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Conrad stands upon the earth, staring back at Blood Pledge Castle with a troubled gaze. From his vantage on the hillside it looks tiny, like a miniature toy given to a young boy on his birthday. Penetrable, breakable.
Even though he checked the castle twice before leaving—the first as a preliminary, the second a more thorough investigation—Conrad still doesn't like leaving his charge's side, even if Yuuri is in the loving care of Gunter, Gwendal, and Wolfram. This reluctance is a persistent thorn embedded in his side, jabbing at him whenever he's away from Yuuri for an extended time, when their bond is stretched thin like a length of gauze across the rolling greens and rising peaks of Shin Makoku.
Hooves clip chunks of mud and grass up from the rough ground, spattering the verge at the side of the narrow road. Conrad rides hard through the deepening oranges and violets of sunset, the gallop like a tribal drum beat in his ears, matching the thump of his pulse that quickens, too, the closer he gets to Netsujou City. Wind rushes like cold fingers through his hair, crisp and indistinct, stripping him of the homey smells of Blood Pledge and the scent of Yuuri that he sometimes catches on himself.
By the time he reaches the boundaries of Netsujou, night has fallen in a deep black canopy above, speckled with stars and mottled by slowly spreading clouds. The atmosphere feels bated, charged—there will be a thunderstorm before long. As Conrad passes the city limits, a light drizzle begins to moisten his face and the back of his neck. Far in the distance, back the way he's ridden, thunder tumbles haphazardly across the sky. Taking the reins in one hand, he draws the hood of his travelling cloak over his head, and eases closer to the firefly glow of street lamps that hover in front—warm, yet not as inviting as they perhaps would be to any other traveller.
Any other traveller who's never been to Netsujou City.
Jouyoku District curls around the south-easterly border, much like a snake might curve around its prey. It's one of the longest streets in the city, cobble-stoned and narrow, a network of bright lights and busy bodies, and it's also one of the most notorious.
Thunder mumbles closer, moving fast through the heavens. Conrad tethers his horse at an inn to the west and then walks across town, his hood gathered even tighter around his face, and not just because it's raining now in steady, plump droplets. Sticking to the shadows, Conrad hits Jouyoku and strides swiftly down the street, ducking beneath umbrellas and market stall canopies, swerving to avoid collisions with other walkers who are out late in these poor conditions. Business as usual, even on rainy nights.
To the untrained eye, Conrad might look like a man quickly making his way home or to some other engagement, but he's more alert to his surroundings than he lets on. Yes, Conrad is listening, his ears open and observant, picking through the litany of street hawkers and the energetic bartering that swarms around him.
“Toys and games! Get your prize bearbees here! Our prices are unbeatable and you will not be dissatisfied with your purchase! We offer a professional service and high quality products! Come one, come all, and yes, that pun is intended!”
Bingo.
Slowing his pace, Conrad approaches the crier standing outside a darkened shop front. The man spots him immediately—people with something to sell generally have the keenest senses—and he drops his announcement a few decibels so as not to shout directly into Conrad's face.
“Evening, my good sir! Might I interest you in some fine merchandise?” A shaggy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow waggles up and down. “You'll not be disappointed; we cater to all tastes, no matter how refined your palate.”
Keeping his head low, his hood obscuring most of his face, Conrad nods once.
The man's sharp blue eyes glint in the mellow street lamps. “Then, why don't you follow me?” Gesturing widely, he leads Conrad into the shop. Stepping through the gaping black doorway makes Conrad think of walking straight into the mouth of a majutsu demon, into the unknown, into the kind of precarious places dreams are made of. The room within is sparse and warm and feels vaguely humid, almost sultry, lit only by sporadically placed candles sitting in small iron dishes.
“This way, sir.” The man heads to a counter upon which rests a leather-bound book, its inner pages worn and sepia-tinted. “I'm certain we'll find you something. Do you have any—ah—special requirements?”
Conrad clears his throat softly. “Black hair. Dark eyes are also preferable.”
The man turns a slow, curious eye on him. “Now that's a rarity. Don't have any true black-haired, of course, but uh. Let me see what I can rustle up.” Deft fingers flip through the pages of the book. “Will you take an illusion?”
The entire charade is an illusion, so what's a little fake colouring? “Yes. That'll be fine.”
“Very good, sir. Here.” Setting down the book, the man produces a small copper key from his left breast pocket, which he slips into Conrad's hand. Then he points to an alcove set in the far wall, another gaping monster mouth that leads to dreams and more. “Door four. Through the back there.”
Conrad's stomach is clenched tight, twisted up like an Artilleryman's knot as he heads through the alcove and into a long, shabby corridor. Shadows snake about him, clutching at his arms and then releasing him as he moves from one pool of orange candlelight to another. There are people here, also shrouded in cloaks and shadows, going in and coming out of doors—sixteen doors, he counts quickly—and as he reaches room 4, a tall figure passes by, knocking against Conrad's shoulder in the cramped space.
“Sorry,” comes the gruff whisper, followed by the muted tang of tobacco in the air. It curls up Conrad's nostrils and sticks in his throat.
Rather than reply, Conrad reaches for the door handle. Now is the time to stop, to turn back. Now. Conrad thinks this every time, in every different establishment of this nature—the urge to flee wells like a tide, growing and pushing, expanding and surging, maybe stronger than any other feeling he's known, even on the battlefield. That split second he hovers on the threshold, everything hangs in the balance.
Yet he never turns away. His stomach might be twisted up, but it's nothing compared to the ache that throbs and grinds and worms perpetually in his chest, and sometimes late at night deep down low in his groin.
While this might not be a convenient means to an end, it is a necessary one.
There's a wooden double bed, its frame scarred but sturdy, clean white linens folded into the mattress. On a table in the corner sits a decanter of wine, a solitary glass settled beside it. A fire flickers lazily to Conrad's left, its flames rubbing up against the alcove walls. There are no windows, just a small ventilation shaft on the ceiling in one corner.
A plain room, a forgettable room, just like Conrad is a plain, forgettable man tonight; he no longer even thinks of himself as Lord Conrad Weller. Tonight, in this ambiguous, sparse room, he is nobody at all—just a man, scratching an itch the only way he can think of without breaking every rule he believes in and lives by. Without sullying anything that has no reason to be sullied. There are no remnants here of his everyday life, nothing to connect him to who he usually is or where he usually exists.
During Conrad's excursions, his constant, underlying mission is to keep two worlds that should never, ever encounter each other from colliding and causing harm to the ones he loves.
Conrad's midway through pouring himself a glass of wine when the door hinges give a soft baritone moan. The hairs at the back of his neck prick up, and he calmly sets down the glass even as his free hand automatically goes to the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath his cloak.
“My lord?” says a voice, clear and youthful, and with a hint of timidity that could be for show or could be genuine; it's hard to tell.
Without releasing the dagger, Conrad turns slowly on his boot heels.
Dear gods.
It's not quite the same, but it's close enough.
The boy steps forward, his bare feet whispering like secrets on the dusty floorboards. His eyes are indeed dark, possibly brown, or maybe deep grey. Hair as black as midnight falls across a high, fair brow, and even from across the room Conrad can smell the rich odour of boot polish. So that's how the old man did it. Well, it's convincing enough to twist the screws in his stomach, to wrench them so tight and so hard Conrad's momentarily seized up and lost for breath, lost for words.
Swallowing twice, he clears his throat, then pushes out a formal if slightly rough, “Good evening.”
“My lord.” The boy gives him a bow, his eyelids slipping shut as he ducks his head. Lashes fan two sets of dark spines across his cheeks. The bone structure is high, but on closer inspection maybe a little too sharp—the boy is too old to be a carbon copy, probably eighteen, twenty at most. It doesn't matter; it's still a fair representation. More than Conrad could've hoped for. “May I keep you company this evening?”
Conrad watches the boy straighten and turn impossibly large, soulful eyes on him. Mouth quite dry, Conrad manages, “You may.” Releasing the dagger's hilt, he reaches up to unclasp his cloak, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the boy were a young stag that might scamper at any sudden flex or shift.
Heavy bootsteps clomp along the hallway outside, and the mellow glow of a candle flame flickers across the plain corridor walls. More cloaked figures pass by the open doorway, silent ghosts of shadow and movement, nameless, faceless phantoms of everyday people.
“Please,” he tells the boy, “close the door.”
“As you wish.” The boy turns and pushes the door shut, the hinges singing below the murmur of voices in neighbouring rooms.
High above it all, thunder tears through the clouds, roaring like a beast on the hunt. Lightning strobes, flashing through the brothel's windows, kissing the occupants with sudden, sharp bursts of light.
The street lamps of Jouyoku District waver to-and-fro for a couple of electrifying seconds, and then all returns to normal: bright colours, busy streets. Business as usual.
*
Conrad bathes twice in the morning before making his way to the Netsujou barracks, and then once again when he returns to the inn at dusk. This cleansing ritual loosens his strings and puts him at ease, even though he knows by the time he reaches Blood Pledge the wind would've carded over him and obliterated any remnants of the Jouyoku streets.
Going home is a little like slipping into an old, well-worn set of clothes. During the day-long ride, Conrad slowly transforms back into himself. As he canters through the castle gates, he holds his head up high and lets his eyes wander in their natural scan for Yuuri.
There Yuuri is, standing on the steps, waving jovially alongside Gunter, Gwendal, and Wolfram. Greta is there, too, running down to meet him.
Conrad hails them cheerfully, dismounting at the foot of the steps. Momentarily he finds himself with an armful of squirming Greta.
“Welcome back, Conrad!” Beaming at him, Greta weaves a small blue flower into the button hole of his breast pocket. “Yuuri was getting worried.”
“Hey, I wasn't worried!” Yuuri's cheeks are rosy and he looks healthy as he descends to the courtyard. The little bubble of ache sitting in the pit of Conrad's stomach expands and retracts, pushing up against him from the inside, but it's bearable. “I knew Conrad would come back safely.” Then Yuuri gives him one of those faint, precious smiles—a little embarrassed and shy—and oh, the ache is back, full force.
Setting Greta down, Conrad stands face-to-face with Yuuri and stares at him, unable to tug his gaze away. There's a long moment where neither of them moves or speaks, and for a heartbeat it looks like Yuuri is on the verge of something; he gives an involuntary twitch as if to step forward, then stops. Conrad's more than aware of the others standing around watching them, aware of how the silence spins their combined tension into the air, making it heavier, warmer. Finally, Yuuri holds out his hand, and Conrad takes it with a gentle squeeze, then releases it quicker than he means to. Yuuri's eyebrows twitch.
“How did it go?” asks Gwendal. Clipped as usual, but Conrad can tell Gwendal is glad he's home—there's no way his older brother would've bothered to come and welcome him were he not.
“Very well. The new recruits will be coming within the week,” Conrad replies, still staring at Yuuri's face, quite mesmerised by the tinge of pink high on Yuuri's cheeks. “They're all eager to work for Your Majesty.”
“Ah, that's great!” Yuuri claps his hands together and then rubs them energetically, but his focus remains trained on Conrad in return with an intensity that fires a small battalion of shivers up Conrad's back. “I can't wait to meet them, too.”
“You must be tired from your ride.” Gunter pats Conrad on the arm, breaking his attention, then gestures toward the castle. “I've had some food prepared, and the baths have been vacated for whenever you need them.”
“Thanks.”
As Conrad ascends, he thinks about the man who stayed in Netsujou City, the man who is and isn't him. That man now lurks like an invisible ghost, haunting the roadside across miles and miles of Shin Makoku countryside, waiting for the next time Conrad ventures out when he'll be required to sheathe Conrad in the hooded, nameless persona.
There's no place or calling for that man here, among Conrad's family and friends; the exorcism is complete. Here, at home where his heart and soul belong, it's almost easy to forget where he's been and what he's done.
*
“Conrad...”
For the first time in Conrad's memory, he doesn't get a sense of Yuuri or hear his approach. Which is weird—Conrad almost always picks up the gravitational presence, the weight and pace of Yuuri's steps. In fact, Conrad knows those steps so well he'd wager a generous amount of money on his ability to pick them out of a military drill while wearing a blindfold.
Conrad turns around and there Yuuri is, right behind him.
“Your Majesty, is everything all ri—?” The look on Yuuri's face dries the words up in his mouth and crumbles them to dust in his throat. A torrent of cold dread gushes through Conrad, from head down to toes, and he represses the urge to shiver. Rather, he takes Yuuri by the shoulders in a grip that's probably a little too hard. “What's happened?”
Beyond where they stand, the palace fountain trickles merrily, splashing the lily pads floating on the surface of the water. It's the only sound in the silence that follows, as Yuuri's mouth opens and closes but no words come out.
“Yuuri?” Conrad doesn't know what's causing it—the paleness of Yuuri's skin, the drawn line of his mouth, the haunted wideness of his eyes—and he dreads the answer, yet at the same time he must know. If Yuuri's in pain or some kind of trouble, Conrad will do anything, without question...
“I was walking in the gardens,” Yuuri begins, voice light and vague, “and I overheard one of the gardeners talking.”
Conrad gives Yuuri a little squeeze of encouragement. “About?”
“You,” Yuuri says softly. “About you, Conrad.”
Just what on Shin Makoku is going on?
“Oh?” It suddenly feels like there's a weight pushing down on him, unfathomable hands trying to drive him through the castle flagstones. A slip of cool breeze dusts the back of Conrad's neck and this time he allows the shiver to pass over him, then he shivers a second time. Did Yuuri notice? “Your Majesty, you know there isn't a single thing anyone can say to sway my loyalty to—”
“Where did you go,” Yuuri's voice is now barely a whisper, “when you went to Netsujou City?”
Thud.
There goes the world, dropping out from under Conrad's feet. There it goes, plummeting forty leagues, sucking his stomach down with it while the rest of him remains suspended. Vertigo spins his head and creates a whirlwind of churning movement in his gut, and as the muscles in his chest constrict, his mouth runs parchment dry.
“Why, I went to the barracks,” he manages, his hands feeling too big and too clumsy on Yuuri's shoulders. “And I ran a couple of personal errands.”
“I see.” Yuuri doesn't meet his eyes, staring instead at a spot just past Conrad's left ear.
Somehow, he does see; Conrad can tell, can read it on Yuuri's face—disbelief, disappointment, confusion... hurt. But who, exactly, saw Conrad leaving Jouyoku District? Or worse, perhaps he was spotted coming out of the brothel. Even cloaked, it may have still been possible to recognise him.
“Whatever you've heard, will you let me explain?” he asks, finally uncurling his fingers from where they rest upon Yuuri's shoulders. There's no time to ponder the whys and wherefores right this instant, not with Yuuri's hurt pulled so taut over his face.
Yuuri nods, then that voice again, the vague one. “Yeah. I'd like to know why he looked like me.”
Thud.
If the castle walls don't come tumbling down on top of him, Conrad will be surprised. In a way, he hopes they do—not out of cowardice, but because he realises his discretion wasn't as discreet as he thought, and as a consequence of his actions, he's crushed the one person he swore never to upset again.
The earth tilts in a quick lurch, and Conrad lets himself fall back against the archway wall. Eyes sliding shut, he pictures the door, the boy with the fake black hair standing before it like some grubby angel. Bootsteps in the hallway outside, the flicker of a mellow candle flame on the walls. Cloaked figures, just like him—figures with a clear view into the room while the door was still ajar.
Damn!
Letting out a sigh, Conrad opens his eyes and faces his fate head-on. While he might not always tell Yuuri everything, he can't lie to him—not again, not after seeing the heartbreak etched into Yuuri when he joined Big Shimaron. Not even to spare Yuuri's feelings, as tempting as it is. Nor will Conrad mince his words; there's no delicate way to address this, anyway, so he takes a deep breath.
“It's entirely inappropriate for me to have feelings for you, whether I plan to act on those feelings or not.” The words pour out of his mouth, but it's like somebody else is speaking, like he's in a dream where everything is just slightly disconnected. Conrad never imagined he would have this conversation—he'd been so careful. “You are the most important person in my life, Yuuri. No, not just the most important person, the most important anything. I made a promise to you, to this country, and also to your parents. No matter what happens, I'll protect you. That also goes for protecting the purity of your soul that touches everything you encounter and makes the world a better place.”
“Conrad.”
“When I made that promise, I cast aside my own desires, by my own choice. I was glad to do it. But I'm still a man and I have weaknesses, like any other man—”
“Conrad—”
“—It just so happens you're one of those weaknesses.”
“Conrad!”
Conrad blinks, lets the rest of his speech roll into silence. The words he's already spoken wisp around them like little flies, and although there is no echo, there might as well be for the way those words linger. There were, he now realises, way too many of them. Did it all come out so dreadfully wrong?
Yuuri may have been avoiding eye contact before, but not now, oh no. Eyes large and dark, impossibly black like the heart of midnight. They smoulder with silent intensity, black coals of heat. The atmosphere crackles around them, buzzing with unbroken tension, popping on Conrad's jacket sleeves like static, lifting the hairs on his neck.
“You say all this,” Yuuri whispers, his fists curling slowly into balls at his sides. “Like it's just your choice. Did you ever think to ask me?”
“I was protecting you.”
“You weren't!” Yuuri cries, his mask of frozen rage breaking, his face scrunching up and his nose wrinkling—if it was any other day, any other conversation, Conrad might think it cute. “You can do whatever you want to stop me from getting hit or stabbed or shot with arrows, but you can't stop me from growing up! I'm nearly seventeen. Just how long are you planning to keep me 'pure'? When are you going to stop making my choices for me?”
“I do not wish to influence your decisions.”
“And yet you went riding off to see some imitation Yuuri, and you didn't even think to ask me how I felt about it!”
“I knew you'd be upset,” Conrad says, helpless now things are starting to take on a slightly new light and colour—just what is Yuuri trying to say? But there's no time to decipher it, not with Yuuri looking so wild, not with the Maou so close to the surface. “I couldn't betray your trust, or the trust other people put in me as your retainer.”
Two deep, slow breaths, and Yuuri blinks slowly as if collecting himself.
“I trust you to be honest with me,” Yuuri says, his quiet, wounded tone far worse than the shouting. “To be open, even with your feelings. You always were before. But not just that. I trust you to make yourself happy once in a while. Don't you know, Conrad, the times I'm most happy is when we play baseball, or when we're riding together, or walking around the palace, or on some mission...”
Puffing out a big sigh, Yuuri stares down at the flagstones and continues, “Did you ever consider I...” A light flush spreads over his cheeks, pushing away the paleness and making him look younger, more like the regular Yuuri and less like the Maou. The words begin to stutter. “I like—I love—I want—I...”
For ten endless, breathless seconds, Conrad runs it through his mind. Every word, every action, piecing and un-piecing to make sense of what Yuuri's saying, filtering it, letting it run freely. The sound of hooves in the distance, pounding, galloping closer—only, Conrad realises it's not horses, but his pulse. His, and Yuuri's too.
“You don't need a fake me,” Yuuri whispers. “When you already have the real me.”
Dear lord, what is he saying? Conrad reaches out, and this time when he takes Yuuri's shoulders it's with hesitation. If Yuuri bolts, Conrad fears they'll never have the opportunity to clear this mess up. “Yuuri, what are you saying?”
The flush is a full-blown crimson now, splattered over Yuuri's cheeks, and he still can't quite look into Conrad's eyes, but that's okay—somehow, Conrad knows it's okay. The space surrounding them no longer feels charged like a minefield, the thrum of energy and raw power abating.
“Honestly, Conrad. You know me. I can't say these things out loud. I'm not very good at public speaking and I always wander off topic and...”
Swallowing down the lump wedged in his throat, Conrad leans in to say, “You know you can tell me anything. It won't change how I feel or what I think.”
“Yeah, I—I just don't know how to... maybe. Maybe I could show you? Uh.” This is more like the old Yuuri, the one Conrad remembers coming wide-eyed into Shin Makoku, floundering with no knowledge of the country's customs and rituals. The Yuuri who had to feel his way through everything, testing waters, tentative steps. Although that Yuuri learned fast, something Conrad considers one of his many strengths, the awkward teenager has always remained, lurking just beneath the sharper lines of his face. “Er... now I'm not so angry, this is kind of tricky...”
“Yuuri.” Conrad's loath to break the moment, while at the same time terrified of what this all means. Should he dare to hope, or dare to dread?
“Wait, I'm still angry,” Yuuri says, frowning, and he rushes forward then, wrapping his arms around Conrad's middle, pressing in close and meshing, melding until the thumping gallop starts all over again, double strength. “It won't always be like this.” Voice muffled in Conrad's jacket, Yuuri holds on tight. “In a few years, when I'm older and know more about being a king. We can. Maybe. I mean, if you still want to. Ugh, I don't know what I'm saying.”
Perhaps Yuuri is still unclear, but for Conrad his dreams have never been so strikingly real, and yet he knows he can't just wrap Yuuri up and all will be fine. There are so many factors involved, factors Conrad never intended to put in jeopardy.
“Wolfram, your duties, my duties,” he mutters against the soft black of Yuuri's hair, smelling oranges from the bathhouse shampoo.
“Yeah, those.” Lifting his head from where it rests against Conrad's shoulder, Yuuri blinks up at him, and it'd be so easy to just lean down those few inches, so terribly easy. “But we've got time, right?” A small, hopeful smile breaks through the serious set of his mouth. “Maybe if we don't make any promises and just see how it goes, things will work out.”
Of course, he's right. Promises can lead to disappointments, and the one thing Conrad doesn't want to happen is for their bond to spoil. “I think that would be best.”
The look on Yuuri's face is bittersweet, like he's trying to say so much without saying anything. “There's one other thing. Kind of a favour, I guess.”
“Oh? Anything, Yuuri. You know that.”
“Please-don't-go-back-to-that-place.” It comes out in a whoosh, and Yuuri lets his forehead drop to Conrad's chest again.
Conrad's heart twinges with guilt, but there's an underlying elation that comes with the knowledge that he never needs to go back to Jouyoku. The physical satisfaction is one thing, but this newly forged emotional connection with Yuuri far outweighs any carnal desires. There's no comparison at all.
“I promise you, on my life, I'll never go back there. Or any other place like it.”
“Phew.” The tension is almost completely gone from Yuuri's frame as he pulls back. While he looks tired and still a little drawn, there's relief and trust, too. Those are the most important things. “Okay. I know you won't.”
It doesn't mean this'll be easy, and Conrad's all too aware of it. To want Yuuri, to know Yuuri wants him back, but to not be able to touch in any other way than as Yuuri's bodyguard and friend—the sweet torture of it is already hitting home. But, surely that will make any future arrangements all the sweeter?
Well, that's another positive angle.
“I don't want this to make things weird.” Yuuri's hands are still settled loosely on Conrad's arms, warmth radiating down through the thick weave of his jacket.
“If there's any weirdness,” Conrad says, letting the Earth word tumble off his tongue, “it'll be because I offended you and didn't consider your feelings first.”
“Argh, no!” Yuuri shakes his head. “That's not what I meant. I mean, it's going to be difficult, right? For a while, anyway.”
“Oh.” Conrad runs his fingers over Yuuri's jaw, tilting his face up to look at him. “Well, yes. It's hard when you know something but can't act on it. But if it's meant to be, it will be.” That, at least, is something Conrad is sure of.
Yuuri gives a small nod. “You're right. How come you always say the right things?”
“I do my best.” Conrad smiles, feels the very faint rise of a mole under the pad of his thumb where he sweeps Yuuri's cheek.
Yuuri's face is hot and his skin smooth, and it seems to grow warmer and warmer with each passing second. Conrad finds he can't let go, pulled like a magnet to metal, held fast to the spot.
The endless moments that pass are peaceful and still, broken only by the swish of the fountain in the distance, and Conrad breathes Yuuri in, lets him out, breathes him in all over again. If they became statues right now, he'd be perfectly fine with standing here forever, right where they are, where Yuuri is safe and where Conrad feels pure, unadulterated happiness.
At the back of Conrad's mind he's aware of duty's persistent call; soon Gwendal will be wanting a report, and Gunter will be pining for Yuuri and probably expiring from stress.
“Your Majesty, we ought to go,” Conrad murmurs.
“It's Yuuri, you know that. And yeah.” But Yuuri doesn't pull away, doesn't break the contact at all—he slides a little closer and rises up onto his toes, angling his chin upward, his lips pulling apart so slowly it's like time is grinding to a halt. Conrad feels a hesitant breath against his chin, sweet and tart like berries, and against his better judgement he inhales deeply. In that second, he draws Yuuri's presence into himself, and he finds soft lips lightly touching his own.
Conrad has no clue who moved first or whether they both went at the same time. Did he mean for that to happen?
Well, not entirely, but then he didn't entirely mean for it not to happen, and really, it's too late to worry about it now. Conrad might be half-human and have a man's faults, but he tries hard not to have regrets if he can help it.
If all the armies from all the countries in the world came together, not even the force of it could stop him from pressing down to take a taste—before he's even fully formed the thought, he's doing it, following the natural shift and magnetism of Yuuri's body. Slow meeting of their lips, and that one minute touch seals any doubts Conrad had about Yuuri's feelings. The actions are speaking so loud Conrad wonders if they'll end up with hearing damage.
Yuuri's kiss is faint with sweat-salt that mixes with his sweet berry-breath. Rooted to the ground, Conrad stands disbelieving at the sensations that flood over him. With the most minuscule movement, the pressure increases, making the kiss firmer and hotter, and again Conrad has no idea if it was he that moved or if it was Yuuri. They seem to be working as one now, anyway, with no direction and no finesse, no idea where one ends and the other starts.
Fingers clutch at Conrad's jacket, bunching the material. Conrad's desperately aware of everything, all the details, every movement, every small, aching noise Yuuri makes at the back of his throat.
Most importantly, Conrad's aware that Yuuri isn't tearing away from him. Aware that Yuuri is doing the opposite—taking and giving and asking.
When has Conrad ever been able to deny him?
Softly, Conrad brushes his lips over Yuuri's, adding a little more pressure—but not too much. Tentative, unhurried, and unsure, Yuuri kisses him back, and even if Conrad didn't already suspect, he'd guess this was Yuuri's first.
This could be the first of many firsts, Conrad thinks before he can stop himself. Honestly, it won't do to be too optimistic; it's just difficult when Yuuri's in his arms and everything else—the castle, the missions, the duties—have spun away like wisps on the wind.
A staccato beat drives blood in a wild rush around Conrad's body. Yuuri is breathing hard, fierce puffs against Conrad's cheek, and there's nothing but the graceless tug of Yuuri's hands on his arms and the warmth of his breath. Conrad's palms are damp where they rest on Yuuri's back, and he tries not to squeeze Yuuri against him too hard. Logically, he knows this can't last forever, knows they're already risking being seen—too big a risk. No matter how he feels—how they feel, he thinks with another little jolt of wonder—Conrad can't put Yuuri's position in danger.
There are other dangers forming rapidly, too, like how difficult it's going to be as Yuuri's right-hand-man from here on, knowing what he knows. Tasting what he's tasted, pondering everything he's learned about Yuuri today—so much new information to take on board and deal with.
For one thing, Yuuri is aware of much more than Conrad gave him credit for. Not the fumbling, reluctant schoolboy now, but on the cusp of something even greater than he already is, and with his own purposes and curiosities. That Conrad features in those curiosities makes him feel even more stupid for running off to find fake Yuuris to share this with.
When you already have the real me.
Then comes a sigh from Yuuri that'll last forever in Conrad's memory, one of contented surprise—it's something Conrad knows he'll eventually call on during the night, one tiny indulgence while he and Yuuri wait.
When they break apart, Yuuri's eyes are closed and his breath comes in harsh little pants.
“Your Maj—Yuuri.” Conrad's words are unsteady; he clears his throat. “We really ought to go now.”
“Unngh. Yeah. O-okay.” Yuuri blinks his eyes open.
Straightening his cuffs, Conrad reins in his focus, which is a lot easier now he's no longer joined at the lips and chest with Yuuri, and calls to his mind the jobs that are left on the day's agenda. Sad that the jobs seem so much more inconsequential now; it'll take some time to fall back into the old ways and the old life, now Conrad's had a taste of the future.
Looking at the dazed softness of Yuuri's face, Conrad fears he won't be the only distracted one, which will spell trouble for Gunter when he sits Yuuri down for his afternoon recital of the Great History of Jams and Preserves in Southern Shin Makoku. Conrad allows himself a little smirk.
“What's so funny?” Yuuri asks, swiping his tongue out to lick his lip, then blushing deeply.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about jam.”
“Huh?”
A laugh rumbles up from Conrad's chest at Yuuri's bewildered expression. “Really, nothing. Let's find Gunter.”
They tread the outer passageways, heading into the plusher corridors toward the heart of the castle, with matching strides and shoulders just barely touching.
For the time being, Conrad is pleased, and welcomes the future and whatever it holds, and he no longer has a need for weak imitations.
~Fin~