that’s hardly something to think so hard about—I’d rather kiss you.” He does so, and Citron grins when he pulls back again.
“No, admiration for my lover is necessary,” Citron says.
Itaru is necessary to Citron—every part of him, from his eyes to his lips, his neck and his legs. Citron hooks his leg around Itaru’s and pins it down, and Itaru huffs out a short laugh. This is just a game, after all, and Itaru lowers himself to lie on Citron’s chest, face against Citron’s shoulder. “Really?”
“Yes,” Citron says. “Once, I didn’t feel as if I belonged here in Mankai—but now I do.”
Itaru gets a sad look in his eyes, but keeps looking at Citron. Even like this, he’s patient. “And what does that have to do with admiring me?”
“I’m simply happy that I have you,” Citron says, running his hand through Itaru’s hair again, smoothing it down this time and feeling the way Itaru fits into the space against Citron’s body. “I love you and the way you are, and that I’m allowed to be like you.”
Itaru is chasing the need to be someone who appears perfect—and now, Citron is chasing Itaru. That’s all this is, as Citron soaks up all of Itaru and hopes that this can stay forever—slow and forever warm, a fire in Citron’s chest. He doesn’t love himself as a prince, but Itaru makes it so easy to breathe.
Itaru’s eyes are smiling. “I’m glad I'm allowed to be like you,” Itaru says. “That we’re both actors. That I can do this.”
Citron thinks Itaru is going to kiss him again—smiles in anticipation. Itaru leans into his ear instead, and Citron lets him, anticipation building up as much as love does, trusting that Itaru understands his feelings.
“I love you,” Itaru whispers. “I want to stay with you forever.”
Citron feels warm all over, and he smiles as if he’s not moved by that, too. “Itaru…” he breathes, turning his head to meet Itaru’s gaze again as Itaru pulls back properly, above Citron again.
“You’re pretty when you’re flustered,” Itaru says, and Citron is suddenly aware of how hot his face is.
He laughs. “You’re quite charming,” he says.
Itaru just grins and cups Citron’s face against his palm, like he’s treasuring Citron the way Citron treasures him.
And that’s more than fine—it’s good to love, to be loved, to fluster and laugh like children with a secret. Citron reaches up to pull Itaru back down, pressing their lips together and letting that speak for itself.