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One
It all started with a dolphin keychain.
Two
A year passed, and Yuuri had forgotten all about the dolphin.
But, apparently, Gwendal hadn’t.
Finally getting back to his rooms after a long day of the usual Blood Pledge Castle chaos, Yuuri slung his coat over the nearest chair and went to his desk. He stopped short when he noticed the small box sitting on the polished wood, tied with a simple piece of red string.
Curious. Yuuri leaned in and eyed the box, wondering if this was some joke or perhaps a test — Conrad sometimes liked to trick him into opening things he shouldn’t, only to admonish him for being too gullible. It’d be just like him to do something like that when Yuuri was tired.
But there was something about this box, with its dark, glossy wood and lid inlaid with silver filigree that resembled similar pieces he’d seen in the Voltaire treasury.
Wait.
Could it be…?
Against his better judgment, Yuuri lifted the box. A slip of paper drifted down onto the table. He didn’t need to pick it up to see the letters printed across it in a very controlled script.
For His Majesty.
Huh. Weird. As far as Yuuri could think, there wasn’t any occasion, unless he’d forgotten his birthday? But nope, it wasn’t July in Shin Makoku or in the Human World, so it couldn’t be.
Glancing around the room, Yuuri half-expected someone to jump out and congratulate him for spotting a trap. But nobody appeared. Conrad was out drilling the guards, Wolfram was duelling someone in the courtyard again, and as for Günter… well, nobody really knew where Günter was at any given moment until he appeared in a flurry of robes and wounded sensibilities.
Yuuri eyed the box until curiosity got the best of him, and then opened the lid, peering inside.
Oh.
He opened the box fully, staring down at the small cloak clasp settled in a nest of deep green velvet. Though Yuuri was no expert in the finer things in Shin Makoku, he could tell it was carefully made, its metal shaped into a delicate, sweeping design like a bird’s wings. Tiny gemstones studded the clasp, letting off a faint dark shimmer of majutsu. It was the kind of thing he’d only ever seen nobility wear at court, but never made with this amount of detail.
He could only imagine how much this thing cost.
“Oh,” he muttered. “Oh, no.”
Snapping the box shut, he glanced around his empty rooms. Whoever had sent this had clearly spent a small fortune. How the hell am I supposed to accept this without making it weird? Not for the first time, he wished he’d paid more attention to Günter’s early lessons on Mazoku culture, especially the part about gift-giving.
“You don’t like it,” came a solemn voice from the doorway.
Yuuri jumped, almost dropping the box. “Gwendal! I mean — hello. Did you — is this — I mean, it’s —”
“Is it not to your taste?” Gwendal asked, somehow managing to sound perturbed and disinterested at the same time. Face held in his usual stoic, immovable calm, Gwendal stepped into the room, keeping a respectful distance. “It is a traditional gift.”
“No, it’s really nice!” Yuuri said, holding the box to his chest.
“The clasp will hold a cloak securely in wind or rough weather,” Gwendal went on, frowning even though there really wasn’t anything to frown about. “I thought you might find it useful.”
“Ah, right,” Yuuri said, heat rising in his cheeks. “It’s just… You didn’t have to get me anything. The dolphin was just — just a silly thing.”
“It wasn’t silly.”
Yuuri paused, noticing the way Gwendal’s jaw stiffened.
“You gave freely,” Gwendal went on. “So I am returning the generosity in kind.”
Generosity? Yuuri couldn’t understand how a piece of fine silver matched up to a stupid piece of gift shop plastic, but Gwendal seemed incredibly serious about this. Something in Yuuri’s chest gave a little thump, and he offered a smile.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “But thanks.” Then, when he realised a simple thanks wasn’t enough, he added, “Really, thank you. It means… a lot.”
Gwendal nodded, once, looking away. “Then I am glad.”
Unable to think of anything better to say, Yuuri stared down at the box. “I’ll, um… I’ll try it on later.”
“Of course.” Inclining his head as if Yuuri had just made a binding diplomatic promise, Gwendal turned toward the doorway. Yuuri wasn’t sure, but he could swear the man’s shoulders sat just a little bit more relaxed than usual.
After Gwendal was gone, Yuuri opened the box again, touching the clasp with his fingertips as if it might explode at any moment.
He would try it on. Later.
After all, he’d promised.
Three
Gwendal was absolutely not waiting.
If he prided himself on anything, it was that he never waited for trivial things, only important duties like drafting trade agreements or patrolling the borders. And anyway, there was far too much work to be done without wasting time on petty thoughts. A dozen petitions were currently stacked up on his desk — the latest land dispute with Caloria, which no one but him seemed to remember existed and gave him a headache that even knitting couldn’t untangle.
No. He was not waiting.
And yet, when Yuuri burst into the council room, cheeks ruddy from the cold wind outside, hair in a ridiculous mess around his face, out of breath and bright-eyed, Gwendal felt something in his chest tighten like a stitch pulled too hard.
“Ah, Gwendal! I’ve got something for you…”
The young Maou was always so energetic and unguarded in ways Gwendal couldn’t understand. He spoke as if he were merely addressing the weather.
Gwendal steeled his expression. “Is that so?”
“Hang on, it was in here earlier.” Digging into his pocket, Yuuri muttered to himself, then gave a small grumble. “Don’t tell me I lost it — aha!” With a smile, he produced a small object wrapped in tissue paper. Tissue paper that was covered in cartoon ducks.
Gwendal stared at it.
The ducks were cute, but that was beside the point.
Yuuri beamed. “It’s nothing big,” he said hastily. “Just… it made me think of you.”
For three whole heartbeats, Gwendal didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could. The sincerity was disarming, and he wondered when he’d got so soft.
The Maou stared at him, and he knew he couldn’t hesitate any longer. Gingerly, Gwendal reached out and accepted the gift. He cleared his throat. “It is customary,” he said. “For the recipient to open a gift in the presence of the giver.”
“Oh!” Yuuri bounced on his heels, all awkward, gangly limbs. When would the boy grow into his role, Gwendal wondered vaguely. “Right. Okay. Go on, then.”
With a frown, Gwendal undid the duck-patterned paper.
Inside, he found a misshapen figurine of a badger. But not a dignified, heraldic badger — this one was a squat, obstinate thing with a pair of small dark eyebrows that gave it an air of profound irritation. Its paws were grossly exaggerated, and its back was scratched, like all human-made things.
“It’s from a shop near my school,” Yuuri explained, absently brushing at the back of his neck with his hand. “They had a whole bin full of these animals. This one was… well, it kind of reminded me of you.”
Gwendal looked down at the badger once more.
It glared up at him.
Ridiculous.
And yet, for reasons he couldn’t fathom right then, utterly precious.
“I see,” he said cautiously. “A stern creature. Sturdy and dependable.”
“Exactly!” Yuuri’s grin widened.
Something in the Maou’s pleasure made him close his fingers around the figurine. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, you’re welcome,” Yuuri said. “Hey, you don’t have to display it or anything. I mean, if you want to, that’s okay, but—”
“I will keep it,” Gwendal said, quicker than he’d intended. Then, more slowly and controlled: “It’s a thoughtful gift.”
Yuuri’s delight only seemed to soften and warm; it sent a small tingle down Gwendal’s spine. “Well, I’m glad you like it.”
“Heika!” Günter appeared in the doorway in a blizzard of violet hair and dramatic sighs. “You’re late for your calligraphy lesson. Oh, Gwendal, I’m terribly sorry, but I must steal our venerable Maou.”
“It’s fine,” Gwendal said quickly, squirrelling the badger away behind his back lest Günter spot it and make a fuss.
Yuuri was unceremoniously ushered out of the room, leaving Gwendal alone again. Once the noise had vanished down the hallway outside, he brought the figurine back out and stared down at it.
Stubborn. A little weathered. Grim-faced. Loyal.
Yes.
He supposed it did resemble him.
Later that evening, Gwendal went back to his chambers and brought the badger out of his pocket, already sure where he would keep it. Not alongside the other trinkets he collected, or his knitted animals, or his wartime mementoes. Instead, he put it beside the dolphin keychain in the top drawer of the bureau.
He stood there a moment longer than necessary.
No, he told himself firmly, he was not already waiting for next year.
Four
Yuuri never expected gifts.
Things had been hectic over the last few months, with border disputes, diplomatic dinners, Wolfram challenging three separate nobles to duels on Yuuri’s behalf, and that one unfortunate magical incident in the abandoned east wing that now meant nobody could go there between midnight and 4 AM.
Not to mention Gwendal, who’d been busier than ever organising the new defence regiments with his usual controlled intensity.
Honestly, Yuuri assumed the tradition had quietly ended.
And he told himself, repeatedly, that he wasn’t disappointed.
(Not much.
Not really.
Only a bit.)
Which was why, when he walked into his chambers after an exhausting council meeting and saw a package waiting on the table, wrapped in midnight-blue cloth and tied with a simple cord, his heart did a strange little flip in his chest.
This time, the note was on the top, and he immediately recognised Gwendal’s cramped, slanted handwriting.
For your travels.
Swallowing thickly, Yuuri untied the cord, his fingers a little clumsy from the cold. Yeah, definitely from the cold.
Within the cloth wrapping was more cloth. Yuuri let it unfold in his fingers, spilling to the floor in a soft tumble. It was a cloak, he realised, but it wasn’t ordinary like the stiff ceremonial stuff he was forced to wear and made him look like a confused bat. This was super soft and heavy, lined with black satin. The outer layer was some kind of velvet, also deep black and trimmed with silver stitching.
As he turned the cloak in the candlelight, he spotted something else embroidered into the left side. A gryphon.
The Voltaire crest.
Yuuri blinked. He knew that this type of cloak wasn’t just worn by subjects of the house, but also by those under its protection.
“Wow,” he muttered, swinging the cloak around to drape it over his shoulders. It fit perfectly, and knowing Gwendal, it’d probably been measured down to the last millimetre. It sat a little heavily on him, but not uncomfortably. More like… standing inside a safe, shielded place.
“Your Majesty.”
Yuuri jumped, letting out an embarrassing yelp and nearly tangling himself in the cloak as he spun around. There was Gwendal, framed in the doorway against the soft gold glow of the hallway sconces, arms crossed. Uncharacteristically, he wore his hair loose, which always took Yuuri by surprise. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
“Oh, Gwendal! I didn’t hear you. Sorry, I was just trying it on.” Mouth quite dry, Yuuri gestured at himself, wrapped in the cloak like some newly hatched bearbee.
“Hm. It suits you,” Gwendal said, moving closer to inspect him.
Yuuri’s face filled with heat. “It’s incredible. Really! But it’s… um. A lot? I mean, this must’ve cost loads—”
“It isn’t about cost,” Gwendal interrupted. “You’ve travelled frequently this year, and you rarely think to dress for the climate, or the risk.”
“Okay,” Yuuri said with a wince. “That’s… fair.”
“It’s reinforced,” Gwendal went on. “Good in storms and resistant to minor enchantments. And, if you’re ever stuck somewhere cold…” He paused, jaw shifting ever so slightly, “… it will keep you toasty.”
Toasty? Yuuri blinked; Gwendal rarely said stuff like that.
“Thanks,” Yuuri murmured. “I mean it.”
For a long time, Gwendal was silent, but he inclined his head, his deep blue eyes never leaving Yuuri’s face. There was something contemplative in them, as if he was trying to decide whether to say more. Slowly, he ran his tongue across his lower lip, then said, “I’m glad you like it,” and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Yuuri said.
Gwendal paused in the doorway.
Tugging the cloak more tightly around himself, Yuuri felt suddenly shy. “You always think about what I need before I realise it.”
There was the tiniest stiffening of Gwendal’s shoulders. He didn’t turn. “You deserve to be looked after.”
Yuuri swallowed thickly.
By the time he found something to say, Gwendal was already gone. The room felt unexpectedly quiet and empty. Fingers clutching the soft material, Yuuri lingered a while, a realisation crystallising in his mind:
Things felt different this time.
And Yuuri, without meaning to, wondered what the next year might bring.
Five
Gwendal resolutely wasn’t waiting this year, either, even though he found himself watching the doorway more often than he intended.
Blood Pledge Castle was unusually lively, Greta’s violin lessons drifting through the halls, Wolfram yelling at someone for leaving a window open, Günter sweeping around corners with his usual cyclone of silk and emotion, and Anissina… always lurking somewhere, ready to pounce on him if he let his guard down.
And the Maou… well. Over the months, Gwendal had noticed how Yuuri moved through the palace differently these days, taller and more assured. Still bright and baffling, but steadier, like a leader beginning to find his footing.
Early one morning in the practice yard, Gwendal was testing the balance of a new sword when the Maou unexpectedly appeared. Yuuri jogged up to him, his cheeks reddened from the cold and cloak snapping around him.
“Oh, wow,” Yuuri said, little clouds of white puffing in front of his face as he spoke. “You’re out early.”
“I prefer to train before the palace wakes,” Gwendal said, lowering the sword.
“I knew it.” Yuuri grinned. “Secret early riser club.”
Then, without any warning, he stepped in close, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gwendal — or more like shoulder-to-somewhere-near-his-jawline. Yuuri leaned back a little, comparing their heights with a serious face.
“Huh. I reach past your shoulders now,” he mused. “Do you think I’ll end up taller than you?”
“No.”
A small, vibrant laugh burst free. “You didn’t even consider it!”
“I didn’t need to.”
The Maou was too close; it wasn’t proper to stand like this and Gwendal knew it, yet he couldn’t move. Yuuri nudged him with an elbow, a simple gesture that suggested familiarity, the warmth of his proximity somehow disarming in the cold morning air. Gwendal steeled himself, but to his dismay, it didn’t really do anything to help quell the slow churn in his gut.
“Anyway,” Yuuri said. “I um… have something for you.”
With one smooth motion, Gwendal sheathed the sword. He took the opportunity to step back a pace. “Oh?”
“It’s not — uh —” Yuuri rooted around in his cloak pocket, eventually producing a small cloth pouch, a simple yet neatly stitched thing. “It’s nothing fancy.”
Gwendal frowned at him. “That is unnecessary.”
“Yeah,” Yuuri said. “I know. That’s why I said it’s not fancy.”
He held out the pouch, not meeting Gwendal’s gaze. Gingerly, Gwendal accepted it with both hands, a gesture he hadn’t used since presenting offerings to the old Maou in his youth. Before he could start to question why he was nervous, he opened it.
Inside, he found a small knife, but not an ornate court blade or decorative piece. This was a travel knife, simple and clean-lined, perfectly balanced — the kind of knife a man actually used. The kind that lasted many years.
“It’s from a blacksmith in Small Cimaron,” Yuuri said.
Turning the knife over in his fingers, Gwendal tested its weight, the blade revealing a subtle, delicate fold pattern. It’d been forged with great care.
At a loss for words, he closed his fingers around it and nodded. “This is… exceptionally made,” he finally managed.
“Yeah? Ah, good.” Yuuri gave him a smile, one of those easy, unexpected smiles that tended to light up entire rooms. “I thought you’d like it better than something flashy.”
Gwendal nodded again, still struggling to find the right words. The knife suddenly felt weightier in his hand, and he knew he needed to say something. “It’s a fine gift.”
Yuuri’s relief was noticeable, his body seeming to relax all of a sudden. “I was worried you’d think it was too boring.”
“Boring?” Gwendal said. “I don’t require spectacle. I value usefulness.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grinned again, and Gwendal almost took another step back. “It’ll be good for travelling. Or camping. Or, well, just in general.”
“I will use it,” Gwendal told him honestly. “Often.”
Yuuri’s face lit up in that soft, earnest way that had undone Mazoku diplomacy for nearly half a decade. “Great,” he said.
There was a pause. The moment lingered, hovering between them, warm in the winter morning light. Gwendal noticed the way melted frost had made the ends of Yuuri’s hair damp and shiny. His fingers twitched around the knife handle.
Then Yuuri stepped away, cloak swirling around him as he went. “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
Nodding, Gwendal dared not speak. He waited until the Maou was gone and then looked down at the knife again. This gift, so different from the ones before, felt thoughtful in a way that made his chest ache. Carefully, he tested the balance once more, then slid the knife away in his belt.
Later, back in his private study, Gwendal went to the bureau where he kept the dolphin keychain and badger figurine, and considered putting the knife there, safe with the others. But he’d told Yuuri he would use it, so instead he left it on his belt where he could feel its weight.
This year’s gift, completely different from the rest… felt strangely like an unspoken promise.
Six
It wasn’t until Conrad looked at him one morning with that soft, assessing expression he sometimes wore — the one that said I’m proud of you and worried about you all at once — that Yuuri realised he’d changed.
“It’s been a tough year,” Conrad said.
Yuuri didn’t answer because he really didn’t have the energy to, but he knew Conrad understood his silences as much as his words. And Conrad wasn’t wrong — it had been a hard year, and even now that everything was quieter, Yuuri still felt some of his recent experiences settled into his bones, wrapped around him and refusing to let go.
The border skirmish in the south at the start of the year. The negotiations that nearly collapsed as the trees started to blossom. The ambassador who had died despite all of Yuuri’s efforts to save him. The brief, awful period where Shin Makoku had looked at him with fear instead of faith.
Yuuri was old enough now to understand that he had to carry all those things, maybe not visibly, but inside, in the way he held himself and how carefully he thought before he spoke. In the silence that trailed behind him where joy used to be.
Yuu-chan, you should always smile, even if you don’t feel like it. Your smile is your greatest weapon, his mother always said, and for the most part, Yuuri believed her. But sometimes it didn’t reach all the way.
And one person who always seemed to notice those not-quite smiles was Gwendal.
Which was why, when Yuuri entered his private rooms one evening and found Gwendal waiting, arms folded across his chest and face stern, something in Yuuri loosened without permission.
“Evening,” Yuuri managed. “Sorry I’m late. Meeting ran over.”
“I’m aware,” Gwendal said. “You missed lunch.”
“Oh.” Yuuri forced a small laugh. “Right. Yeah, that happens sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t,” Gwendal replied, but without his usual sharpness. There was a slight softening around his eyes, his frown lines easing back a little. “You’re not required to hold the kingdom on your shoulders alone.”
Yuuri’s breath faltered. He hoped Gwendal hadn’t noticed. Since when had it become difficult to hear kindness without feeling it like pressure on a bruise?
Silently, Gwendal turned to his desk and picked up a small parcel wrapped in plain cloth. He held it out to Yuuri.
“For you.”
Yuuri blinked at it. “Already? I thought — I mean, we don’t … plan these.”
“No, we don’t,” Gwendal said. “But I think you should have this now.”
Carefully taking the parcel, Yuuri was surprised at how light it was. Heat rose up into his face as he untied the cloth wrapping, and out tumbled a long scarf in the softest fabric. It was the dark blue of star sapphires, and had a pattern embroidered into it so subtle he almost missed it. Immediately, Yuuri felt the gentle vibration of majutsu; the stitches were magical, he realised, the kind usually used for generals in winter campaigns. He could only stare down at it with wonder.
“You’ve been outside more often lately,” Gwendal said nearby. “Travelling. Training. Negotiating. Riding in poor weather. You forget to dress for it.”
Yuuri let his fingertips brush across the fine embroidery. “Did you… make this?”
Gwendal looked away. “I commissioned the base,” he said tightly. “The stitching is mine.”
Magical protective stitching. Always protecting. Yuuri glanced over at Gwendal, finding the other man’s face unexpectedly softer than he’d ever seen it, devastatingly so.
“Gwendal,” he whispered. “This is amazing.”
“Hn. It’s necessary,” Gwendal corrected. “You’ve been cold this winter.”
“… I didn’t realise you’d noticed.”
“I always notice,” Gwendal said, almost a grumble. “When you are tired. When you push too hard. When you do not sleep. When you skip lunch. When something weighs on you.”
Looking away, Yuuri held the scarf tightly to his chest and felt the magic gently move through him. “I try not to worry everyone.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Feels like it is.”
He still didn’t look as Gwendal stepped closer, close enough that Yuuri felt the heat of him beneath the magic from the scarf. A calm, steady presence that smelled like leather warmed by body heat, clean steel, horses, and a hint of cedar from the cologne he never admitted to wearing.
“It’s not,” Gwendal repeated. “You’re the Maou, not a martyr.”
Busying himself, Yuuri wrapped the scarf around his shoulders, letting the fabric settle snugly at his chin. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Really.”
“Good,” Gwendal said. “Then it is the right gift.”
They stood together a moment longer, time stretching, Yuuri holding the scarf close to his face, neither sure what to say next.
Eventually, Gwendal turned and wordlessly left the room. Only when he was gone did Yuuri let out the breath he’d been holding.
The scarf around his neck thrummed gently, and the castle felt just a little less cold.
Seven
Gwendal noticed the change long before he admitted it to himself.
The Maou was no longer the slight, scrawny boy who’d stumbled into Shin Makoku with no idea what he was doing. Though Gwendal tried not to stare too often, he saw the way Yuuri had filled out, his shoulders finally growing into themselves, his face more angular, small scars on his hands from battle, and his voice now deeper and richer with experience.
But it was the height that caught Gwendal off guard the most.
Yuuri walked into the strategy hall that morning, shaking snow from his cloak and coming to stand next to Gwendal, scanning the new border reports. And for the first time, Gwendal realised the Maou’s head now almost matched his own height. Not quite, but strikingly close.
“Wow,” Yuuri murmured, leaning in. “I’m definitely catching up to you.”
Gwendal stared down at the maps. “You will not surpass me.”
Yuuri snorted. “There’s still time for a growth spurt, you know.”
“There’s not,” Gwendal said, turning the page, determined not to be rattled. “That’s not how it works.”
“You just don’t want to admit I might end up taller.” Yuuri elbowed him, leaning in even further.
Gwendal ignored that with all the dignity he could muster, which, unfortunately, wasn’t as much as he hoped. He heard Yuuri laugh under his breath, a sound that gave off more warmth than the braziers.
Once the meeting dissolved, councillors filed out with polite nods and bows, leaving only the two of them in the quiet, cavernous room. Gwendal busied himself collecting the reports and maps, while Yuuri hovered nearby, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Gwendal almost told him to stop, but before he could, Yuuri spoke.
“Hey, before I forget...” He reached into his cloak. “I got you something.”
Gwendal closed the last ledger. “Oh?”
For the first time in a long time, Yuuri looked almost shy. “Yeah. I saw it on the way back from Small Cimaron and thought… well. You’d like it.”
Gwendal arched an eyebrow. Over the years, the Maou’s gifts had grown less quirky, with fewer Earth novelties and baffling trinkets he had no real context for, and more thought-out gifts that felt more like a secret language between them.
This time, Yuuri held out a small wooden box, nondescript in its design.
Gwendal couldn’t even begin to guess what might be in it. He took the box, noting the dovetail joinery and smooth surface.
Inside, he found a small sewing set, fine-pointed and simple, with tempered steel needles of different sizes and ground tips —the type used for tricky embroidery and intricate stitching. For the work that Gwendal kept strictly private.
“The shopkeeper said it’s good for fine threadwork,” Yuuri said beside him. “I noticed you’ve been stitching more lately. Thought you might need better tools.”
No one ever noticed his embroidery, mainly because he went to great lengths to keep it secret. The knitting was one thing, but he didn’t need too many soft rumours following him onto the battlefield. The needles were lined up neatly like soldiers, held in place by a thin elastic thread. Gwendal ran the tip of his index finger across them.
“These are excellent,” he said.
“Yeah?” Yuuri brightened. “I wasn’t sure if they were the right kind.”
“They are.” More than right, he went to say, then stopped himself. “Thank you.”
“Ah, good, good.” Yuuri’s face broke into a smile, and he leaned in a little closer, peering down at the sewing set. Then he froze, blinking, and straightened up again.
A strange tension spun into the space between them, one that Gwendal didn’t have a name for, one that he wasn’t sure how to break.
Yuuri looked at him. “Gwendal…”
Without looking, Gwendal silently closed the box and set it down on the table. “Yes?”
“You know… You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”
Gwendal frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Yuuri said, blinking slowly. “Never asking for anything. Working hard and never… never taking time for yourself.”
“I take plenty of time for myself.” But Gwendal knew that it wasn’t enough, and he knew Yuuri knew it, too. “You’re one to talk.”
“Ah, you got me there,” Yuuri said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. He let his arms drop again, his smile slipping. “Maybe we both need to be better at that, huh?”
Gwendal didn’t know what to say. They were standing too close to one another. Gwendal could’ve counted his eyelashes if he allowed himself, which he firmly didn’t. But this tension — it was different from any that’d come before, so thick that he thought he could reach out and touch it.
Yuur stepped back first, clearing his throat. “Well, I should… go see Greta. She’s been working with Anissina today and I just want to check that, you know, nothing irreversible has happened.”
“I understand,” Gwendal said.
Yuuri turned to leave, but then paused. “And thanks,” he added. “For this year. The steadiness. All of it.”
Even though Yuuri had turned away, Gwendal still bowed his head. “You’re welcome.”
Yuuri lingered for one heartbeat longer, and it seemed to Gwendal that he might say more. But he didn’t; he strode away, disappearing into the hallway.
Gwendal picked up the sewing set again, wondering at that pause, at what Yuuri might have said if he’d allowed himself.
With a sigh, Gwendal went to the nearest window and stared out across the grounds, servants moving through the outer courtyard, stablehands grooming the horses in the distance. The world went on, and so did duty. It wouldn’t do to overthink what Yuuri nearly said.
Not yet, he told himself.
But maybe… soon.
Eight
The next year, winter settled differently over Shin Makoku. It was still cold, but not especially harsh, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t bring huge storms or biting winds with it. Snow fell and blanketed the countryside and mountains without fuss.
Unexpectedly, Yuuri found that he liked the peace. Which was odd, since he always used to crave noise, even if that noise often came in the form of Wolfram yelling at him for speaking to a servant girl, or typical breakfast table shenanigans.
But lately, after everything that’d happened, the quiet felt more like relief than a gap that needed to be filled. Yuuri supposed he’d grown into it, or it had grown around him — he wasn’t sure which.
He’d nearly finished another report — the tenth of the day — when a knock sounded at his door. He’d know that firm, economical knock anywhere.
“Come in,” Yuuri called.
Whenever Gwendal entered a room, he always brought with him a steady, composed presence, one that Yuuri had come to rely on more than he’d ever let on over the years. Under one arm, Gwendal carried a small parcel wrapped in dark cloth.
“Hi,” Yuuri said, and pushed his papers aside. “Another crisis?”
“No.” Gwendal stopped beside the table. “This is… something else.”
Yuuri stared up at him, tilting his head. Was that… nervousness? But Gwendal never looked nervous. Still, there was an odd carefulness about him, like he was approaching something delicate.
Without another word, Gwendal placed the parcel on the table in front of him.
“For you.”
“It’s that time again?” Yuuri said.
“It is.” A pause. “And you’ve had another difficult year.”
Yuuri didn’t answer at first, but he let his shoulders drop ever so slightly, as if Gwendal had given him permission to let go of some of the tension he didn’t even realise he’d been carrying. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, untying the cloth and letting it fall aside, revealing a journal. It was bound in deep green leather, the colour of forest moss after rain. Yuuri recognised the stitching, neat and hand-done, the kind of work Gwendal was great at. A little silver clasp sealed the cover.
Yuuri ran his fingers over it. “Gwendal. This is — this is really nice.”
“It’s meant to last,” Gwendal said beside him. “And to keep what you put into it safe.”
Yuuri swallowed. “I’m not much of a writer.”
“Then become one,” Gwendal said. There was nothing demanding in his words, nor pitying. He just seemed to see Yuuri in a way he wasn’t used to being seen. “It might help.”
“Okay.”
“When you’re troubled or burdened,” Gwendal continued, “or when you have no one you feel you can talk to. Write. Even if it’s only a sentence.”
Staring down at the beautiful journal, Yuuri felt the heaviness of the last year—and the many years before it—bearing down. So many things went wrong. Things he had no control over, and a few he did.
“Is it that obvious?” he whispered.
“Not to everyone,” Gwendal said. “But I know you.”
As if it might steady him, Yuuri picked up the journal. “Thought I was pretty good at hiding it.”
“I noticed.” Yuuri heard the soft swish of Gwendal’s coat as he shifted, though he wasn’t sure if he moved closer or away. “You’ve changed. You carry more than before, but you carry it too quietly.” So he had moved closer.
Yuuri closed his eyes. And then Gwendal did something he’d never done before, not in all the years they’d known each other. He reached out, hesitating only a fraction of a second, and touched Yuuri’s shoulder.
Gwendal’s hand was firm and heavy and grounding, his fingers warm through Yuuri’s shirt. Without meaning to, Yuuri swayed ever so slightly into the touch.
“I can’t ease your burdens,” Gwendal said, “but I can give you a place to put them.”
Yuuri nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Really. This means more than you know.”
When Gwendal didn’t remove his hand, Yuuri started to wonder if the moment could become something more, tipping them toward a truth he couldn’t name.
But then Gwendal withdrew. “I’m glad.”
“I’ll start using it tonight,” Yuuri said.
Nodding once, Gwendal said, “Good,” and turned toward the door. Yuuri didn’t stop him, even though part of him wanted to.
Waiting until he was alone again, he opened the journal cover and flipped a few of the pages, the paper thick and textured and warm.
A place to put things he couldn’t tell anyone.
He hadn’t known how much he needed that until now.
Nine
If there was one thing Gwendal prided himself on, it was being predictable. Predictability meant stability, and stability meant strength, and strength meant keeping Shin Makoku safe, which was — and always had been — his main purpose. So when he found himself scanning doorways again, anticipating familiar footfalls he could have picked out of a military march blindfolded, he reminded himself that it was just a simple tradition.
He was not waiting.
Late one afternoon in winter, Yuuri arrived after a ride back from Caloria, his cloak dusted with snow, hair messy from the wind. He’d been gone a couple of weeks this time, and it always struck Gwendal every time he saw him just how much older the Maou seemed after these types of diplomatic excursions.
But his age had been hard-won, Gwendal knew. While Yuuri was more assured and quietly determined than ever, he now had faint lines between his brows that didn’t vanish when he stopped smiling. The shadows beneath his eyes were of someone who’d made difficult choices after difficult choices and knew there’d be even harder ones down the line.
And yet, Yuuri still smiled when he saw him, as if none of it mattered.
“Gwendal,” he said. “I have something for you.”
Closing the ledger in front of him, Gwendal sat back and tried to ignore the way his heartbeat quickened. “Is that so?”
Yuuri approached his desk, his cloak depositing semi-melted snow onto Gwendal’s floor as he moved. “I hope it’s okay. I know you don’t like extravagant things… usually.”
Gwendal frowned. “Extravagant things are unnecessary.”
“Right. Yeah.” Yuuri reached into his satchel, drawing out a slender case made of dark, polished walnut.
Immediately recognising it, Gwendal froze. “Where did you—”
“I remembered you mentioning it,” Yuuri said, offering the case. “Back during the first negotiations with Caloria. You said you’d always wanted one but couldn’t justify the cost.”
Yes, Gwendal recalled that conversation, but he’d said it as an afterthought, almost dismissively.
But Yuuri must have heard the wish hidden beneath it.
Hands not as steady as he’d have liked, Gwendal took the case and opened the lid.
There it was: the artisan spyglass he’d spotted almost a year ago, nested in black velvet. Same leather grip stitched with flawless detail. Same brass body. It was the one he’d seen. The one he had wanted. The spyglass pleased both sides of him: the general who valued reliability, and the man who appreciated subtle beauty.
“You like it?” Yuuri asked.
Like it? Running his fingers across the barrel, Gwendal didn’t answer at once. For some reason, he couldn’t. It was perfect.
“Yes,” he managed. “It’s remarkable.”
“Good.” He heard Yuuri’s sigh. A slip of cool air touched the back of Gwendal’s neck beneath his hair as Yuuri came closer. “I hoped it would be. You should have it.”
Lifting the spyglass from its case, Gwendal examined the craftsmanship more closely, appreciating the lens’s clarity. When he lowered it, Yuuri was standing right next to him, so close that Gwendal could smell the outdoors on him.
“You should have things that matter to you,” Yuuri continued, and something in the way he said it made Gwendal still.
“You didn’t need to spend so much,” Gwendal murmured, but even he could hear how weak his protest was.
“Hey, you can’t use cost as an excuse this time. It isn’t flash or pointless. It’s something you really wanted, and…” A small hesitation, Yuuri searching for the right words, “You deserve things you want, Gwendal. Not just things you need.”
What could he say to that? No matter how many times it happened, Gwendal just couldn’t get used to Yuuri’s moments of thoughtful wisdom; they always slipped past his defences before he even realised they were down. And he didn’t know what to do with the feeling that stirred inside him, a thing that was more than duty, more than protectiveness.
Something else.
“Thank you, Yuuri,” he said.
“It’s no problem.” Neither moved for a moment until Yuuri stepped back, the cool air retreating as he went to the door. “Anyway, I should get out of these damp clothes,” he said.
Gwendal nodded firmly, not looking up. “Yes. Don’t catch a cold.”
Once the Maou was gone, Gwendal closed the case lid, set it on the desk, then opened the ledger again. Work still needed to be done. But he found himself glancing toward the spyglass every few minutes, just to check it was still real.
Focusing on work had never been so hard, not in all the years, because Gwendal knew, deep down, that things had changed. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise over the mountains each morning.
Next year would be different.
Next year.
Ten
Yuuri had been thinking about this for almost an entire year, ever since the spyglass.
It was early winter when he found Gwendal outside in the training courtyard, brushing mud from a great, shaggy warhorse with the kind of tenderness he usually tried to hide. Taking a moment to watch him, Yuuri noticed the way the horse shifted its weight willingly and lowered its head for its forelock to be brushed without needing to be coaxed. Whenever Gwendal was alone and unaware he was being observed, he seemed relaxed in a way Yuuri rarely saw elsewhere, his scarred hands firm and unhurried.
Above the castle, the sky was still a deep navy colour, the sun not quite reaching the tops of the mountains. Early riser club, at it again, Yuuri thought with a smile.
Okay, it was starting to feel a bit weird just watching like this; Yuuri made his way across the courtyard. “Gwendal,” he called.
The general turned, his breath creating white ghosts in the cold air. “Your Majesty.”
Yuuri quirked an eyebrow as he came to stand next to him. “Wow. You haven’t called me that in years.”
Gwendal hesitated only a second. “Out of respect.”
“It always sounds like distance,” Yuuri murmured.
There was a pause, and then Gwendal said gruffly, “Yuuri.”
It shouldn’t have been a big deal — it was his name, after all — but spoken like that, with unusual trepidation, made Yuuri’s pulse quicken. He remembered when, years ago, Gwendal made his name sound like an irritation. Now it just sounded unsure.
Yuuri steeled himself. “I have a present for you.”
“Are we not early?” Gwendal said. “Plus, it’s my turn to—”
“I know,” Yuuri interrupted. “But I didn’t want to wait.”
“I see.”
Everyone knew Gwendal hated surprises, and Yuuri started to wonder if he was doing the right thing, at the right time. But then he thought about the years gone by, the gifts during those occasional moments when they found themselves alone together, about how they’d both come close to death more than once over the last decade.
Yeah. It was time.
“It’s not a thing — not an object,” Yuuri said, trying to sound calm. “Not this year.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Gwendal said, and Yuuri wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught the slightest quiver in the words.
“I know. I’m giving it because I want to.” Here goes nothing, he thought, moving nearer, but still allowing space for Gwendal to retreat.
He didn’t.
The warhorse let out a snort and wandered off, hooves thudding on the flagstones like a ticking clock.
“I am who I am partly because of you,” Yuuri stammered, but he was determined to say what he wanted to say. “You’ve taught me how to be steady… even when I didn’t feel steady at all.”
A small muscle twitched in Gwendal’s jaw. “It’s my duty.”
“No,” Yuuri said, taking one more pace forward. “It’s you.”
They were close enough now that Yuuri felt the heat coming from Gwendal’s coat, and heard the quiet breath Gwendal drew in. As if watching his own movements in slow-motion, Yuuri lifted a hand, paused, and then let his fingers rest against the firm line of Gwendal’s jaw. The skin there was smooth, freshly shaved, and incredibly warm.
Gwendal had gone very still.
“Yuuri,” he said, “you should consider—”
“I have.”
Yuuri leaned in, then, and kissed him. For a single, horrifying moment, Gwendal didn’t move, and Yuuri again wondered if he’d misjudged everything. But then he felt Gwendal’s lips part a little beneath his, softening, adding pressure, deepening the kiss. A sigh passed between them, and Yuuri slid his hand around the back of Gwendal’s neck. Strong, firm arms closed around his waist, holding him close. He tasted traces of coffee from earlier beneath the tang of leather, and felt rather than heard the soft growl Gwendal made; it went all the way down Yuuri’s spine.
A single moment built from years of careful steps and unspoken things. A decade of gifts, all leading here.
Yuuri helplessly sank against him, feeling the solid planes and lines of Gwendal’s body beneath their clothes. Any other time, he would’ve been embarrassed by the moan that escaped him, but right then, he didn’t care. In answer, Gwendal pulled him in tighter, holding hard like he thought Yuuri might vanish if he didn’t.
Gwendal drew back first, slowly, with reluctance, and rested his forehead against Yuuri’s. “We are outside,” he said.
“Hm? Oh.” It took a few seconds, but Yuuri eventually understood what he meant. Anyone could come by at any moment. “Right.”
Releasing him, Gwendal stepped back, but the space didn’t feel empty or like distance, not really.
“So… that’s my gift,” Yuuri said after a moment.
For a long time, Gwendal merely watched him, his dark blue eyes unreadable and fathomless in the low morning light. Then he said, softly, “This is not something I’ll forget.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
It would’ve been so easy to move back into that warmth, Yuuri knew, but the palace would be waking soon, staff filling the hallways and walkways. Regardless of what he wanted, he was still the Maou, and Gwendal was still a respected strategist and army general.
Although now, beneath the surface, they were also both different from what they had been a few minutes ago.
“Okay, so, I’ll see you at breakfast?” Yuuri asked, tugging his cloak to straighten it.
“Hm,” was all Gwendal said. It was enough of a confirmation. He turned away, heading over to the horse that was languidly drinking from a nearby fountain and occasionally swishing its tail.
As Yuuri headed back inside to start his day, he realised their annual gift-giving ritual itself didn’t matter nearly as much anymore.
He was sure that the road forward would find its own shape.
Eleven
Greta found them in the library.
She wouldn’t say they were together, exactly, but there was always this effortless proximity about them these days, something she’d long ago learned to interpret.
Subtle, it was not.
Yuuri sat at the long oak table, writing in the journal Gwendal had given him. It was the third one; she often wondered what he wrote about, but figured it was none of her business. Gwendal was at the other end of the table, poring over military reports and throwing the occasional glance Yuuri's way.
“Morning,” she said as she breezed into the room.
Yuuri looked up with a bright smile. “Greta! You’re up early.”
She crossed her arms. “Only because someone paced past my room before dawn.”
“Paced?” Yuuri blinked at her. “Someone — oh, you mean—”
Gwendal coughed into his fist.
Turning to him, Greta gave him one swift, assessing glare. “Oh,” she said. “So it was you.” If Gwendal thought that standing deathly still was helping him, he obviously didn’t know much about reading guilt.
She was a little bit smug to see Yuuri’s face turn scarlet. “Ah, yeah. Gwendal was just… um…”
“Honestly, you two,” Greta said, eyeing them one after the other; it was difficult not to laugh at how awkward they both seemed. “I’ve seen less tension between nobles being pushed into arranged marriages.”
Yuuri nearly knocked over the inkpot as he put his fountain pen aside.
Gwendal made a strange little threatening noise that would’ve made most grown men flee, but Greta didn’t budge.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Yuuri muttered, straightening the inkpot but managing to spill some anyway. “It’s not — I mean, we’re —”
“Yuuri,” she said cooly. “You have a terrible poker face. I’ve known for a few months.”
Gwendal appeared to choke on nothing at all.
Turning back to him, Greta tilted up her chin. “And you,” she said, “were only discreet in the way a brick is discreet when it’s thrown through a window.”
Yuuri wheezed nearby.
Steeling himself, Gwendal set down his report and stared at her. Was he trying to be intimidating? Greta had seen him almost lose his mind over small animals. She’d watched him negotiate patiently with a mule that refused to move, and apologise to a goat that had bitten him. She stared back, harder.
Eventually, Gwendal sighed. “You would make an excellent law enforcer,” he muttered.
“I know,” Greta said with a smirk.
Yuuri was peeking at Gwendal between his fingers.
To his credit, Gwendal met his gaze and shook his head helplessly.
It was probably time to stop torturing them, even though it was a lot of fun. “Well, if you’re going to keep giving each other gifts, I suppose I should get you something, too.”
“What for?” Yuuri said, lowering his hands.
“For finally figuring it out,” she said. She didn’t clarify what it was; they already knew. “Later,” she added, and swept out of the room with a wave.
When the door clicked shut, Yuuri blew out a huge breath. “She’s grown up all of a sudden, hasn’t she?”
“They do that,” Gwendal replied and came around the length of the table to stand beside him.
Grinning, Yuuri rose and reached for him, brushing his fingers against Gwendal’s wrist. “So…” he sighed. “I guess that makes it official?”
Covering Yuuri’s hand with his own, Gwendal said, “It is whatever you want it to be.”
Yuuri leaned in and kissed him briefly. “It’s official,” he said.
In answer, Gwendal gave him a rare smile, small but enough to light the entire room. The dolphin keychain swung lazily from where he’d hung it on his desk lamp. The symbol of a beginning.
A promise.
Still unfolding.