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There’s someone waiting for them in the sitting area.
“Fuck.”
It’s too late for Yami to duck back into the bedroom, so he stands there with a glower that could have made anyone else pee their pants (just like the greenhorn who brought him the news of their arranged marriage).
Meanwhile, Damnatio stares back stonily.
“Your mother didn’t teach you manners?” Yami asks sarcastically. His smirk becomes downright dangerous as he taunts, “You got a voyeurism kink that no one knows about, ya pervert?”
Damnatio’s gaze becomes ice and it lights that petty vindictiveness in him. Just then, he hears a rustle on the other side behind closed doors.
“We’ve got an unwanted visitor,” Yami warns without breaking eye contact.
The door opens, revealing an already properly dressed Fuegoleon Vermillion. There’s a brief second where he looks at Yami with exasperation, before his gaze slides over to Damnatio and it becomes downright frigid.
“Already so protective of your husband. How touching,” Damnatio notes, soft and snide.
Fuegoleon interrupts, voice hard, “Kira, I don’t recall arranging a meeting with you this morning.”
“It was not my intention to disturb the two…newlyweds this morning. As per the agreement, I am to ensure that the marriage bond has been kindled as foundation for next steps.”
Oh, hell. Yami did not like the sound of that.
“Next steps?” Fuegoleon echoes with a wary look.
“The plain reasoning behind this marriage is simple: to keep the Captain of the Black Bulls and his squad in line.”
“Really brave of ya to say that in front of my face,” Yami says in a low, dangerous growl.
Damnatio shoots him a glare for his impudence. Yami stares back, Dark Magic rising.
“As such, the tether must be made strong, through shared missions that the Wizard King will assign you.”
“This requirement wasn’t a part of the agreement,” Fuegoleon points out, stone-faced.
“No, it wasn’t,” Damnatio agrees. “It is a safety measure, simple as that.”
I’m going to kill this guy, Yami decides, blade sliding out of its sheath.
Fuegoleon holds up a hand, stilling him in his movement, and levels Damnatio with an impassive expression.
“Very well. But any further conditions by the Parliament will not be tolerated.”
Something shifts in Fuegoleon’s expression, becoming cold, hard, devoid of the warmth that Yami had seen the night before.
“I am Captain of the Crimson Lions and head of House Vermillion, Kira. You, and your Parliament, will do well to remember that.”
Unspoken words pass between them; for once the chin-mole bastard stays silent. He gets up, stiffly excuses himself, and leaves.
“I could have cut his head off if you and Braid didn’t stop me,” Yami tells him, irritated, sliding his blade back into its sheath.
Fuegoleon says tersely, “Shall I remind you of the consequences if you did it?”
Screw the consequences. Yami snorts and tucks away that murderous thought, not wanting to make the already terrible morning even worse. They can’t be having their first argument already.
“So what now? We go on shared missions disguised as a honeymoon?”
A sigh.
“It appears so.”
__________
Julius becomes awkward as his gaze darts between them, like a kid caught between his parents fighting.
“Oh.”
Yami rolls his eyes.
“We had a rude awakening — you know why. Just cut to the chase. What’ve you got for us, Sir Julius?”
The mission is this: track down artefacts from illegally-raided dungeons in the Forsaken Realm. It’s obviously the work of an organised group that’s taking advantage of the Magic Knights’ current overworked state, and as with all organised groups, cracking down on them isn’t so easy. With two captains, however, any mission is simple.
Not only his fellow captain, but his husband. Yami has to remind himself of why they’re in this situation in the first place. It is easier to pretend otherwise.
“I’ve notified your vice-captains to handle squad affairs while you two are away,” he finishes.
Julius’ expression softens.
“Anyway, don’t let the Magic Parliament get to you. Just…try to enjoy yourselves.”
“Right,” Yami deadpans. Fuegoleon stays silent.
__________
They start off their search in the Black Market in Kikka, with the reasoning that some of the raided artefacts may be sold here. The delicate nature of their mission means that they have to change out of their Magic Knight robes.
To his credit, Fuegoleon can blend in really well when he has to; the cageyness really fits into the vibe of the place.
Yami stops in his tracks, just by a stall selling sketchy-looking food.
“Eat.”
Fuegoleon looks warily down the stick of grilled chicken pointed in his face.
“Relax. It ain’t poisoned,” Yami drawls. He shoots a dark look at the shopkeeper, a young man who looks the most innocent out of everybody here. “Right?”
The shopkeeper vigorously nods, sweating.
“Good,” Yami grunts. He turns back around, nudges the stick closer. “Say ‘ah’.”
Reluctantly, Fuegoleon bites off the end piece and begins to chew.
“No offense, Red Hot, but the lizard isn’t gonna help with the weight you lost while in a coma.”
Yami had only realised it the night before, when Fuegoleon had worn the white shirt; that made the difference in muscle mass clear, making him appear smaller than usual out of the Magic Knight robes.
Helplessly, Fuegoleon smiles. “My sister said that, too.”
“And she’s right. Older siblings usually are.”
Yami nudges the stick again. Fuegoleon looks at him, resignation changing into exasperation.
“I can feed myself, Yami.”
Without missing a beat, Yami replies, “I know, but this is our honeymoon, remember? We’re supposed to enjoy our marriage.”
Uh oh. Fuegoleon looks at him wide-eyed and damn, he should have passed him the food without spouting some corny bullshit—
Then, Fuegoleon drops his gaze.
“Fine,” he mutters, and takes another bite, obediently.
A mix of pleasant surprise and something akin to dark satisfaction makes Yami grin.
“I’ll bring you someplace nicer next time,” he coos.
Because talking while eating is considered impolite, Fuegoleon can only shoot him an unimpressed look.
“U-Uh, congratulations?” The shopkeeper squeaks, face red.
“Shut up.”
__________
They do come across some artefacts for sale that appear to be freshly poached from a dungeon, and after some kind, gentle questioning, they learn some valuable information about the supplier. Apparently, he had approached the seller in some dingy bar out in the Forsaken Realm.
After taking note of his appearance — tall, thin, brunette — their next destination is said bar.
And it is apparently an adult bar.
“Well,” Yami says.
Yami shoots Fuegoleon a sideways glance, while the senior captain looks at the bar without a flicker in his expression. Does this count as cheating if you’re going with your spouse?
He has to mentally correct himself. They’re just two colleagues who happen to be in an arranged marriage; no biggie.
The bar is expectantly loud, full of dancers — male and female alike — and private booths where all sorts of acts are happening. They’re escorted to a curved booth in the corner in view of the entire place and the seat surprisingly plush. Still, Yami doesn’t want to see what it looks like in proper lighting. Better not to know.
It becomes a waiting game for their supplier. Fuegoleon appears, surprisingly, not uncomfortable by the scene happening in front of him. Not at ease, that’s for sure, but as someone like him usually is on a regular mission.
The waiter comes and goes with their drinks. The senior captain doesn’t even flinch at what he’s wearing, merely looking on wordlessly.
“You’re taking this well,” Yami notes, watching him carefully.
Fuegoleon snorts; it’s the first time he breaks out of his watchful, sentinel-like state.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno. Thought you royals were adverse to this kind of stuff,” Yami remarks loftily. “You guys trained for this too, or just you?”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Fuegoleon shoots him a look, a sardonic tilt to his mouth.
Yami blinks. “No way.”
“You’d be surprised at how…indulgent some nobles are. Parties, mistresses, and the like. They’ve got spouses; some of them partake, some of them go blissfully unaware.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised at this point,” Yami grunts. “I’m assuming you didn’t attend them.”
Fuegoleon exhales, shakes his head. “Of course not. I’ve only heard of it.”
“Huh. But you’ve never, I dunno, slept with someone before?”
He gets a glare instead of the flush he had been expecting.
“I’m thirty years old, Yami.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Yami’s lips curl into a goading, teasing smirk. “You blush every time it’s even implied. And you don’t seem like the type to sleep around.”
Fuegoleon crosses his arms defensively and closes his eyes like he’s trying to block out Yami’s voice.
“I’m not, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have experience,” he huffs. “It was about fourteen or fifteen years ago. With a noble boy.”
Yami lets out a booming laugh, extinguishing his cigarette on the ashtray.
“Underage sex, Fuegoleon Vermillion? I’m disappointed in ya.”
He receives another glare to quiet down, one he’s all too familiar with, and returns it with his smirk still intact.
“So what’s his name?” He asks, in a low voice. “The noble boy.”
Fuegoleon shrugs; it’s more of a jerk, really.
“I-I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
There it is, Yami thinks, tracing the flush of his ears prominent even under the lighting. That feeling from earlier rises again and it drives him to stretch his arm across the back of the seating, just enough so that his fingers are tickled by crimson hair.
Out of the corner of his eye, something glints. He glances downward and spies the gold ring around Fuegoleon’s neck, tucked away behind his cloak.
Gaze flickering back up, he presses, “So, what? You’ve never had any experience since then?”
“What is the point of all these questions, Yami?” Fuegoleon snaps, turning to look at him and oh, there’s that Vermillion fire, burning in his violet eyes.
“Because it sounds to me like you’re jealous.”
It’s a challenge, and Yami hears it — sees it in the baring of teeth in Fuegoleon’s smile. The air between them is suddenly charged with agitation and something else that makes Yami want to push.
“Gentlemen,” A voice interrupts, slow and sultry. “Room for a third?”
“No, thank you.”
Yami can hear how easily his voice cuts through the noise of the bar. He turns, looks at the dancer who visibly flinches, like a whole-body flinch. The ends of his smirk dips into something more dangerous.
“He’s my husband, so no.”
The implication is clear in the weight of his words. The dancer nods, jerkily, and goes somewhere else.
Only then does Yami come back into himself, realising that Fuegoleon has gone still beside him, the lack of distance between them, and thinks — shit.
There isn’t much time to dwell on it. As his gaze darts elsewhere in a not-panic, it catches on a tall, thin man with brown hair skulking around the bar, too suspicious to be natural.
Fuegoleon seems to have caught sight of him, too.
“There he is,” he murmurs.
And then, it’s back to business.
__________
The supplier’s back hits the ground, scrabbling to get away.
“I-I don’t know, man! Honestly!”
Yami exhales, slow and deep, smoke curling from his mouth. The other hand thumbs the hilt of his sword.
“So you’re telling me they’re letting some no-name grunt handle their artefacts?” He asks, bored.
“Th-That’s ‘cause they’ve g-got better stuff! I-I’’ve seen it!” The supplier tacks on desperately, his smile wide and nervous.
“Relax — you look like you’re about to piss your pants. I’m not gonna beat you up, but I’ll be forced to if you lie to me. Where’s the supply?”
“U-Uh, on the outskirts…”
“It’d be more prudent to let him lead us there,” Fuegoleon cuts in, glancing sideways at Yami.
Yami nods.
“You heard him. Get up and get moving.”
“Y-Yes, sir!”
__________
It’s the next town over. Bad news is, it’s about a few hours walk with no portal, and definitely no Salamander if they wish to stay inconspicuous.
The walk, though long, should have been at least somewhat relaxing. It isn’t. Far from it.
“Uh…you two exes, or something?” The supplier asks after a prolonged, tense silence.
Yami glares at him. “You’re real mouthy when you’ve warmed up.”
“Eep!”
_________
Eventually, the guy asks for a piss break. After a vague threat, Yami lets him go, leaving the two of them in silence.
He steals a glance at Fuegoleon who’s either slipped back into work mode or is very determined not to look at him because he’s staring ahead at nothing in particular. As afternoon bleeds into dusk, the warm, golden liquid of the sun lights his crimson hair on fire, gives his skin that sunkissed glow, reflecting into violet eyes that make them burn more brightly than gems.
Yami turns back around, and opens his mouth.
“Hey.”
Fuegoleon’s gaze slides over to him without turning his head; his expression remains impassive.
“You’re a royal, aren’tcha?”
“…Yes.”
It comes out slow, like he’s unsure where it’s going.
“Why’d you say yes to the marriage?”
He sees it — the line of Fuegoleon’s back stiffening.
Smoke curls, acrid, through his lungs. “I’ve been wondering, ‘cause I know for a fact that the chin-mole bastard respects the hell out of ya, seeing how he backed off when you shoved your titles in his face,” Yami shrugs, “Tells me that he would have eventually backed off if you just said no in the first place, and you wouldn’t have been brought into our mess.”
Pausing, he looks over and meets Fuegoleon’s gaze. It’s like they’re back on the balcony, exchanging cups of alcohol.
Fuegoleon opens his mouth. “Yami…”
“Ooh! That hit the spot!”
Aaand the moment is shattered.
Yami looks heavenward, praying to whatever gods are up there to give him the patience not to throttle the guy.
“Oh.” His gaze darts between them, awkward. “Did I interrupt something?”
Yami growls, “Try interrupt the way I’m about to kill you, how ‘bout that?”
“Eep!”
__________
By the time they’ve reached the town, it’s already nighttime. Just nearby on the outskirts, the building that the supplier leads them to appears to be a makeshift warehouse, built from wood, easy to build up and easy to tear down. Inside, Yami senses the ki of thirteen people ranging in amounts of mana, though one of them has a higher level than the rest.
The thrum of magic coming from the warehouse is impossible to ignore.
Yami turns to the guy, “You sure this is the only place?”
Terrified, he nods.
“The mana is unmistakable. All the artefacts should be here.” Fuegoleon says, low, turning toward him. “We’ll let the supplier catch them off-guard. Then we storm in and take them out as quickly as possible before they can use the artefacts.”
Yami grins.
“Straightforward plan. I like it.”
It’s a moment when Fuegoleon smiles back, before his expression slips back into his game face.
“Let’s go.”
__________
The situation goes from zero to a hundred.
Fuegoleon’s flames burst through the space, taking down three people all at once, while Yami’s Dark Magic cuts them off as they reach for the artefacts in crates on the side. At the end of the warehouse, he sees a guy who’s undoubtedly the leader — also dressed in finer clothes, a noble — who tries to make an escape through a portal.
“Yami!” Fuegoleon calls, urgent, tied up with the people who had artefacts on their person.
No need to tell Yami twice. He raises his katana above his head.
“Dark Magic: Dark-Cloaked Dimension Slash!”
Silver paints the gash in the earth like the sky itself had split. With a groan, the warehouse’s crumbling halves list to the sides.
It does the trick. The portal dissipates and the noble, panicked, reaches for another artefact on his belt.
He doesn’t know what happened.
One minute his blade is cloaked in Dark Magic; the next, it’s gone.
A chill runs down his back, and it’s not because of the sudden gush of wind that rushes through the space.
It’s because he feels it keenly.
Like he’s deprived of another sense he didn’t know he was relying on. It was there but just barely. Like trying to breathe underwater.
“Hahaha! How does that feel, captains?” An annoying voice rises shrilly above the chaos that erupts.
Yami orients himself pretty quickly, but he whips his head around, searching for—
One of the goons goes flying backward.
Fuegoleon, chest heaving, one-armed, turns to Yami with eyes blazing with fire.
“What are you waiting for?” He snaps.
Pretending to ignore the flutter in his chest, Yami darts forward, crushing earth beneath his heels. The noble, terrified at the bulk of a man charging toward him, squeaks and reaches for another artefact in his belt.
Too slow.
Yami catches him with a hook across his cheek in a resounding ‘crack!’ and the noble collapses, unconscious, the magic-suppressing artefact rolling from his limp hand.
Instantly, Dark Magic flows back like a dam broken.
He hears a thud behind him, and turns just in time to see the last of the goons to collapse.
But, Fuegoleon stumbles.
Yami’s by his side in an instant, arm wrapping around his torso.
“What happened?” He demands, searching the other man for injuries.
“Spirit Magic,” Fuegoleon grits out through a grimace.
Face pale, he drags his gaze over to meet Yami’s.
“It’s overwhelming for now, but I’ll be okay. More importantly, we should contact Lord Julius.”
Yami reaches into his pocket and pulls out the communicator without letting go of Fuegoleon. After his mentor’s face appears, he summarises what had happened.
“I see. I’ll be sending Magic Knights to your location to retrieve the artefacts.”
More focused on the solid warmth next to him, Yami answers with a noncommittal grunt.
Julius’ voice suddenly changes into something more cheerful.
“Anyway, it’s getting late. You two should rest and recuperate in the town nearby for the night; that’s an order. Enjoy your honeymoon!”
His tiny face winks out, leaving the both of them in surprised silence.
“Some honeymoon, huh?” Yami says, turning to his husband.
Fuegoleon smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners, and it’s more rewarding than the entire damn mission.
“Indeed.”
__________
The two of them book a room, intending to have an early night, but apparently the town is having some sort of celebration. Something about the founder. Involving lots of alcohol.
Naturally, Yami’s drawn to it. And surprisingly, Fuegoleon follows.
They pick a spot further away from the crowd, but still in view of the activity happening at the town’s center. The large bonfire that the townspeople are dancing and laughing around radiates enough warmth even in the chilly night.
A girl passes by, the one serving the drinks. Smiling, she offers them two tankards of beer before moving on.
Yami steals a glance at Fuegoleon.
The colour had returned to his face a long time ago, which is good. Aside from shedding the cloak (of responsibility), he had also chosen to wear his wavy, crimson hair in a ponytail.
For the first time since the start of the mission, he appears to have relaxed, features soft in the warm glow of the fire.
And around his neck, dangling in the v-shape of his collar, is their wedding ring. He’s suddenly aware of his own, resting against his collarbone.
Yami tears his gaze away and takes a gulp of the beer.
“Bitter,” he grunts.
Fuegoleon gives a curious hum. “That so?”
Dryly, “I don’t think your royal tastebuds will like it.”
Instead of the glare he had been expecting, the corners of Fuegoleon’s lips quirk upward in a smile.
“Ah. You’ve never gone drinking with my sister, have you?”
Yami watches him drink. “She tried to give me alcohol once, but I think it would have killed me.”
It had been a gift of gratitude, he recalls, for visiting Fuegoleon when he was in the coma.
How things have changed.
In the silence, Fuegoleon stares at the bonfire ahead, at the townsfolk laughing happily. Yami does the same. Until—
“You asked me why I agreed to this marriage.”
The raw honesty grabs his attention. Fuegoleon’s still looking at the fire, but his gaze appears distant.
“It isn’t as straightforward as you think it is, but there was always the possibility that they would have turned to someone else if I had exercised more authority.”
“But you didn’t,” Yami points out.
“But I didn’t,” Fuegoleon agrees. “And it wasn’t just about the duty.”
He continues steadily, “Your Black Bulls are amazing, Yami. Asta, Noelle, all of them have grown so much in the past few months, and I loathe that I ever doubted your squad in the first place for everything that all of you have done, especially against the elves. It’s just unfortunate that the Magic Parliament chooses to ignore all your efforts.”
Yami’s voice comes out slightly strangled.
“What, you’re saying you agreed ‘cause you like us?”
Fuegoleon throws him a wry smile.
“Is that so hard to believe? I’ve always admired you for choosing to follow your own path and creating that space for your squad members, even if it was unconventional. In my mind…well, I decided that I could make peace with it.”
“Make peace with getting married,” Yami repeats dumbly. “To me.”
“…Yes. You’re not the worst person to be married to.”
The last of his words, murmured, is swallowed by the next tip of his tankard. And Yami can see why — a veritable flush blooms in the crown of his cheeks, traveling to his ears.
His face feels warm and it’s not from the beer. Heart thudding in his ears, there’s a moment where his gaze dips again, to the ring glinting gold against sunkissed skin.
“You’re not the worst person to get married to, either.” Yami utters, low.
And he means it. With his whole heart.
Fuegoleon shoots a quick glance over. Whatever he sees makes him flush an even deeper crimson, and he swivels his gaze back around with a pointed cough.
It’s companionable silence, after that.