Work Text:
“My king.”
Takumi turns at the soft rustle of the tent flaps, the quiet clank of armour. Momijikawa is already kneeling, dark head bowed respectfully to the floor and his helmet held carefully under one arm. Takumi’s feet are light as he crosses the layered rugs.
“Momijikawa! I’m so glad you came—come on, up, up!”
He tugs on the cold metal of Momijikawa’s pauldron, and then looks up in some awe as Momijikawa obeys, rising silently to his feet until he towers above Takumi. Takumi cocks his head, hides a smile behind his hand.
“I forgot exactly how far up you go,” he laughs. Momijikawa glances down at him, face respectfully clear of emotion except for his own natural seriousness, but Takumi doesn’t miss the tiny twitch of his eyebrows. “I’ve changed my mind! Would you come over here, sit down?”
Momijikawa hesitates. “I’m not sure that I—”
“Of course you should!” Takumi beams. “It’s my tent, and I’m the king, so I say what’s appropriate and what’s not.”
Seeing Momijikawa hesitate despite this encouragement, Takumi simply takes his hand and leads him to the bed, pressing until he perches on the edge. Momijikawa’s face is always beautifully severe—Takumi has stacks of discarded attempts at capturing it, but even his best smudges of charcoal and graphite never quite live up to reality—but right now it’s soft around the edges, blurred by concern and something else Takumi can’t identify.
“You called for me?” Momijikawa questions. His words are short, but Takumi takes no offense, in fact he likes how forward Momijikawa is. But then, he likes many things about Momijikawa.
“I did! I heard about your duel.” Takumi turns away, but not before he sees Momijikawa stiffen. “Don’t worry, I’m not angry! All men must defend their honour, and that is especially true for knights—no, you’re not here so I can scold you.” He tosses a smile over his shoulder, hands busy at his desk. “You’re here so I can wish you luck!”
“... Luck?”
Takumi picks up the little bowl of ink he ground earlier, admiring the rich sheen of it, the familiar smell. His favourite paintbrush comes into his hand almost by reflex, like a loyal hound—or a good weapon.
“Of course!” His heart is light as he crosses back to Momijikawa, smiling at his slight frown. “I wouldn’t want my favourite knight to be wounded.”
Momijikawa’s eyes widen fractionally, lips parting on a tiny, surprised inhale. Takumi slides his gaze along the thin curve of his mouth, the boldness of his eyebrows, the animal-haughtiness in the set of his shoulders, and commits it all to memory.
With Momijikawa seated on the bed, they’re almost level—almost. Takumi moves close enough to see the lighted specks of colour in his eyes, and smiles reassuringly. For all his courage, Momijikawa’s hackles can be easy to rise.
“Would you accept a token from me, as a gesture of luck?” Takumi asks quietly.
Momijikawa doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. It would be my honour.”
There isn’t much that affects Takumi. Being royalty means being ready for anything, for the vastness of joy and despair and everything between. But this, Momijikawa’s voice low with blunt honesty, makes the hair on Takumi’s neck rise in a pleasant shiver.
He clears his throat. “Good!” Stepping closer, until he’s almost between Momijikawa’s knees, Takumi resists the urge to reach out and pet through the lovely dark coarseness of Momijikawa’s hair. It’s just never been so close before. “Your hand, please.”
Momijikawa removes his gauntlet, setting it on the floor at his feet with his helmet. His hands are so beautifully built, strong in the way a wolf’s limbs are strong—rangy and lean, built for power and speed. Takumi promptly hands him the little inkbowl, and laughs at his blank look of bewilderment.
“That’s not the token,” he explains. “Please hold out your other hand, palm up.”
The instant ease of Momijikawa’s obedience makes Takumi feel like there are birds fluttering in his chest. He breathes deeply, willing his hands to steadiness as he reaches out.
Momijikawa goes utterly still as Takumi’s fingertips push the edge of Momijikawa’s cuff back from his wrist, then gently turns his hand palm up. Two fingertips rest on the delicate skin of Momijikawa’s inner wrist, and quiet pools between them.
“Just here,” Takumi murmurs. “Alright?”
Momijikawa’s blink is as good as a nod. Dreamily, Takumi settles his paintbrush in his hand, dips it in the little inkbowl, and cups his free hand under Momijikawa’s wrist to support it. They’re so disparate in size that he can hardly see his own fingers.
“Let me know if it tickles too much,” he breathes, and then sets the brush to Momijikawa’s skin.
The first stroke is slow, almost meditative. Takumi eyes the faint blue of veins, and lets the brush guide itself. Rich ink licks along the canvas of Momijikawa’s skin, dark and purposefully bold—Takumi wanted this to be clear, unsubtle, like Momijikawa himself.
Takumi’s so intent on his brushwork that he almost misses the way Momijikawa’s lashes dip, the shakiness of his next inhale, but they’re so close that he almost feels it on his own skin. He bites his lip, feeling a delighted, dreamy smile curl at him.
“My favourite knight,” he says again, and presses his thumb to the bone of Momijikawa’s wrist.
“My king.” Momijikawa’s voice rumbles soft, almost breathless.
Takumi smiles, flicks the brush in a series of peaks. “Mhm,” he murmurs. “Your king. Yours.”
The painting is over disappointingly fast. Takumi lets the brush linger on Momijikawa’s skin longer than is necessary, and meets his gaze. There’s a kind of charge in the air between them, something unspoken but exciting, heavy with meaning.
Momijikawa breaks first, his eyes tearing from Takumi’s to look at the mark on his wrist. This time his inhale is fast and audible.
“A maple leaf—” he starts.
“—and a peach blossom,” Takumi finishes, a smile spreading across his face. “Do you like it?”
“I…” Momijikawa pauses for so long that Takumi feels a spark of worry, but then he suddenly bursts into motion. He takes Takumi’s free hand in his, his touch so gentle it’s almost reverent, and bows his head. The ends of his hair tickle Takumi’s knuckles. “I’m yours, body and soul. Every swing of my sword is for you, my king.”
Takumi is suffused with joy so intense he rises up onto his toes, his whole being as light and fluffy as a cloud, liable to float away if it wasn’t for Momijikawa’s anchoring touch.
“Then swing it well,” he says, smiling so widely it hurts. “And come back to me safe and whole!”
And then, unable to resist any longer, he takes his paintbrush between his teeth and settles his freed hand on Momijikawa’s bent head, burying his fingers into his hair. Momijikawa goes tense for an instant, and then settles all of a sudden, forehead coming to rest on Takumi’s hand.
“I swear it.”