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Kasamatsu Yukio’s doom descends upon him on a fine, balmy morning, in the form of a slim scroll that Sir Takeuchi Genta tosses across his messy, paperwork-strewn desk with offhand disregard for the royal Ki seal that marks it.
Yukio, used to the Sir Genta’s habits if not always entirely approving of them, manages not to drop the royal decree.
“Your new assignment,” Sir Genta announces. “All the details are inside, nothing you can’t handle, starts effectively right now.”
He unfurls his new orders, confusion warring with apprehension, reads the first line, and then says, blank with shock, “Sir, this can’t be right.”
“Hmph. What, don’t like it? You said you’d take your punishment without protest,” Sir Genta says.
“It’s not a protest. This has to be wrong,” Yuki says. “It says here I’m assigned to guard the third prince! There’s no way--”
“No mistakes there,” Sir Genta says. “Didn’t mean to spring this on you like this, but that was before the last fellow got himself exiled like a total idiot. You’re the only candidate we have left available on such short notice.”
“Exiled,” Yukio says, reduced to disbelieving echoes. “What? Sir, that’s--”
Sir Genta sighs. “Yukio, let me put this to you straight - the brat’s gone through twelve guards in as many months and I’m running out of people to throw in the lion’s den. By this point, I’m thinking of assassinating him myself just to be done with it. You’re my last hope. Do you understand?”
“Sir,” Yukio says. Then he swallows and sets his jaw. He as good as asked for this punishment, after the Fukuda Sougo disaster. He’d expected permanent banishment to a backwater fort for the rest of his foreseeable career, but who is Yukio to question Sir Genta’s judgement? He’s certainly not in a position to be picky. “I accept the assignment,” he finally says.
Sir Genta nods, then adds with a grumble, “I wouldn’t waste you like this, but I’m all out of ideas. If even you can’t manage him, I’m painting a target on his royal highness’ back and dangling him out of the palace windows. Report to the palace steward with the scroll and he’ll share the prince’s schedule with you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Yukio says carefully. Then, with one last bow, he leaves the office, scroll clutched in hand. What more can he promise? He can’t guarantee that he won’t fail - not when he already has - but Kasamatsu Yukio will do his duty or die trying.
It’s the least that he can do.
The palace steward is unsurprised when Yukio reports to him for duty. In fact, he seems worryingly blase about the royal family’s security, barely giving the scroll a passing glance before tossing it on the table behind him, producing a second scroll and then waving Yukio off with a airy hand.
“You’re lucky, there’s nothing important planned today apart from lunch and that’s just a few minor lords, and the second princess already promised to be there. He’s probably still in bed, Akane-chan will show you the way.”
Much of the sprawling Ki palace is familiar to Yukio, but he has never had the privilege of venturing into the royal family’s private quarters before. He trails behind the palace maid, one eye paying just enough attention to their surroundings so he can find his way back later, the other eye scanning the scroll that tells him the prince’s duties for the week. There’s nothing unusual about the schedule that he can see, but it’s not exactly reassuring either. The prince’s day and most of his night appears to be planned down to the hour, complete with judicious intervals for rest and refreshment, and according to said plan, the prince is definitely not supposed to still be in bed right now.
“Does the prince usually sleep in this late?” he steels himself into asking the palace maid.
She gives him a surprised look, then covers her mouth, titters behind her sleeve and says, “Oh! Well, I can’t really say for sure, as I’m not assigned to his chambers, but he does often keep very late nights, so it’s not a surprise when he oversleeps.”
The answer seems innocent enough, but something about the way she looks at him out of the corner of her eye and giggles again into her sleeve makes Yukio stiffen and flush.
“I… I see,” he says in strangled tones, and they do not speak again until she mercifully comes to a stop before a pair of double doors.
“His highness’ quarters,” she murmurs with a bow, and then, with one last, terrifying giggle, takes her leave.
Yukio watches her retreat down the corridor, vanish around the corner, and finally remembers how to loosen his shoulders again. Then he turns to the door and knocks.
There is no reply. He frowns and mentally debates palace etiquette. Does he wait outside until summoned? What if the prince oversleeps and misses the lunch the steward mentioned? Between the prince’s privacy and safety, Yukio’s duty lies with the latter, but--
He stops himself. There’s no point in spending the next hour standing outside the door like an idiot. If the prince wishes to berate him for rudeness, then he can learn to wake in a timely manner. Yukio knocks again, waits for an answer that never comes, and then opens the door to let himself in. He steps into a long, shadowy room. Only a single, wayward ray of morning light has slid through a crack in the heavy curtains to illuminate the sleeping figure lying in the enormous bed at the farthest end of the room.
Without giving himself time to hesitate, Yukio marches over to the bed. The prince has burrowed under his covers, leaving only bare glimpses visible through the cloud of white sheets - an impression of tousled blond hair, a carelessly slung arm, long and well-formed, a single pale ankle.
Yukio clears his throat and says, “Your Highness. My name is Kasamatsu Yukio, and I’m your new personal guard. It’s going to be lunch soon, so you need to wake--”
The figure in the bed makes a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine. The arm flails, and for a moment, it looks like the prince will wake without further intervention - then the flailing arm finds a loose pillow and drags it up so even the blond hair is buried.
With that, he rolls over and goes straight back to sleep. Only the ankle remains in view.
Yukio narrows his eyes. His temper, never as tightly leashed as he would like, rears its head. Without another word, he leans over, grips the ankle, and yanks.
Kise Ryouta finds himself deposited on the floor with a startled shriek.
Even though Yukio was never assigned to the palace prior to today, he’s seen the Ki royal family often enough to recognise them, familiar faces smiling or laughing in the midst of one court function or another. He knows Kise Ryouta’s face, as beautiful and unmistakable as the rest of his family, lit with that same indefinable, goldden aura. He shouldn’t be surprised by the boy sprawled on the floor before him, but somehow, seeing the prince up close is an entirely different experience from watching him from a disinterested distance.
Also, he’s completely naked.
Yukio makes a horrified noise at the back of his throat.
For someone who’s just been rudely awakened by a complete stranger, the prince seems unconcerned with the fact that he’s not wearing a single stitch of clothing. “You’re my new guard?” he says. He doesn’t sound upset - if anything, he sounds like he might be batting his lashes. Sounds. Yukio has his eyes squeezed shut and certainly isn’t opening them to find out. “You know, if you wanted to look--”
Yukio doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence, just gropes blindly for the bed and dumps an armload of what he hopes are sheets on the floor. The prince squawks and he cracks one eye open to check - he also dumped half the pillows on him, but at least he’s covered now.
“Get dressed!” he barks. He doesn’t let the prince argue, just turns on his heel and marches back out of the room. It’s not a retreat, he tries to tell himself as the doors slide shut behind him and he bites back the urge to groan out loud.
(It’s definitely a retreat.)
By the time the prince has bathed, dressed himself to his satisfaction, and allowed Yukio to harry him from his quarters, they’re late for lunch. He shows no sign of noticing this - just strolls into the hall, sinks into the seat beside his sister and graces his guests with a smile so dazzling, for a moment even Yukio almost believes that he is exactly on time and it’s everyone else who arrived early for the privilege of meeting him. He has to shake himself out of the haze of delusion, and glares at the back of the prince’s head.
Only Princess Reiko seems immune to the effect, but all she does is smile, her expression equal parts indulgent and ironic. “How kind of you to join us, Ryouta.”
“How could I possibly miss lunch with my favourite sister?” Prince Ryouta says, his smile, if possible, even more blinding than before.
“Wasn’t Suzu-neesan your favourite sister last week?” she asks, still immune to the attempt but amused nonetheless. “As fickle as always, little brother.”
He gives her a wounded look. “Where did you hear that?”
“I was right there,” the princess reminds him, then taps him briskly on the cheek to end the argument. “No more playing, entertain our guests.”
Obliging and obedient, he turns his attention back to the rest of the room. Without seeming to do anything at all, he draws a handful of the younger guests into his orbit, and soon they’re laughing together like old friends.
Behind him, Yukio scans the table - it looks like they’re nearly done with the appetiser courses, so they must have decided not to wait for the prince before beginning. The servants have already taken his belated appearance in stride, and the most recent course is swiftly presented to him.
The rest of the lunch proceeds smoothly. The conversation flows around the table, so light and easy it seems inconsequential, yet leaves no one untouched. By the time the last dessert dish has been cleared, the gathered nobles affect surprise at how quickly the time has passed.
Yukio racks his brains for the next task on the prince’s schedule while the princess and prince see their guests off. He’s due to meet with the royal Ki tailors about the new robes he needs for a banquet next month, but they have enough time to make the appointment.
“You’re new. This is your first day, isn’t it?” He looks up, then realises that the princess turned to speak to him when he wasn’t paying attention. In the face of her limpid, blue-eyed stare, he freezes, too terrified to back away, too embarrassed to react.
“Y-yes,” he finally manages to stammer when she waits, patient and still smiling, for an answer.
Her smile curls out of its polite elegance into something sharper and yet, in its way, more open. Unlike the blunt force of the prince’s charisma, the princess’s smiles are an arsenal, every smile distinct and carefully honed, each wielded with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“You seem to be doing a good job so far,” she tells him with inexplicable kindness. “Try to keep it up.”
She doesn’t wait for his reply before she sweeps out of the room in the wake of her guests. The doors slide shut behind her before Yukio remembers to close his mouth. He swallows.
The prince, lounging back in his seat, watching, does him the courtesy of laughing quietly enough that Yukio pretends not to notice.
“What was she like?” Moriyama demands, looming over the table. For a moment, he looks uncannily like Hayakawa, and Yukio wonders if he should suggest that Sir Genta split the rest of the squad for a few missions. Maybe they’ve all been working together for too long, gotten too used to each other.
“What? Who? You’re getting your shirt in the soup, sit down,” he orders.
Moriyama sits, but doesn’t abandon the topic. “Who? Who else could it be?! Princess Reiko! Was she as lovely, as graceful, as--”
“You’ve seen the princess before,” Yukio points out.
“It’s not the same thing! To be standing right beside her, close enough to touch, to make conversation, to count every eyelash--”
Yukio thinks, against his will, of his first meeting with the prince in the morning, then hastily squashes the memory. Moriyama might have a point for once in his life, but the last thing he needs is encouragement. He says, “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not there to count her eyelashes. We barely spoke. And how do you know all this anyway?”
“What do you take us for?” Moriyama asks very seriously, and Yukio sighs. It’s only been a day, but Moriyama is one of the biggest gossips in the entire city of Kaijou; of course he would know.
“It’s a huge honour to be a loyal guard!” Hayakawa adds with enthusiasm. “We’re all leeeaarrrry happy for you, Captain!”
“I’m not Captain anymore, that’s Kobori now,” Yukio reminds him.
“You can both be captain!” Hayakawa declares. Kobori gives him a wry grin from across the table, and Yukio doesn’t have the heart to argue the point.
Moriyama shakes his head at them and tries to look sage. “Don’t be too happy yet,” he says. “Haven’t you heard the rumours?”
“Rumours?!” Hayakawa makes the mistake of asking before Yukio can stop him.
Moriyama does an exaggerated sweep of their surroundings, like they’re not sitting in the middle of the canteen in the knights’ quarters, surrounded by fellow knights, then leans in, expression conspiratorial. “The rumours about the prince’s personal guards. He’s already gone through more than ten guards in less than a year.”
“More than ten?!”
“I can even give you names!” Moriyama says in answer to Kobori’s doubtful expression. “But that’s not the important part! The important part is that they keep having to change the guards because he’s been seducing all of them.”
News delivered, Moriyama sits back to smugly enjoy their stunned silence.
“That… can’t be true,” Kobori protests after a shocked moment.
“THAT’S LIDICUROUS,” Hayakawa yells in agreement, slamming his fists on the table to emphasize the point. Yukio yanks him back onto the bench before he can make a scene.
“SIT DOWN, DUMBASS. Moriyama, if you keep spreading rumours like that, you’re going to get arrested for treason, don’t just believe everything the palace maids tell you!” he snaps.
“Am I?” Moriyama says, undeterred. “Why else would they keep changing his guards? And he’s a Kise, everyone knows they can seduce anyone they want. I bet he doesn’t even have to try!”
“I’m sure there were other reasons,” Yukio says, flat.
“What other reasons can there be?! What did Sir Genta tell you when he gave you the assignment?”
Yukio frowns at him. “I got the assignment this morning and had to start immediately. I didn’t have time to ask anything.” Of course Sir Genta has better things to do than pass on spurious gossip - but he abruptly remembers the way the palace maid had giggled at him before leaving, and--
It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, even as he feels heat creep up the back of his neck. He tries to fight it down before the others notice - fortunately, Hayakawa, banned from shouting or punching the table again, is too busy flailing to pay attention, and Kobori seems too worried about the state of the universe to notice. The captain-ship sits heavily on him, but he’ll get used to it soon enough. Yukio did. And as for Moriyama--
“I guess you’ll find out sooner or later,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows suggestively in case Yukio doesn’t catch his meaning. He adds, in dreamy tones, “Do you think if I begged Sir Genta hard enough, I could get assigned as Princess Suzuka’s personal guard? Or Princess Reiko? Or--”
At this point, Yukio gives up and kicks him off the bench to shut him up.
The problem with the prince, Yukio suspects, is that he’s bored.
As the third in line to the throne, Prince Ryouta’s duties and responsibilities are not especially strenuous. He’s expected to charm and be friendly with the various noble families of Ki and her neighbours, keep them favourably inclined to the royal family, ease relations where needed; in the meantime, the real, delicate political wrangling of treaties and trade agreements are managed by the king and queen and the crown princess.
And of course, the Ki royal family is famously beautiful, infamously irresistable. Flirting his way into the good graces of all and sundry is no challenge whatsoever.
Yukio watches him during the banquets and parties, follows as he shows honoured guests the sights around Kaijou, rolls his eyes as he basks in the attention of starry-eyed noble girls and jealous noble boys. He makes it look easy because to him, it is that easy.
The only time Yukio ever sees any sign of something beyong the frivolous, flippant smiles is in the training yards, and even then, it comes rarely. The prince fights as well as he dances, fluid and fast and disconcertingly quick to turn an opponent’s own techniques against them. Even the best of Ki’s knights are not enough of a match against him.
But sometimes, his gaze slides a little further, as if he’s looking at something - or someone - that isn’t there, and his grin sharpens into something brighter, harder, yet far more real, than his most practiced smiles.
Yukio doesn’t bother asking who it is. However good you might be, losing sight of the enemy in front of you is always a mistake. He aims the butt of his glaive at Prince Ryouta’s solar plexus, and when he moves to dodge it, kicks his knee out. He goes down with an undignified squawk.
“Pay attention!” he snaps.
“Kasamatsu is too mean,” Prince Ryouta wails. “What if I hit my face? You’re making me attend Lady Fumi’s luncheon later, remember?”
“Then you should know better than to get distracted,” Yukio says. “Stop complaining and get up.”
Prince Ryouta lounges - there’s no better word for it - on the dirt and tries to look pitiful. “Aren’t you going to help me up?”
In answer, Yukio kicks him.
It’s probably a breach of protocol to treat a prince like a particularly bratty squire but Yukio knows how to deal with whiny trainee-knights better than he knows how to deal with royalty, so he’s working with what he has. And if Prince Ryouta doesn’t like it, well, Sir Genta hasn’t said anything about it yet.
The prince climbs back to his feet, and they spar for a few more rounds. Thanks to Yukio’s rude reminder, he pays enough attention now to win all of them cleanly, no showing off or trying to pull strange techniques he claims come from Aoi.
“That’s better,” Yukio has to admit, because he believes in being fair, even to annoying squires and princes.
“That’s it? Just better? So strict!” Prince Ryouta pretends to pout, but Yukio can tell that he’s pleased anyway.
He collects the practice weapons and heads off to put them back in the nearest armoury. When he returns, the prince has retreated into the shade by the water pump at the far end of the training yard. He’s already stripped off his dusty training tunic and slung it over his shoulder, and as Yukio watches, he ducks his head under the pump to rinse the dirt and sweat out of his hair and face. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the scene - except that nothing about Prince Ryouta is ordinary.
Even though Yukio has made it his necessary duty to wake the prince in the morning and make sure he doesn’t sleep through his entire schedule, he learned his lesson about dragging him out of bed. If he has to, he empties the wash basin on him. He thought he’d safely erased any memories of that single, stunned glimpse of long limbs and smooth skin.
Clearly, he was wrong.
The late morning sun glints in his golden hair, in the water that runs down the muscles of his back, a deceptive halo of light. Yukio swallows, hard, then marches across the yard, grimly grateful that the prince had his back to him and the water pump is located at the far end. By the time he reaches him, he’s wrestled himself back into a semblance of calm.
“Oi, let’s go,” he says. “If you’re going to take an hour getting ready again, we don’t have time to waste.”
Prince Ryouta nods and straightens. He doesn’t bother to put his shirt back on, just falls into step beside him. This time, Yukio doesn’t manage to stop himself from giving him a Look.
“What?” the prince says, despite not even looking in his direction.
“You’re going to walk around the palace like that?” he says, disapproving.
“But it’s filthy, it’ll look just as bad if I wear it! And whose fault is that?”
“You were the one who got careless,” Yukio points out, but doesn’t argue further. He already has enough to worry about in his inner debates on how far he’s overstepped his bounds as a personal guard; he’s not adding wardrobe decisions to the list. If the prince wants to stroll through the palace, dripping and shirtless, leaving a trail of swooning palace maids in his wake, at least it’s not causing any real threats to his personal safety.
Yukio’s own peace of mind is irrelevant.
Far, far away, he can almost definitely hear Moriyama laughing. At him.
Despite Sir Genta’s dire threats, no one tries to assassinate Prince Ryouta in Yukio’s first week on the job. Watching the way he fights during training, it’s easy to believe he doesn’t really need a personal guard at all. Yukio spends more time kicking the prince into doing his job than fending off any supposed assailants.
It’s a sad fact of life, however, that all good things must come to an end. It doesn’t last.
Yukio drifts back into consciousness slowly, painfully. His body is heavy, he aches all over, and even his mind seems to move at a crawl, but eventually, he narrows the pain down to his right side, his left shoulder, and his head. The worst of it concentrates in his shoulder, but he can’t quite tell or remember if he got stabbed or broke something instead.
He opens his eyes.
Unfamiliar bed, airy room, dark night beyond the open window, oil lamp’s warm, wavering glow. Yukio squints at the high ceiling above him and recognises the herbal, medicinal tang in the air. He’s in the palace infirmary. How long was he asleep? The last thing he remembers is--
“Kasamatsu? You’re awake?” He turns to the half-whispered voice to see Prince Ryouta seated in a chair beside the bed. “You’re okay! Hold on, let me get a healer!”
The prince vanishes to the sound of quick footsteps before Yukio can say anything. He turns back to the ceiling and tries to sort through the haze in his mind. Lady Fumi’s luncheon, he remembers now. She wanted to show her guests around her gardens before they left, a harmless idea right until ten armed men threw themselves out of the shrubbery and straight at the prince.
They’d fought them off. They were outnumbered, but some of the noble boys and girls in the party had enough skill with weapons to defend themselves, and between them, they cut down enough of the attackers that the remaining turned to flee. Mercenaries, hired for an easy job, not something they wanted to die for.
It’d looked like they were out of trouble - right until the screaming servant girl cowering behind them pulled a dagger from her sleeve and tried to stab Prince Ryouta.
Yukio remembers the scene in scattered pieces: the servant girl, stumbling too close to the prince; the sudden, desperate anger in her eyes; moving without thought, without question, because he failed the queen once but he won’t fail now--
He closes his eyes. The prince looked fine. He didn’t fail him, this time.
The sound of footsteps again.
“I’m fine,” Yukio says, opening his eyes again to look up into the prince’s worried face. Not one, but two healers have followed him back into the room.
“You’re very lucky the girl didn’t know what she was doing,” the older healer chides him. “She tried to poison the blade but failed.”
“Who was she?” he asks. “What was--”
“Don’t worry yourself about that right now,” the healer says. “Now, just let me take a look…”
Later, after a thorough examination, she nods. “It’ll take a while but so long as you’re careful, it looks like it should heal well. We’ll just put your arm in a sling for a week, to make sure you can’t move it too much.”
Yukio opens his mouth to protest, but she quells him with a stern look “No arguments. If you open the wound again or worse, you’ll feel it for the rest of your life. You can’t afford to be reckless.”
Cowed into mute obedience, he gives her a reluctant nod.
Satisfied with his compliance, she says, “Good. Now go back to sleep, you need the rest. Prince Ryouta, the same goes for you. As you can see, your worry was quite unnecessary.”
“I have full confidence in our healers! I just didn’t want him to wake up alone,” the prince demurs.
She huffs a sigh, but seems fondly resigned more than anything else. “If you’re not gone by the next bell, I’ll report you to your sister,” she warns him, then ignores his pout and leaves as briskly as she entered. In her wake, the room is too quiet.
“Are you hurt?” Yukio asks, when the prince makes no move to leave, just stares in his general direction in uncharacteristic silence. He starts.
“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m not the one who got stabbed,” he says, sounding faintly accusing, as if Yukio had gotten himself stabbed on purpose.
Yukio snorts. “I’m your guard for a reason, remember? Did they capture the girl? What was she after? She couldn’t have planned the attack herself--”
“They’ve taken her in for questioning,” the prince says. “We don’t have the full story yet but I think - she’s the sister of my last guard.”
Yukio blinks. “The one who got exiled?” he murmurs, remembering Sir Genta’s offhand complaint.
Prince Ryouta gives him a sidelong look. “Yes,” he says, but doesn’t volunteer more.
“What happened?” Yukio asks, watching him with narrowed eyes.
The prince shrugs a shoulder at him. “He tried to kill me,” he says, as lightly as if he was only mentioning a distant acquaintance, met in passing.
“Ah,” Yukio says.
“It’s not like he was the first,” he continues. “So it shouldn’t have been a surprise.”
To be chosen as personal guard to the royal family is a position of great honour, even greater trust. For more than one knight of Ki to have betrayed their oaths - Yukio clenches his jaw. He’s had his suspicions. The signs have been there for months, of missions failed, information leaked. Sir Genta must realise something, someone, is working against them. Maybe working amongst them, if the corruption has spread this far.
Maybe Sir Genta had more than one reason to choose Yukio.
“That won’t happen again while I’m around,” he says, before he realises what he’s saying. Promises are easy to make and easier to break - the prince has been betrayed before, what reason does he have to believe him?
“Even injured, Kasamatsu is as serious as always,” Prince Ryouta says, the words flippant but his expression unreadable. He tilts his head. “I’ll be in your care then.”
Maybe the blood loss has gone to his head. Yukio flounders, thrown off balance by the suddenly unnerving intensity of his attention. “It’s my job, no need to make a big deal about it,” he mutters.
Prince Ryouta studies him for a moment longer. Then he looks away and says, “You’re not what I expected.”
Yukio frowns at him. “What were you expecting?”
The prince’s aura of serious contemplation wobbles. “Maybe someone less mean and better at lying and not so terrible at talking to girls? I can’t believe Sir Genta thinks it’s safe to let you in the palace. I thought the palace maids were going to eat you alive in a week.”
Yukio splutters and the moment pops like a bubble, a figment of his imagination. “If you’re going to talk nonsense, go to bed,” he snaps. “You have a busy day tomorrow. Don’t think you can oversleep and skip out on training.”
“But if my personal guard can’t guard me, there’s no way I can go to all these meetings and lunches and dinners, right? It’s way too dangerous!”
“No excuses!” Yukio snarls. “Someone else will watch you while I’m recovering. I’ll request for my old squad to take over.”
It’s not the princess he was praying for, but if Moriyama dares to complain, Sir Genta will make him cry. It’s too late at night to do anything now, but he’ll be better in the morning, and then he’ll see Sir Genta himself. They’re going to have a lot to talk about.
“Worry about your own duty and we’ll worry about ours.”
The prince sighs. “Kasamatsu worries too much about duty and not enough about himself.”
Yukio ignores the jab and points his good arm at the door. “Get out and stop disturbing me,” he orders, since the prince seems determined to make a niusance of himself and he’s not up to kicking him out.
“So mean!” Prince Ryouta mourns, but he hops out of the chair when Kasamatsu gestures angrily at him. “Fine, I’m going, I’m going!”
Despite the words, he stops to look down at Yukio one last time. He bends for a closer look, reaches out a hand to brush careful fingers around his bruised right eye. “You’re going to have quite a black eye tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But maybe the palace maids will just think it makes you look manlier.”
Then he leans in, too close for comfort, to whisper in his ear, “Thanks.”
By the time Yukio has recovered from his surprise, the prince has vanished. He makes an incoherent sound of frustration into the empty room. It’s been a long day, and by the look of things, this is only the beginning. Nothing is going to get easier from here, least of all the prince. But he made him a promise, so he’s going to have to keep it.
It’s the least that he can do.
end