Chapter Text
“A… Lovers Ball?”
Signing his name with a flourish, the pen’s path not at all swerved by the still fresh red ink underneath, Hayato gives the document in hands one last critical glance. It still needs a good piece of work - as attest the long comments he jotted down in the margins - but it’s the third time this specific budget proposal has reached his desk and he’s already more than done with it. Screw the fact that it’s a ‘highly classified document of strategic importance’, the kind that requires not only his signature but also his personal stamp, for some reason. If the idiot that keeps ignoring his directives while writing it doesn’t get it right the next time, he’ll hunt them down personally and make them suffer.
Upon deciding that there’s little more he can do for this particular case, Hayato lets out a long sigh and drops it on the steadily rising column by Sakura’s thigh. Perhaps he should invest in a bigger desk, what with Sakura’s recent propensity to perch on it. Instead of, you know, using any of the perfectly good chairs or benches spread around the room.
“Indeed” resting his chin on a closed fist, he casts a fleeting glance at the pile of documents he still needs to go through today before deciding those can wait for a moment, and directing his attention up at Sakura. Though he finds him entertained with, from what Hayato can tell, a missive from the Sicyon Commander that he should absolutely not be reading, it seems that Sakura’s sixth sense for when he’s being watched is still as sharp as ever, as he finds himself the object of a mismatched gaze soon enough. “No need to look so thrilled about it, Sakura-kun. I can almost see your body vibrating with excitement.”
Scoffing in his direction, Sakura narrows his eyes at him like he’s considering whether to throttle him or not, but simply ends up putting the missive back in its place on the pile by his thigh with little fanfare. With his other hand, he reaches for the draft flyer for the Lover’s Ball, the paper filled with its customary hues of red and pink and white and such a flowery font that it’s nigh on impossible to mistake it for anything else.
Hayato has to stifle a chuckle at the pure judgement in Sakura’s eyes as he looks down at it.
“Not a fan of balls, Sakura-kun?”
“Never actually been to one. Didn’t exactly grow up in the nicer part of the town, you know?” Gazing out into the distance, Sakura looks almost wistful for a moment as starlight eyes stare at something that clearly belongs in the past. Hayato gives him his undisturbed moment, a quiet comfort he’s learnt Sakura appreciates more than if he were to try to offer any sort of words of platitude. And a moment is all it takes for him to snap back with a witty retort on his tongue, “seems like the sort of stuff boring nobles have wet dreams about.”
Ah, well, “you aren’t that far off from the truth, I’m afraid.” It is one of the most popular events in Cison, with nobles and all kinds of foreign dignitaries flocking into the city for one night filled with extravagant clothes and enough jewelry to feed the Empire for months, if not years. Not exactly his favourite night of the year (though not exactly for those particular reasons), but alas, it is one he must endure regardless of whether his parents are present to emotionally manipulate him into going or not.
Not a topic he’s too keen on breaching right now, though. So, blowing a stray strand from his face, he decides to tease his bodyguard a bit more by adding “though I’m not sure my great-great-grandfather wouldn’t take too kindly to you insulting his prized idea in such a way.”
“It has been that long?” Something between horror and admiration flits through Sakura’s face “say, is this some weird kind of ritual I don’t know about?”
It makes an idea spark at the back of his mind. One he knows better than listening to. One that he still listens to anyway, because rilling up Sakura has become his favourite pastime and he seems to be in a good enough mood today. Which means that though Hayato might (probably, most definitely) get something thrown at his head and a mighty scowl for his troubles, he’s likely safe from being served the silent treatment like last time.
So, schooling his expression into one of careful neutrality, he starts to weave his tale. Nothing grandiose or overdramatic, just a tidbit of simple enough information to nudge at Sakura’s curiosity. “My father forbade it as soon as he rose to the throne, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Are you saying there was actually a ritual once?!”
“Sort of, I suppose” with a half-hearted shrug for good measure, he explains “no one was killed or sacrificed or anything, so did it really count as a ritual?”
Scooting back just so, Sakura throws him a distrustful look “you sound weirdly knowledgeable about that” which is probably the only admittance of Sakura being weirded off by the topic that he’ll get from the man, something Hayato finds far more endearing than it probably is. It’s a… recurring problem.
“I developed a bit of an interest in it during my teenage years, yes” the comment only serves to have Sakura inching away from him just the slightest bit more, in a move that Hayato would pass off as dramatism if he didn’t know the other isn’t the sort of person to indulge in that. “It was very… enlightening.”
“Fine then, I’ll bite” something like exasperation shines through the gruff distaste in Sakura’s voice, like he’s sure Hayato is talking in cryptic lines on purpose, but only half as sure if he truly wants him to get to the heart of the topic or not. “What was the ritual about?”
“Mah, Sakura-kun, are you really telling me you don't have a clue?” To add a little more salt to the wound and aggravate the little prickle of irritation that he can already see along the lines of Sakura’s clenched jaw, he taunts, “not even a little one? About what kind of rituals people could be performing in the name of the God of Love?”
“I-you-” the alarmed look Sakura sends him, combined with the rising red of flusterment on his cheeks, nearly has Hayato cracking up a smile that would give him away all too soon. They are right on the verge of the big finale, he can’t give up now. “You’re not t-telling me-”
“Oh, but I am. I mean, what better way to show your devotion to the God of Love than under the moonlight, having a few rounds of truly wild, wild se-”
He leans back just in time the projectile Sakura throws at him, the balled up flyer passing right through where his head had been, before dropping to the ground a meter or so behind him with no more than a pinprick of a sound. A chuckle spills from his lips as he takes in the volatile mix of anger and embarrassment, at Hayato’s words and at having been played once more in equal measures, that flits through Sakura’s face. Though he looks half like he wants to strangle him, half like he wants to make him choke on the red and pink ball of paper, Sakura doesn’t move from his perch, seemingly content enough with glaring at him until his head explodes.
“How can this Empire still be standing when it has such a shameless idiot for a Prince, I will never know” it sounds like a confession, something anyone else would’ve thought to themselves or said under their breaths at best, but the sharpness of his tone drags a smile out of Hayato without even trying.
“Now that’s just plain hurtful, Sakura-kun” it’s hard, trying to instill any hurt into his voice when his lips seem hard set on remaining spread on a smile that’s already starting to make his cheeks hurt, but Hayato tries to do it anyway.
Judging by the rise of a very unimpressed white brow, and only that one, it’s futile effort.
“See if I save you if anyone tries to kidnap you or poison you or whatever shit criminals do to rich people in these kinds of balls” with a grumpy huff, Sakura hides his eyes beneath his fringe and picks up the Sicyon missive once again, seemingly deeming the issue closed. Moody little cat.
“Mah, Sakura-kun” Hayato reaches over, gentle as he pulls the paper from Sakura’s hands and gentle as he smiles up at him, if with a hint of an apology mixed in between. “You really shouldn’t be reading this one, you know?”
Instead of outright answering, his bodyguard simply scoffs at him and, faster than Hayato can blink, jumps down from his perch and starts to head for the door. A bit startled, Hayato can only watch as he pauses halfway into opening it, something defiantly smug shining in those mismatched orbs as he turns back to stare at him.
“I was just trying to remember where you had misspelled the Commander’s name, figured that it wouldn’t exactly do you any favors with the man to send it like that. But if you don’t want my help” he shrugs “I have business to settle with Hiragi.”
And before Hayato can even let out a single word, he closes the door behind him. Like a little fuckin-
“Sakura!”
“Work awaits, my Prince!” comes the muffled answer through the thick wood of the door, distorted enough that Hayato can’t even tell if Sakura is silently laughing at him or pouting or standing right next to the door or walking away already.
He considers his options for one, two, the third second already seeing him bolting out of his chair and towards the door. But there’s not even a trace of Sakura for him to see when he yanks it open, the corridor of his private wing completely deserted. Speechless, Hayato can only stand there for a moment, blinking as he tries to process everything that happened.
Moody cat indeed.
Finally, defeated, he pulls the door to his quarters closed and heads back to his desk, slumping down on it like he so rarely lets himself do. It’s unbecoming of a prince to slouch this way, but for now he couldn’t care less.
On top of his desk, the Sicyon missive stares back at him, almost mocking. When Hayato shakes his head, he doesn’t even know if he’s shaking it at the letter or at the ghost touch of Sakura that seems to linger on it. He tips his head back, hair falling as a curtain over the back of the chair as he looks up at the ceiling and doesn’t know whether to feel irritated or amused at the nerve of his bodyguard. How dare he, leaving him so, when Hayato didn’t even give him permission to go?
How dare he, leaving him fighting a smile born out of amusement or exasperation or perhaps amused exasperation absolutely covered in a fondness he knows he shouldn’t feel?
(Sakura was right, he did misspell the Commander’s name. Twice.)
Haruka’s heart seems to have taken permanent residence in his throat.
It makes it hard to talk, hard to swallow, hard even to breathe. Which wouldn’t be nearly as bad if it weren’t for the abhorrent way it still manages to reverberate like thunder over every limb, turning his legs shaky and his hands sweaty and nearly rendering his ears useless due to the loudness of the blood rushing through them. An utter betrayal of his own body, it’s what it is.
“You seem distracted, Sakura-kun” Prince Suo mumbles into his ear, so close that Haruka can feel the heat of his breath against his skin, faint traces of mango from the tea he had right after lunch. Viciously biting down the whine that bubbles up his throat, Haruka also does his best to steel himself against the shiver that starts to build at the base of his spine, knowing how much of a dead giveaway any of those actions would be to someone as perceptive as the other. He can’t do much about the way his heartbeat kicks up a gear, though, going from too fast to concerningly so - except maybe pray that the prince doesn’t notice it.
It’s already bad enough that he’s been as pink as the flowers that give him name for the past twenty minutes or so. Prince Suo doesn’t need to know how deep his fluster actually goes.
Fitting words around the lump in his throat is hard, an ungrateful task only made harder for the fact that instead of leaning back to his full height - as he should, as is proper - the Prince remains leaning over him. Close, so close, far too close. Even so, he has no choice but to search through his muddled brain for words, some semblance of normality.
Eventually, he settles for “figured you wouldn't be too keen on having me stepping on your toes.” Which isn't a lie, not necessarily. Just a partial truth.
“My, what a gentleman you are” the tease is expected, but the tone not as much. Gentle, in a way, almost fond, if Haruka were the kind of person to fool himself so easily. Too close to his ear for comfort, either way, as if the Prince has forgotten that they are the only ones present in this immense ballroom. Even if there was anything private about their conversation, they aren't at risk of being overheard. “But there's no need to fret so much. There's no better way to learn than by making a few mistakes.”kes, hum?”
“Pretty sure you won’t be saying that when your toes ache from me stepping on them so much.”
“The fate of a dance instructor, I fear.”
Sakura raises a single brow, confident that the sheer deadpan behind it will reach the Price if only he projects hard enough. It’s tempting, the idea of leaning back just to shower the other with the whole of his unimpressed stare, it always is. Princes, he’s found, don’t have a lot of people willing to outright disagree with them on a daily basis, much less subject them to normal, enriching experiences like being the victim of a little impertinence or being contradicted.
But if leaning away would signify a reprieve from the closeness that is slowly killing him inside, it would also mean looking the Prince directly in the face, and right now, at this very moment, the thought of it is even less appealing than the one of continuing to have him speaking directly into his ear. Perhaps there’s little plausible deniability left at the eyes of the Prince, of whoever might stumble into the room by accident. He can feel the heat on his ears, knows without doubt that they are just, or perhaps even more so, as red as his face is sure to be. Still, like this, with his head down and most of the upper half of his face somewhat covered by his bangs, he can at least delude himself into thinking that his embarrassment isn’t as noticeable as it probably is in reality.
“I reckon not many people can say they got private dance lessons from a prince.”
“Probably not” Prince Suo agrees with a little hum “do you feel special, Sakura-kun?”
Pushing down the wave of embarrassment that rises at those words is an exercise in strength and restraint, or perhaps the true restraint is in the way Sakura resists the urge to pull away from the other man as if burned, sure that such a violent reaction would be just as good as a written declaration of everything he is trying to hide.
The bluster feels like an old friend on his tongue, the same way it always does when he finds himself cornered between a rock and a hard place. “Feel like a special kind of idiot, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t you enjoy dancing?”
It’s not necessarily that he doesn't enjoy it; more like he feels he would enjoy it a whole lot more if it didn't feel like his heart is somehow trying to beat itself out of his chest and his breath didn’t keep on getting stolen from him at random intervals. All of that, on top of having to focus on his steps and posture so he doesn’t look like a child learning his first steps.
But it’s not like he can confess all of that, is it?
“I can think of more enjoyable thighs, I suppose. Besides, it’s not as if I'm going to be dancing at the ball.”
The Prince chooses that precise moment to guide them through a half turn and Sakura, more than a little unprepared, is left clinging to his arms to keep himself upright. The little yelp that escapes his lips isn’t certainly lost to the other man, not with the way it echoes through the spacious room as if mocking him. Just one more drop to add to the ocean of embarrassment already swimming through his veins, he supposes.
“Really? I reckon you’re handsome enough to warrant some attention from the ladies. And from a good amount of men, too, if your interests lie that way.”
“And? I’ll be too busy guarding you to have time for dances anyway” Haruka scoffs, choosing to resolutely ignore the comment. The less he overthinks, the lesser is the risk of him exploding right here and now.
“Mah, Sakura-kun, I hardly think that one dance is going to be the death of me. You should have a little fun!”
“You pay me to keep you safe, not to have fun” he drawls, silently wondering at the Prince's insistence in having him dancing. Does he want to see Haruka making a fool of himself or something?
“Then I suppose you'll just have to d-” the ambient music abruptly cuts off, and with it whatever the Prince was going to say. As one, they glance at the music player placed on one end of the room, next to the windows, that with no more disc to play is left uselessly spinning in silence.
Chancing a glance up at Prince Suo, Haruka tries to predict what he'll do. Surely this will be the end of Haruka's torture, that is, of their dancing lession? Not that it was even supposed to happen in the first place, but with the Prince's instructor having a last-minute incident that prevented him from coming, Prince Suo had been left with nobody to help him practice for the Lovers Ball. And Haruka, because he's stupid and a masochist and always forgets how to say ‘no’ in the most inopportune moments, had barely put up a token of protest before he was dragged into dancing with the Prince.
What is even his life?
“I'll go restart the music” Prince Suo's quiet voice drags him out of his panicking thoughts, not that the shiver of trepidation that shoots down his spine is much better. “Then we can practice the reverse parts, what do you say?”
He says that he doesn't want to, actually. That he already spent enough time at the verge of a heart attack today, thank you very much, so maybe the Prince can try to find someone else to drag into an impromptu dance practice?
(Except that would mean someone else dancing with him, wouldn't it? Someone that isn't Haruka dancing in the Prince's arms, feeling the warmth of his hands on their skin and hearing the sound of his breathing on their ear and-)
In the end, what he ends up saying is “are you sure you want me stepping on your toes any longer?”
Prince Suo huffs out a breathy laugh, hands careful as he fiddles with disc and music player alike until a soft, feminine voice vibrates through the air once more. When he turns back towards Haruka, there's still a shadow of a smile playing on his lips, small but all the more truthful for it, and the sight nearly punches the air straight out of Haruka's lungs. He's already unfairly beautiful as he is, but the softness of his smile makes him otherworldly.
“I already said I don't mind, didn't I?” he stops in front of Haruka, running an absentminded hand over his cream shirt and staring down at him. When Haruka simply stares back in return, not really knowing what he's waiting for, the Prince huffs. “Your hand, Sakura-kun?”
“Oh” a little embarrassed, Haruka holds out his palm as the Prince had done earlier, though his gesture is certainly less refined than Suo's had been. He doesn't seem to mind, though, laying his hand on top of Haruka's with swift precision and the lightest of touches. Then, he curls his fingers around Haruka's palm and tugs it towards his waist. Swallowing around a suddenly dry throat, Haruka croaks out a “awfully forward for someone who's supposed to be lead, aren't you, Prince Suo?”
“Do you think so?” tone as innocent as can be, the Prince steps fully into Haruka's space, somehow even closer than before. This close, it feels like their chests press with every breath, and Haruka can't help but be overly conscious of the two thin layers of fabric that separate their bare skins from each other. It fills him with ideas he shouldn’t have, thoughts he shouldn’t entertain.
Raising a brow up at the Prince, Haruka hopes his sardonic tone hides the beginnings of a blush already starting to chain his cheeks. “More pressed together and you might as well just climb me up.”
A slight widening to the Prince's eyes, along with the seemingly involuntary parting of the line of his mouth, are all the signs Haruka has of the Prince's shock. From which he recovers mighty quickly, is true, but the damage is already done.
Even more so when his voice nearly breaks on the first words, “Not proper dancing conduct, I fear.” Finally, they get into position, and Suo signals him to start with a small nod.
“And being pressed this closely together is?” as a demonstration, he halts a step backwards just a moment too soon, feeling the body of the unsuspecting Prince collide with his in the same breath. “I'm sure quite a number of ladies will faint if you dance this close to them at the ball.”
“Mm, is that your way of telling me you're jealous, Sakura-kun?”
Yes. “Don't be an idiot. I'm just saying you'll become the Empire's newest rumour if you dance like this in public.”
“Alright then, if you are that worried about me, dear bodyguard of mine” there's a glint to his eye that Haruka can't quite understand. Not quite teasing but something close. “I promise I won't dance this close to anybody else.”
Does he even understand the implications of what he's saying? How it all sounds to Haruka? Because ‘not dancing like this with anybody else’ doesn't sound like he'll stop doing it, period. It rather sounds like he'll stop like he'll stop doing it with everyone but Haruka. Which is a crazy thought, completely unfounded really, and yet one that fills him with a nasty, stubborn sort of hope. The same one that whispers in his ear every time he manages to get an unexpected reaction out of the normally controlled Prince, every time he reads documents he shouldn't like the daily newspaper or talks back without consequence. It's cruel in the best kind of ways, because the same logic that tells him that Prince Suo would never even look his way - why would he, when there's hundreds of royals and nobles out there, who have a closer standing, closer upbringing, closer values to the Prince? - is also the same that tells him the Prince doesn't allow anyone else even half of what he lets Haruka get away with.
What a cruel sort of hope, indeed.