Work Text:
The first time it happens that winter, Kurode tells no one.
He has learned the art of silence like a second language. He learned how to brace his shoulders when pain lances through him, how to breathe shallow and even so no one notices the tremor in his ribs. As a fragaria of the kuromi kingdom, strength is not only expected of him; it is assumed. He has fought seeds that towered over castle walls. He has stood unflinching before curses that would hollow lesser warriors.
But this—
Is a completely different battle.
The cramps begin as a distant throb low in his abdomen, a familiar warning. By dusk, they've twisted into a sharp and merciless pain, radiating through his hips and down his thighs. His vision begins to blur at the edges. He grips the edge of his desk until his knuckles pale, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
He hates everything about this. Hates the way it feels. He feels as if he's something fragile and feminine. He is a man. He fought hard against doubt, against whispers, against his own reflection to claim that truth. Yet his body still wages its own private rebellion.
By midnight, he cannot stand.
He barely makes it to his bed on stubborn will alone, his clothes hanging on him even looser than normal, boots abandoned by the door, he looks like a total wreck. The pain crescendos, white-hot and relentless, coiling through him until every breath feels like a battle.
He does not send word to anyone.
Not until the second day, when even lifting his head makes black spots dance before his eyes.
Cielomort arrives to the kuromi kingdom before the sun sets.
Kurode hears the knock through the haze of pain and embarrassment. He considers ignoring it. Pride is easier than vulnerability.
But the door opens anyway.
“Kurode-kun.”
There is no mistaking that voice. It's as cool as winter glass, threaded with quiet authority. Cielomort steps into the dim room, silver hair catching the low light. His gaze takes in everything at once: the untouched food tray, the discarded clothes, the rigid way Kurode lies curled on his side.
“You should have told me sooner.”
Kurode huffs a weak laugh. “And say what? I'm too weak to be a knight?”
Cielomort crosses the room in measured strides. He kneels beside the bed, close enough that Kurode can feel the faint chill that always seems to cling to him.
“You are not weak in the slightest,” Cielomort says. “You are simply in pain.”
The distinction lands gently, but it lands.
Kurode turns his face toward the wall. “It’s nothing new. It will pass.”
“You're right, it will pass,” Cielomort agrees softly. “But not alone.”
Silence stretches between them, thick with things Kurode does not know how to name. Shame? perhaps. Fear of being seen too clearly.
Cielomort reaches forward, resting a cool hand over Kurode’s clenched fist. His touch is steady. not pitying, not hesitant.
“You are coming with me to the Cinnamonroll Kingdom.”
Kurode stiffens, shaking his head as much as his weakening body will let him. “Absolutely not.”
“You can barely sit upright.”
“I will not be paraded as some invalid guest.”
Cielomort’s expression shifts, “You are not an invalid. You are my equal. And you deserve care that does not require you to pretend.”
The words hang in the air.
Kurode swallows. His abdomen spasms sharply, and he cannot suppress the sharp intake of breath that follows.
Cielomort’s grip tightens, just slightly. “Please.”
It's not a command, it feels, welcoming.
And that undoes him, surrendering to a simple plead
The Cinnamonroll Kingdom is nothing like Kurode expects.
He has visited a few times before on diplomatic business, normally accompanied with other members of the Blue Bouquet. He remembers bright banners and sugared wind, pastel towers rising like confections from a storybook.
He does not remember it feeling this… gentle.
They are given chambers overlooking a quiet courtyard where soft white blossoms drift in the breeze. The bed is absurdly plush. The windows let in warm, golden light.
Kurode feels out of place, walking through a kingdom in his so called pjs which is just a random oversized t-shirt and baggy pants, while still carrying the storm inside him.
Cielomort dismisses the attendants with a quiet word. When they are alone, he helps Kurode sit, slowly, carefully.
“eugh.. I can manage,” Kurode mutters, even as his hands tremble.
“I know,” Cielomort replies. “Let me anyway.”
There is something disarming about being helped without being diminished.
Cielomort has prepared for this. A heating stone enchanted to maintain steady warmth. Herbal infusions approved by the kingdom’s healers. Cushions arranged to ease pressure on Kurode’s lower back.
“You planned this,” Kurode realizes.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Cielomort hesitates only briefly. “Since the first time I saw you try to hide it.”
Kurode closes his eyes.
He remembers that day. training in the yard dust rising in the sun, his body threatening to fold in on itself while he refused to yield. He had thought no one noticed the way he went pale.
“You should not have to fight your own body alone,” Cielomort says quietly.
Kurode laughs, but it cracks halfway through. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is not simple,” Cielomort agrees. “But it is not shameful.”
The heating stone is placed gently against Kurode’s abdomen. The warmth seeps inward, easing the tightest edge of pain. Not removing it but softening it enough that he can breathe more fully.
Cielomort sits beside him on the bed.
“You are still you, you know,” he says after a while. “Your strength is not erased by this. Your identity is not undone by simply biology.”
Kurode’s throat tightens.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “Every time it happens, it feels like my body is mocking me. Reminding me of something I never wanted.”
Cielomort listens. He does not interrupt.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and unwavering. “Your body does not define your manhood. You do. Pain does not rewrite that truth.”
A tear slips from the corner of Kurode’s eye before he can stop it. He turns away instinctively, but Cielomort’s hand comes to rest at the back of his neck with his thumb under his eyes rubbing softly. not trying to force him to face forward, just grounding him.
“You are Kurode,” Cielomort says. “Knight of Fragaria. Stubborn. Honorable. Fierce. None of that changes.”
The words settle into him like steady rain into parched earth.
For the first time in days, Kurode allows himself to lean.
His forehead rests lightly against Cielomort’s shoulder. The contact is tentative at first, then certain.
Cielomort exhales slowly, as though he has been holding that breath for weeks.
“I will stay,” he murmurs.
“but, you have duties,” Kurode protests faintly.
“So do you. And right now, yours is to heal.”
The hours seemed to have passed differently here.
The pain still comes in waves. sometimes strong enough that Kurode grips Cielomort’s sleeve and bites back groans. But he is not alone in it. Cool fingers brush his hair back from his face. A steady voice talks him through breathing when the cramps spike. Warmth presses reassuringly against his abdomen.
On the forth day, the pain begins to ebb.
It does not vanish, but it loosens its hold. Kurode can sit by the window, wrapped in soft blankets, sunlight pooling at his feet.
“You look less like you are preparing for battle,” Cielomort observes from across the room.
“I always look like I’m preparing for battle.”
“Less,” Cielomort insists, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Kurode studies him in the quiet light. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Cielomort meets his gaze directly. “Because I care for you. Not for the knight alone. For all of you.”
The courtyard breeze carries the scent of blossoms through the open window.
Kurode’s chest feels tight again, but, not from pain this time.
“I don’t want to be pitied,” he says softly, his lips pouting faintly.
“I do not pity you,” Cielomort replies. “I admire you. And I wish to stand beside you. even on days when standing is difficult.”
Silence stretches, warm and unhurried.
Kurode reaches out first this time, fingers brushing against Cielomort’s hand. A deliberate choice. A quiet admission.
“Then stay beside me,” he says.
Cielomort intertwines their fingers.
“As long as you’ll have me.”
In the Cinnamonroll Kingdom, beneath drifting white petals and golden light, Kurode allows himself something he rarely grants:
Rest.
Not as surrender.
But as trust.