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kuramochi youichi isn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill prince. for instance, he’s spent months more time collecting scrapes and bruises racing through the the city streets and climbing through the brambles and alpines of their hunting grounds than he has in lessons with his tutors, or making appearances in court, or doing anything that could be considered remotely princely by any definition of the word.
hey, he’s gained certain things from it, like a reputation for being able to outrun anything and anyone, from exasperated nursemaids to more than his share of run-ins with the city guards, his face but not his laugh hidden under a cloak. they wised up to him soon enough. after a certain point in his late teens, his parents had cut their losses and thrown their chips in with the rest of his siblings, leaving him to wander rogue, just the way he likes it.
(gambling. youichi’s done a fair amount of that, too.)
“at least he isn’t the oldest,” he once overheard his mother whispering.
“he’ll have to marry well,” answered his father.
which is why youichi’s astounded when, at his eighteenth birthday ball, in which his parents had invited the daughters of dukes, marquesses, and foreign kings from all corners of the globe to try their hand at said betrothal, a boy his age who does look like the prince his parents spent their entire lives praying he would miraculously turn into sometime after puberty saunters up to him, lips pressed into a razor-edge smile.
he’s neat, well-groomed, pristine, clad in a suit that’s sheer and diaphanous and all but glittering as if it’s made from crystal. his hair, catching the light of the chandeliers, shimmers a shade of pink more flattering than any of the ladies’ gowns in the room. youichi’s eyes skim his slender form down to his shoes, which do shimmer, literally. they’re like nothing he’s ever seen on anyone in court, made entirely of glass. his eyes widen.
but the boy grasps his hand before youichi can speak, and pulls it in a single, audacious move toward his chest, as if to twist or to break. which youichi’s sure he could.
instead, he spins, flicking his wrist with a flourish that youichi could have sworn he should have been the one to learn, being the prince in the situation and all. youichi spins with him, catching his breath. the motion reverberates through the shadows of the candles swinging from the ceiling, a ripple through silk and satin foam. mystery boy dances like he’s walking on a wire; youichi follows along and finds himself struggling to keep up.
“hey—” he starts. the tutors have always said dance, when done right, is supposed to hold a conversation in itself, but it’s been minutes and youichi hasn’t heard a single intelligible thing—
too late; the boy turns and disappears without a glance back.
youichi can only stand there like an idiot. somehow, the crowd doesn’t seem to notice mystery boy. he moves like a shadow, seems to steal the beats between one note the orchestra plays and the next, hovers in the gap between the strings and the players’ trembling bows.
shit, he steals youichi’s breath, too.
“what’s your name?” youichi asks him as soon as they rendezvous again, the next time he finds himself in mystery boy’s orbit, having inched his way not so subtly toward the edge of the room. his father had forced him into an introductory dance with the princess of some country to the north involved in some messy political alliance youichi never bothered to memorize. he dipped her halfheartedly to the sound of applause and caught sight of a flash of a pink out of the corner of his eye, losing itself on the edges of the ballroom.
mystery boy only smiles deeper, a needle pulling a seam tight.
“wouldn’t you like to know,” he answers in a silky voice that sends a chill up youchi’s spine.
youichi frowns. he might have earned a reputation as a troublemaker, but he’s also well-known around the palace for how straightforward he is. it gets hard to talk in riddles, tiresome, to envelope himself in oil and turn himself invisible like now, a cloak that seems to cover both of them when he’s dancing with mystery boy.
“oi, who are you?” he tries again, unable to keep his eyebrows from knitting in frustration.
“hmm. try again.”
at least he’s talking now, youichi reminds himself, even as his gut protests against the taunting lilt in his voice. “a spy. you’re here to take over the kingdom. assassination. or you just want some food.” he drops his arms, forgetting that he’s mid-dance. “i don’t fuckin’ know, man.”
“you don’t talk like a prince,” mystery boy comments, arching one eyebrow. rather pointedly, he picks up the waltz again, sliding them back into rhythm.
“and you don’t talk like a commoner.”
the boy’s eyes flare open for an instant, and youichi knows he’s hit the mark.
“you don’t dance like one either,” youichi comments. honestly, it was a lucky guess, but, “hyaha! see, i have to know every single noble in the whole damn realm. and you’re not one of ‘em, are you.” he tries not to gloat. lessons do pay off sometimes. who would’ve guessed. “besides, you’ve been acting shifty as hell the entire night.”
“hm.” the boy’s delicate nose rises for a moment, making him look surprisingly petulant and a little catlike. it’s cute, youichi thinks. then the gate slides down again, shuttering his face. “look at us—we could switch places, couldn’t we, and the world would be in balance.”
“why are you here? don’t tell me it’s really an assassination plot.”
“please, don’t flatter yourself.”
“how did you get in? and—”
as if that’s the crux of youichi’s questions. youichi’s never met a commoner like this guy in his life, and he’s met plenty of commoners in his day.
to his shock, mystery boy reaches up and presses a finger to his lips. his skin is cool, and youichi nearly jerks back before the other ninety percent of his brain takes over, relaxing into his touch for a fraction of a second, all the time mystery boy gives him before he pulls away.
“i’d say you’ve quite hit your limit for questions. i’ll have to make you pay a fee for more.”
“what—”
but just like that, he’s gone, an unfinished sentence, a forgotten strand of thought. youichi frowns, kicks himself mentally, unable to grasp it as much as he wants to, and goes over to take some of the food himself, because why the hell not.
he doesn’t see the boy again that night, left to wonder if he slid out of the castle just like a shadow himself, left to wonder on top of that if he exited so abruptly on purpose, so that he could leave him wondering. the questions steepen, distracting him until even the duke’s daughter he’s dancing with asks, politely, if there’s something on his mind.
but he finds the glass slipper hours later, after the last of the guests have trickled out, the air stained with laughter and wine.
catch me if you can. signed, the pretty mystery boy.
youichi almost laughs.
you’ll have to put on better shoes to run from me, pretty boy, he thinks. after all, he was always known for being fast.