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The captain found himself leaning on the king’s leg, hands resting loosely at their thigh as a low, contented purr slipped from his chest. A tipsy laugh followed when he tilted his head, silver eye drifting lazily around the room. Nearby, Kosheshka watched with half lidded interest, sprawled out comfortably with a smear of milk on her chin. Which was a gift from the captain himself, before she rolled her plump body onto her side to groom away the evidence.
The captain’s attention returned to the king. With a slow, careful motion, he brushed pale strands of white silver frosty hair from his face using the back of his red claws, silver meeting blue as the faint scent of cherry wine lingered on the king’s breath. Trotter shifted closer, turning just enough that his elbow knocked a bottle onto the open book the king had been focused on earlier. Wine spilled freely, but neither of them spared it a glance.
“Maybe…” he murmured with a soft giggle, tracing a lazy circle over their chest, his claw leaving the faintest red mark behind, “with all these gifts o’er there next to yer tree… ye could wrap me up in ribbon ‘n keep me all to yerself wit’ em..”
At a moment’s notice, Trotter found himself flat on his back against the floor. The impact knocked the breath from his chest, a few startled coughs slipping out before he looked up in confusion.
Cruel King sat as still as ice, face flushed a deep, unmistakable red, eye wide and unfocused with wine and shock alike. He stared down at him as if he were the one who had fallen, clearly frozen between panic, embarrassment, and the delayed realization of what they’d just done. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for the faint clink of a bottle rolling to a stop nearby.
“Get out. Get out of my house.” Cruel King’s voice cracked as he pushed himself upright, swaying slightly as he moved. He grabbed the captain by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, grip firm but unsteady.
“It was jus’ a joke!” the captain cried, stumbling after the king with unsteady steps, eyes wide with a slow, creeping panic. His hands lifted as if to placate, claws curling inward, his voice cracking around the words.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he added quickly, breath hitching as he struggled to keep pace, boots skidding against the floor. “Was only messin’—I swear.”
He couldn’t lose another person.
“Don’t you—no. No.” His words tangled over one another, as if he didn’t even hear the pleads of the man, his breath was sharp and uneven. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know—” Frustration boiled over, the last word breaking off into a growl as he turned away, refusing to let himself think. Before reason could catch up, the king forced the captain toward the door, shoving it open and ushering the drunkard out into the night. Their eyes met.
The door shut harder than it needed to.
Trotter stood there for a moment, swaying slightly on the stone step, the cold air biting far sharper than he expected. The red wine haze thinned just enough for the weight of it to settle in his chest. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, claws flexing once before curling inward. He laughed weakly to himself, but the sound came out wrong. It was too thin, too brittle. The warmth from earlier drained away, leaving embarrassment and something sharper behind it.
“…Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
After a moment, he turned away from the door. His steps were slower now, more careful. By the time he reached the street, the wine no longer felt sweet, only heavy.
… Cruel King stood just beyond the door, breathing hard, one hand still braced against the wood as if they expected it to push back. Their heart hammered painfully in their chest, the heat in their face refusing to fade.
Too far.
He had gone too far.
His fingers curled, then tightened, nails biting into his palm. He hadn’t meant to shove him out like that—hadn’t meant to say what he said like he did. But the words had slipped loose before thought could catch them, dragged out by wine and fear and something dangerously close to wanting.
He turned away at last, pacing once, twice, before stopping beside the overturned book and spilled wine. The sight of it made his chest ache.
“…Idiot,” they muttered—not sure if it was meant for the captain, or himself.