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“You don’t really like these parties either, do you, Hira?”
Koyama glances at him, and Hira’s skin prickles—he’s not used to being looked at, would rather be invisible. It’s surprisingly easy, even in a sea of people, the whole settlement out for the celebration. The tables are lined, the logs around the bonfire full, victorious warriors dancing in the central square while the others clap demonically and laugh. The minstrels are so loud that Hira could, perhaps, pretend he can’t hear Koyama, so he wouldn’t have to answer.
But Koyama’s always so nice to him, so Hira hums ascent. Of course he doesn’t. Hates them. He wants to grab one of the bloodied spears off the table and take out the hunters one-by-one, decimate the whole tribe, because they’re celebrating blasphemy like it’s a triumph to conquer cats.
Tails are wagging, ears quirked, drunken canine hybrids slobbering all over each other. The fire cracks louder as things once held in feline hands are merrily added to it. Glasses clink and people Hira’s always loathed bark about how easy the raid was, how swiftly they won. Fighters they killed, treasure they took. And all Hira can think is that the most beautiful creature in the world might’ve been there to witness the destruction. He might’ve had his things stolen, might’ve gotten hurt. Hira’s never been so ashamed of his species.
“We could leave,” Koyama tries, leaning in to counteract the roaring drumbeat. “We could go back to your place and draw...?”
Hira’s fists clench. He draws dull scenery when he’s with Koyama, but he paints a beautiful feline when he’s alone. A tall, lean body, exquisitely sculpted face, pouty pink lips and piercing eyes, pale peach skin and sleek brown hair, upright triangular ears and a long, thin tail with fur that looks softer than water—Hira’s nails dig into the fabric over his knees. He wants to rush out into the forest and check every clearing he’s ever spied on before, wants to go all the way to the nearest tribe, the one that’s been ravaged, but he’s not good enough to find his way in the dark and knows he’d just make things worse—another dog—his muse must hate him.
“Hira...?”
He startles, having forgotten all about the kindly dog next to him. Before he can answer, others are strolling in front of him, blocking all the fire light, a cluster of young men Hira’s age that probably don’t remember his name. A snippy blond one says, “Hey, you—it’s your turn for guard duty.”
Hira blanches. Koyama tries to protest, but one with a buzz-cut between his black ears is already shoving a spear into his hand. Like he’s actually supposed to use it. They were always trying to use Hira in school, but he never cared about them enough to follow through. They don’t leave him a choice. Hands are grabbing at him, pulling him up—Koyama tries to pull one away, but Hira stutters, “It’s f-f-fine—” partially because he doesn’t want Koyama to get hurt or make a big deal over him, and partially because he’d love an excuse to go off somewhere and be alone. The men herding him back towards the tents must’ve been officially assigned the duty and don’t want to miss the feast.
Hira doesn’t care and lets himself be pushed through the flap, lets them drape it shut behind him. A few candles are lit inside, enough to cast the small circular room in wavering orange shadows. Boxes line the perimeter, stacked against the poles, boasting food and jewelry and even more weaponry that must’ve been stolen in the raid.
And a cat’s tied to the post in the center, which freezes Hira cold.
It’s a warm night. The fire, the tightly-pressed dancing bodies tend to do that. Hira’s tunic is unlaced at his collarbone, dirt smeared across his trousers, his bangs uneven over his eyes. He’s a sweaty mess. The prisoner’s white tunic is gaping open, his dark trousers too big for him, his hair parted neatly in the center with a few poor strands rudely ruffled like they’ve been grabbed. His chestnut-brown tail is rigid behind his back, jutting up next to the pole, and his ears flatten as his head rises, tension visible in every part of him. He’s on his knees, his wrists bound to the pole above his head to keep him taut, to force him to strain his thighs and stay lifted off the ground. A leather collar’s been fastened around his throat, another rope tied to it and slithering down his body, twisting back to leash him to the pole. It looks humiliating. His wrists look red. His captors have been cruel. He doesn’t have any visible wounds, but he looks like he’s braced to be tortured. He must be terrified.
He must smell the stench of dog in the room, and then he’s craned his head up, and their eyes lock.
They’re beautiful.
So, so beautiful.
All of him is. He’s a vision, a deity, art itself—the very thing Hira sees behind his eyes every time he goes to sleep. A living dream. Perfection. A god. Kiyoi Sou is what Hira’s heart beats for.
His knees feel weak, and he suddenly feels like he’s the prisoner, captivated by Kiyoi’s sheer presence. Hira wants to drop to the ground and lick Kiyoi’s sandals and beg for forgiveness. Kiyoi’s expression shifts, the fury and indignity and fear seeping out. His ears twitch, tail lowering behind him. He’s breathing hard, must be traumatized and frantic. As soon as Hira’s head stops spinning, he looks for signs—for blood, for tears. He’d kill everyone in the settlement if he found even one scratch.
But there are no blaring injuries. He’s still flushed and ragged from adrenaline, horribly pinned in place. He must’ve been sitting there since the raid, wondering what they’d do with him once they were drunk and riled up and ready to claim their prize. The possibilities bead cold sweat on Hira’s back. If they hadn’t passed the duty off to Hira, other guards might’ve even tried to take liberties in the meantime, until Kiyoi’s fate was decided and sealed. Hira won’t do that. Never.
And Kiyoi seems to breathe a little easier, like he somehow knows Hira’s not as big a threat. Hira knows he doesn’t look like much.
Kiyoi looks like an erotic wet dream, up close and on display for Hira, sweat glistening on his brow and cheeks salmon-pink. Hira feels awful for thinking that. He can’t help himself. It’s the same as it always is. If Hira comes across Kiyoi napping in a clearing, stumbles on Kiyoi bathing in a stream, spots him rehearsing lines for a play or practicing for a dance, Hira’s instantly enraptured. He always hangs back when he can, of course. When he hasn’t already been spotted. He knows his place. He never wants to disturb or scare Kiyoi off. He just pines from afar, sickeningly smitten in every possible way.
Seeing Kiyoi in the dim firelight, right there, alone with him just a few steps away, is more than Hira can take. He hears his own voice echoing, “Beautiful.”
Kiyoi’s brow pinches. He frowns at Hira, and then the rosy tip of his tongue pokes out, slipping across his plush bottom lip, Hira’s eyes glued to the movement. So pretty. He wants to run his own tongue up the side of Kiyoi’s face and taste Kiyoi in his mouth. He wants to bury his nose in Kiyoi’s neck and breathe everything in. He wants to spirit Kiyoi far away so no one else can ever draw him.
Even Kiyoi’s voice is gorgeous—he accuses, “It’s you.”
Hira’s mouth falls open, dumbfounded. It’s like Kiyoi recognizes him, when Kiyoi shouldn’t know he exists. They’ve seen each other before. Maybe even spoken, once or twice, or at least, Kiyoi’s hissed at him before Hira’s run off. He’s fetched things for Kiyoi when told, sure that Kiyoi’s must’ve been desperate in those times to acknowledge him at all. But he’s nothing, mostly a shadow, that Kiyoi probably never thinks about.
Kiyoi scowls, handsome even then, and huffs, “You think I haven’t caught you tailing me half the time, stalker?”
“S-s-s-sorry!” Hira jerks down, bowing at the waist, suddenly realizing what it must look like—“I-I-I didn’t—it wasn’t me! I’d n-n-never tell the hunters where you are! I wouldn’t—”
Rolling his eyes, Kiyoi snorts, “I know. I would’ve been captured forever ago if you did.”
“Sorry.” He’s so sorry. For everything. But he’d follow Kiyoi again. Anywhere. Everywhere. He stares sorrowfully down at Kiyoi, and Kiyoi fidgets, arms twitching uncomfortably.
A long pause, and Kiyoi’s fierceness visibly starts leaking. He licks his lips again and tentatively says, “My arms hurt.”
Hira’s eyes widen. He’s so stupid. He gushes another, “S-s-sorry!” and lunges down to his knees. His fingers scrabble at the tie, clumsily working the knot, and he manages to pull away the rope binding Kiyoi to the pole. Kiyoi lets out a faint groan, his posture slipping—his body slumps, wrists still bound together but able to fall to his lap. His eyes flutter closed, and he shivers, like wracked with some measure of relief. Hira can’t apologize enough. He wants to lay Kiyoi down and massage his shoulders, kiss his elbows, rub the tension out of his thighs. When his eyes open again, his lashes stay low, a curious glimmer under them.
Hira can see the reflection of candles in them and realizes how close they are—he can smell Kiyoi over the stench of the feast and fire. It’s delicious.
Kiyoi’s lips part—Hira’s eyes dart there.
For a brief second, Hira thinks Kiyoi might thank him, even though he’s one of the monsters. But Kiyoi slowly, carefully whispers, “Good boy.”
Hira’s breath hitches. He almost moans. His tail eagerly slaps the hard ground, ears perking at the praise. Kiyoi’s eyes seem to catch each movement, then stare intensely into Hira’s. Hira stares back, in awe of such attention.
Kiyoi holds that eye-contact, burning Hira up, and quietly commands, “Untie me.”
So Hira, of course, does. He leaps to obey. He fumbles with the rope around Kiyoi’s wrists, wincing every time his frenzied efforts pull it tighter, even though Kiyoi encourages, “Keep trying...” Hira does. He’ll untie Kiyoi. He’ll fix things. He’s right on the verge of tearing into the rope with his teeth when the last knot finally looses, and Kiyoi’s able to pull free. His wrists are clearly bruised, delicate skin a nasty shade of purpling crimson, and Hira whimpers with the want to lick them apologetically and kiss it better.
A short chuckle tugs his gaze back up. Kiyoi’s almost smiling, a mixture of disbelief but respite. He softly snickers, “You’re loyal, aren’t you? Obedient? That’s how dogs should be.”
In a trance, Hira nods. He should be whatever Kiyoi wants. He will be whatever Kiyoi wants. Kiyoi lifts a hand, a little stilted, less graceful than usual, like he’s got a plan but isn’t quite sure he can bear it or get away with it. Then he hesitantly curves his fingers under Hira’s chin.
He scratches there, nails just sharp enough to feel, and Hira’s eyes roll back in his head. His lungs shudder, his mouth lolls open—he can’t help himself, he shamelessly pants, leaning forward into the touch. Kiyoi itches him just right and he actually moans. His tail beats the ground. Kiyoi’s petting him. Pleasure numbs his senses.
Kiyoi accuses, “You like me, don’t you?”
Too trapped in Kiyoi’s bubble to run like usual, Hira nods: yes, yes, he loves Kiyoi so much.
“You’d do anything for me...”
More fervent nodding, tail wagging. Hira promises, “Y-y-yes, anything... anything for Kiyoi...”
The scratching slows—Hira chases the hand that leaves him, whimpering pathetically. Coolly sitting back, Kiyoi folds his hands in his lap and lifts his chin. He’s a haughty feline, preening under the attention, and he deserves that confidence. Hira’s faithfulness seems to have built it back up. Even the degrading collar around Kiyoi’s neck can’t diminish his regal air. He holds Hira’s gaze like a vice, and his voice does waver a smidgen when he speaks, like he’s trying to stay strong. He purrs, “You’re going to take my leash and let me go.” Hira nods without hesitation. Kiyoi breathes steadier there, as though he thought there was any chance Hira wouldn’t let him escape.
Maybe in some deep, dark part of Hira, he’d like to hold onto Kiyoi forever. For himself, not the rest of his tribe. But he couldn’t hurt Kiyoi for it. Wouldn’t clip a beautiful bird’s wings. Kiyoi needs to flourish, needs to be healthy and happy and have all his dreams come true. Hira knows he isn’t in those.
Kiyoi adds, “You’ll help me escape your settlement—guide me past any guards.”
“Yes.” No more stuttering. He’ll do it.
He waits for Kiyoi to say, “You’ll watch me run away from you forever, and never try to see me again.” And he’ll do it. It’ll kill him, but he’ll do it. He’ll die happily knowing he helped Kiyoi at all.
Kiyoi lifts a hand to his mouth, bites his thumb, pauses long enough to make Hira squirm, and then whispers, “You’ll come with me.”
Hira’s eyes go wide.
Kiyoi’s cheeks flush, darkening gorgeously—he’s so cute and hurriedly adds, “I didn’t mean—gross. Just... to protect me from other disgusting dogs.”
“Yes.” Hira’s brain is broken. His heart’s beating so fast. He can hear it in his ears, pounding away.
Somehow, Kiyoi looks skeptical, like at some point, there was supposed to be a no.
Never.
Kiyoi presses, “You’ll do that? Leave your friends, your home, everything here...”
Hira breathlessly promises, “I don’t even have to go b-back to my tent. I’d follow my king anywhere.”
The confusion lingers until feral howling roars outside the tent, adding more aggressive power to the cacophony of drums. Kiyoi’s instantly tense again, head whipping towards the party and body hunching toward Hira. Realistically, Hira’s no fighter, has no training, no experience. Kiyoi’s the one with claws and elegance and skill, muscles better-honed than Hira’s. But Hira knows he’d kill for Kiyoi and vows to be the best guard dog he can.
Kiyoi’s still warily eyeing the walls of the tent when Hira reaches for his collar. He said to take his leash, but Hira sinfully disobeys and unfastens the collar instead, working the clasp at the back of his neck. With his hands free, Kiyoi could’ve done it himself. But Hira did it first. Kiyoi glances back at him, unmoving as Hira tenderly slides the collar off.
For a quick moment, Kiyoi’s eyes flicker to Hira’s lips. Hira wars with himself, somehow resisting the wild desire to nuzzle into Kiyoi’s face and lick over his mouth.
Kiyoi murmurs, “Take me out of here.” And his hand lands conspicuously close to Hira’s.
Hira blasphemously kisses it and does as told.