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The sky is streaked with marks of the dawn, pinks and purples staining the heavens. If Kiyoomi believed in omens, this would likely be a good one.

Kiyoomi does not believe in omens.

He does believe in his prince, though, and Aran is all warm smiles and calm eyes as he gazes ahead.

“Y’know, I thought you’d be more excited,” Motoya says. Kiyoomi turns to look at his cousin, whose eyes are fixed on the prince. Unlike Aran, whose fitted tunic looks pristine, Motoya’s is partially unbuttoned, exposing his white undershirt and a stretch of his clavicle. Kiyoomi clicks his tongue at him. They may not be at Inarizaki yet, but they should reach it before the end of the day, and it would not do to be unprepared.

It’s why Aran chose Kiyoomi to be head of his guard, after all.

Well, it’s presumably not the only reason. Kiyoomi’s reputation and skill with the blade were undoubtedly part of it, and he’s pretty sure their camaraderie from years in the same training arenas didn’t hurt, but he’s not the oldest member of the guard, nor the most experienced. He’s not even sure he’d identify himself as the best leader among them – he doesn’t mean it as a statement of self-deprecation, just an observation.

But he’s loyal, and he prepares himself for every situation. He thinks rationally, and he has no hesitation when it comes to acting on his instincts, because he’s honed those instincts with every flick of his blade and piece of nimble footwork. He’s direct in a way many aren’t with a prince, which he thinks Aran appreciates.

And Aran chose him to be the head of his guard, and so Kiyoomi is. That’s what it all comes down to, in the end.

“Do I seem bored, Motoya-kun?” Aran asks, sounding amused.

“Nah,” Motoya says, shaking his head. “Not bored, just – you seem pretty calm, that’s all.”

Aran hums thoughtfully. “I guess I’m in no rush,” he says after a moment. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m really looking forward to seeing him. But the way I figure, I’ve got the rest of my life to see Shinsuke. And isn’t that something worth savouring?”

Motoya meets Kiyoomi’s eyes, then turns back to Aran, already grinning.

“That’s pretty sweet, Your Highness,” he says. Kiyoomi agrees. He’s also pleased to see his cousin using the correct address for the prince. Normally, Aran doesn’t ask for it from Kiyoomi, Motoya, or Iizuna, likely for how long the three of them have known him due to their own familial statuses, but they’re still meant to. Especially the closer they get to Aran’s betrothed.

Aran would not love someone fairweather; Kiyoomi knows that. There’s no real risk of their prince being rejected just because some of his guards are a bit familiar, having been his closest friends for so long. Still, there’s a part of him that worries, and a larger part that is determined to impress the court of the man Aran loves. He respects Aran even more than he likes him, and he’d give up his sword before he would let Aran be embarrassed by his retinue, especially in front of the man he’s travelling so far to marry.

In some ways, it’s odd, not having yet met the person who his friend has spent the last seven months engaged to, and fell for in a garden outside a ball. Kiyoomi had technically seen Kita Shinsuke then, as he had accompanied Aran to the ball – an abrasively loud affair, all for Princess Alisa’s birthday, the worst part of which was having to constantly sidestep her ridiculously unwieldy brother – but he hadn’t met him, instead having spent most of his time tucked away into the corner with Kenma. He’d kept an eye on the prince, just glancing outside every so often, but the truth of the matter is that Aran can take care of himself, and always has been capable of doing so. Not that Kiyoomi takes his duties lightly, of course; he always carries out his duties to the best of his ability, because he does not believe in doing anything if you’re not going to do it right.

It’s more… the moment had seemed private, that’s all. Kiyoomi trusted Aran to take care of himself enough to allow him those small moments in the garden, teasing out smiles from a slender prince bedecked in royal blue and allowing him to catch his breath from the crowds before stealing it away again with the charming smile beloved by all of Tachibana.

“Are you suggesting I am not always sweet?” Aran asks, raising an eyebrow at Motoya.

“Of course he isn’t, Your Highness,” Iizuna says, smoothly exiting the guards’ tent. “Motoya-kun is many things, but he’d never lie.”

Kiyoomi snorts at that. Motoya looks torn between being indignant at Kiyoomi’s reaction and Iizuna’s words.

“I thought we were allies against Kiyoomi,” Motoya says in the end. His frown is extremely unconvincing. His face is too inclined towards friendliness, Kiyoomi thinks. He frowns, partially in response to Motoya’s words, and partially to show him what an actual frown should look like.

Motoya pulls a face at him.

“There are probably smarter ways to commit mutiny than by announcing your intent to do so in front of me,” Kiyoomi says dryly.

“Who said anything about mutiny?” Motoya asks airily. “We’re allied in our intents to torment, not to overthrow.”

“Very comforting,” Kiyoomi says, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, he’s good at that,” Iizuna remarks, an innocent expression on his face when Motoya narrows his eyes at him. Kiyoomi’s lips twitch. For someone who has encouraged Kiyoomi to show more passion on multiple occasions, Iizuna can be remarkably adept at controlling his own facial expressions.

“He’s good at many things,” Aran says, amusement written all over him.

“He could stand to improve his ability to wear his uniform correctly,” Kiyoomi mutters.

Motoya just laughs.

“I’ll be looking as pristine as ever by the time we’re moving again,” he promises.

“Whose ‘as ever’?” Kiyoomi asks, wrinkling his nose. “That’s not necessarily an improvement.”

“Your ‘as ever’,” Motoya says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, Kiyoomi.” His expression softens, and he claps Kiyoomi on the shoulder. “It’s all going to be fine,” he says quietly, then adds on, at a higher volume, “I can write to your siblings, though, if you need some moral support.”

Kiyoomi immediately scowls.

“Go help Hakuba with breakfast,” he says, pushing his cousin lightly in the shoulder.

Motoya laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’m going, I’m going,” he says. He picks up a water gourd from near his feet, waving it at his cousin. “Is yours in the dining tent?” he asks.

“With my saddlebags,” Kiyoomi replies, and Motoya nods.

“I’ll fill yours up too,” he says, and then he jogs off, nodding in greeting at Nozawa, another of the guards, as he passes him.

Iizuna disappears back into the tent, and Aran resumes his previous activity of looking towards Inarizaki. It’s too far to see, still, but they’ll be there before the day’s end. For all that Aran said about patience and savouring the knowledge that he has the rest of his life to spend with the man he has pledged himself to, Kiyoomi thinks he can see something building behind Aran’s transfixed gaze. Anticipation, perhaps.

Kiyoomi joins his prince, and turns his face towards the rising sun.

There is orange bleeding across the horizon now, streaking through the pink and purple like something burning, reaching towards them.

Inarizaki’s foxes are orange, Kiyoomi thinks.

To someone who believes in omens, Kiyoomi imagines it’s a good one.

Kiyoomi just sees the dawn breaking. The mark of a new day. The first day of the rest of their lives.

✧

The castle looms ahead of them. Its boundary walls are smooth and imposing, made out of a stone Kiyoomi has never seen before. It’s a similar colour to marble, lighter than the slate he is accustomed to seeing in most castles, but more uniform. There is a sleek, royal blue flag flying from a long golden pole above the drawbridge, and smaller versions of the same flag billowing in the wind from each of the four turrets.

The colours draped over the boundary walls, however, are red. Tachibana red, Kiyoomi realises. It is a welcome to Prince Aran and his retinue, first and foremost, but it is also a mark of honour and intent. Kita Shinsuke means to let the entire kingdom know of the colours to which he has promised himself, elevating them to the same status as his own.

Something eases inside of Kiyoomi’s chest. He hadn’t even realised there was something still clenched tight.

The drawbridge is lowered before them, and they ride their horses in. Kiyoomi notices Motoya peering down into the moat, and glances quickly at it himself. The water is a clear blue, so unlike the murky green of most moats, and there are fish in it. Some are familiar to him – angel trout, scarlet-gilled trevally, saffronfin koi – but some are not. There is one that resembles a clownfish, but its scales are an iridescent blue, shimmering purple beneath the light. He thinks he spots a river eel as well.

It’s extremely unexpected to find life within a castle moat. They’re not designed for it, and it cannot occur without intent. It tells Kiyoomi two things about the castle, and the House of Kita who live within its walls.

One, they are unprepared for war, which speaks to a lack of expectation and experience with it. On some level, this is not a good thing; on most levels, however, Kiyoomi recognises that it means that this is a place built for peace and happy days. It is all he could have asked for for Aran’s future.

Two, the House of Kita – or perhaps just the prince who holds command within its castle walls, and has for the last two years in preparation for when he would ascend the throne officially – appreciates beautiful things, but not grandiose ones.

Kiyoomi has been to many castles with marks of splendour on their walls to greet their visitors – golden coats of arms stained into their walls, sculptures of their ancestors lining the entrance path, even ornate metalwork writ into their drawbridges. Prince Suguru’s castle has two giant snake heads sculpted into the stone wall on either side of the drawbridge, for goodness’ sake.

Inarizaki has its moat full of simple life, and intriguing walls emblazoned with Tachibana’s colours. More than anything, it speaks to a simple humility.

Kiyoomi had not truly doubted that Aran would be happy here, but each step closer they get, the more assured he is. Moreover, he thinks Aran’s retinue could find their space here too. It reminds him of their prince, after all.

Kiyoomi would like to put away his horse himself, but he knows he is required to attend Aran in the court. He dismounts his steed and lets Motoya take him by the reins; while he would appreciate Motoya by his side as they make their way into the court, the way he has been for most of Kiyoomi’s life, there’s also nobody he would rather entrust his ride to.

Aran had refused to ride in the carriage for the final stretch, so he dismounts his horse – a handsome golden stallion, befitting a prince – and hands the reins over to Iizuna.

“Don’t be nervous,” Iizuna murmurs, and Aran shoots him a playful scowl.

“When am I ever?” he asks.

Kiyoomi snorts very slightly, quiet enough that none of the Inarizaki staff notice. His own men do, though, as does the prince. Motoya grins, and Iizuna hides his own smile, always better than the rest of them at not giving too many of his own thoughts and feelings away. Aran just rolls his eyes at him.

“I’m going to choose to ignore that,” he says, and Kiyoomi suppresses a smile.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he answers, stepping forward to stand at his side.

“How do I look?” Aran asks.

“Like a prince,” Kiyoomi replies.

Aran clicks his tongue at him in exasperation.

“You look like your parents’ heir,” Kiyoomi offers after a moment. Then he frowns, and readjusts the hanging of the gold epaulettes on Aran’s shoulders. “Well, now you do.”

“The lack of uniformity would probably have been more fitting, if the goal is to be like them,” Aran points out, a touch wry.

Kiyoomi only rolls his eyes. It’s true that the House of Ojiro tends unconventional, preferring genuine engagement with their peers and subjects over the cool reserve of decor, but Kiyoomi does not know what to expect of the courtiers and household of Inarizaki. Prince Shinsuke may appreciate simple things, and love their prince to boot, but courtiers can be judgemental in any court. Kiyoomi ought to know. One of his favourite pastimes is waspishly exchanging observations with Kuroo from the sidelines when they’re bored out of their minds and forced to observe their peers’ awful courting attempts. If Kiyoomi never has to see another hastily arranged sash and quickly-fled closet door, it will be too soon. Especially in a castle. There are many actual chambers; pick one of them over the storage closet, for fuck’s sake. Have some dignity.

“Thank you, Kiyoomi,” Aran says, and Kiyoomi nods.

“Yes, well, I can only do so much,” he says. “Charming your prince into letting us stay once he’s met Motoya and the rest is all on you.”

That makes Aran break into a grin. It suits him. Kiyoomi thinks Prince Shinsuke will be all the happier for it.

“Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me, then,” Aran says, and Kiyoomi nods.

“May the entire strength of the Falconlands be with you,” he says wryly, naming Aran’s home kingdom.

Aran’s grin shifts into a smile, gentle but resolute. “It always is,” he says softly.

Kiyoomi considers this, and nods. The strength of his kingdom, and its heart too. There are two princes of the Falconlands, and their people love them both completely. Kiyoomi is sure the people of the Foxlands will do the same.

A herald steps out of the castle, wearing the Inarizaki coat of arms. He is very tall and lithe, with extremely neatly combed dark hair and a severe face. Kiyoomi approves of him already.

Beside him is a shorter man, in a courtier’s garb. Kiyoomi surveys him, noting the pale trim of his breeches, and the intricate brocade of his coatee. A noble courtier, then. Perhaps a duke’s son, or a young baron. Maybe even a relative of the court.

He has a smile like Motoya’s, open and friendly compared to the unrelenting reserve of his companion. Kiyoomi briefly wonders if this is what seeing him and Motoya together is like.

“Inarizaki and its ruling head, Prince Shinsuke of the House of Kita, welcome you, Prince Aran,” the herald announces. His voice is not loud, but it rings with purpose, resonating above the bustle of the courtyard and grounds.

“Hello!” his companion says cheerfully. The herald’s eye twitches. Kiyoomi decides that this is what seeing him and Motoya together would be like.

“We thank you for your welcome,” Aran says, bowing lightly. Beside him, Kiyoomi bows his head, and notices the rest of the guard following his lead. This is somewhat troublesome in Motoya’s case, considering he is partway through coaxing his horse into a stable, but one of the stablehands notices and moves stealthily to his aid.

“If it would please you, you may follow me,” the herald says. His expression looks less severe than before. It does not surprise Kiyoomi. Aran has a knack for getting to the heart of people and winning them over, even with the smallest of gestures.

Aran nods, and begins to walk up the short set of stairs to the castle entrance. Kiyoomi joins him, the rest of the retinue falling into place, save the ones still completing their tasks.

The majority of them stay in the interior chamber they pass through, no doubt waiting for instruction from the Master of Household, but Kiyoomi continues to shadow his prince, with the rest of Aran’s elite personal guard following in his footsteps.

“I announce Prince Aran of House Ojiro, having arrived from the Falconlands,” the herald calls once they have arrived at the entrance to the court, stepping to the side to reveal Aran and his entourage.

The first thing Kiyoomi notices is that Prince Shinsuke looks much more at ease than he had the first time Kiyoomi had seen him, uncomfortable in a crowd of his peers, suffocating beneath their attention. There’s the hint of a smile on his face, one that only gets more pronounced the longer he gazes at Aran.

If Kiyoomi believed in omens, he might say it was a good one.

He still does not believe in omens, but he believes in Aran. He does not have to be able to see his prince’s face to know that the same emotion is etched upon it. It’s written into the set of his shoulders, half a step ahead of Kiyoomi’s own, and the steady surety of each step which leads him closer to his prince.

His prince, here meaning something completely different to how Kiyoomi is used to thinking of the phrase. Loyalty and respect still, but something more as well. A sense of peace, maybe.

Kiyoomi keeps his face blank for the most part, but he flicks his gaze around, taking note of the hall itself. It’s a large room, with higher ceilings than the Tachibana throne room, but less people housed within its walls. The coving is gilded gold, with an ornate golden lattice overlaying the white stone of the ceiling. It might be the same stone as the outer walls, Kiyoomi thinks. Inarizaki – or perhaps elsewhere in the Foxlands, called in to service their throne – must have a master stonemason.

The pillars are the same stone, eight dotting the length of the hall, with the same intricate golden design etched into each. There are foxes walking the base of each pillar, Kiyoomi notices on closer examination.

The court seems in session too. He spots several familiar sigils on people’s chests – the tall man on the outskirts is from the Sealands, he thinks, maybe the House of Hirukana – no, Hirugami? Beside him is a young lord he recognises from a visit to Shiratorizawa last year; Lord Kawanishi, if he remembers correctly. He had been part of Prince Wakatoshi’s court, but he’d been fairly uninvolved with festivities, so there’s equal chance of him being here of his own accord as there is of him being an emissary. Then again, Prince Wakatoshi himself tends to be fairly detached from festivities. It’s one of the reasons Kiyoomi enjoys his company so much.

Then Kiyoomi’s eyes fall upon a group he assumes are household staff, given the crests they all wear. For the most part, they are dressed well, their livery clean and showcasing the colours of Inarizaki – a deep red, primarily, but accents of black and white, with gold threading through the fabric of some of their clothes. A mark of status, most likely.

In the back, though, behind a man in chef’s garb, there’s a young man in the shadows. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what about him caught his attention, but he thinks –

Kiyoomi squints harder. Is that flour on his breeches…?

“Prince Aran,” Prince Shinsuke greets.

Aran bows, and Kiyoomi drags his gaze away from the unexpected young man to meet the eyes of the prince seated on the throne before him, before sinking into a kneeling position. Behind him, he feels his men do the same.

“Please,” Prince Shinsuke says, nodding his head at them. “Rise.”

Kiyoomi eases out of his position, his men following his lead.

“This is Lord Kiyoomi of House Sakusa,” Aran says formally, indicating Kiyoomi with his hand. “He is the head of my guard.”

“I recognise him,” Prince Shinsuke says, sounding amused.

“From when we met?” Aran asks.

“From his reputation,” Prince Shinsuke corrects. “The finest swordsman of the last five tourneys between the western kingdoms, is he not?”

Aran grins, something quick and bright. He looks proud. “Yes, that’s him,” he says. “I didn’t know you cared for swordsmanship, my prince.”

Prince Shinsuke raises an eyebrow. “My prince…” he muses, tasting it on his tongue, before his expression turns wry. “I cannot say I took much notice of it before you,” he confesses, before his eyes go mischievous. “My prince.”

Aran looks like he’s blushing slightly, which – Kiyoomi loves and respects his prince, but he would really prefer not to be privy to him flirting with his future spouse. He imagines most of the court is in agreement.

“Some of my court have always paid attention to it, though,” Prince Shinsuke continues. “You may find yourself with some admirers on the training grounds, Lord Sakusa.”

“Thank you for your esteem,” Kiyoomi manages stiffly, inclining his head again. “Just Sakusa is fine.”

Prince Shinsuke’s expression shifts, a question written into the lines of his face.

“In the guard, we are all the same,” Kiyoomi explains. It isn’t exactly true, but Kiyoomi tries for it to be. He likes to do well, and he is content enough with his accomplishments, but he did not earn his birth. More importantly, he does not do anything to merit it. Whilst noble classes are most often considered for personal guard positions, anyone can be a member of a royal guard. “I tend to forego any titles in friendly company.”

Prince Shinsuke inclines his head. “As you wish,” he says.

Aran rolls his eyes, but the gesture is fond. “Is there anywhere in particular you would like for my retinue to settle?” he asks Prince Shinsuke.

Prince Shinsuke nods to a young man at his left. “Suna, fetch Kurosu-san, please.”

The young man nods, disappearing into the shadows. Within minutes, he returns, an older man at his side. He is wearing the colours of the House of Kita, and there is a pin at the base of his delicate lace collar that indicates his status as the Head of Household.

“Please follow me,” he says, his tone formal. In a quieter voice, he adds, “Rintarou, see to it that all of them are brought to their chambers. If any are still out in the stables, make sure Hitoshi takes over and send them inside. Send the twins in too if you see them. Atsumu is likely out in the practice ring. Again.”

Suna Rintarou nods his head, a placid motion, then disappears into the shadows again.

Kurosu-san looks back to Kiyoomi and his men and nods at them once, before moving through the antechamber to their left.

With one final nod to Prince Shinsuke, and a glance shared with Aran, Kiyoomi follows, his men falling into step behind him.

✧

Kiyoomi is walking through the corridors, examining the paintings on the walls.

They have been situated in Inarizaki for a few days now, and Kiyoomi has spent most of his time familiarising himself with the castle and its occupants. The wedding is coming up at the end of the month – an eight month engagement is short for most royal engagements, but on the long side for a love match. Kiyoomi approves, though. It’s still a little hectic, of course, just because preparation for anything that matters is, but the vast majority of the actual decisions have already been made because of the time the princes took, so it could be much worse.

Kiyoomi still remembers his brother’s wedding, and he’s exceptionally glad for Aran’s foresight. Marquis Sakusa’s marriage had also been a love match, and is still going strong to this day, but Kiyoomi remembers the lead up to the wedding, young as he was at the time, and thinks that while his brother’s easy confidence has long been a beneficial quality, it was probably unearned during the planning for that particular event.

He stops beside a painting of a woman. She’s old, which is surprising. Most people in these paintings tend to be immortalised in their youth, generally only depicted at an advanced age in a family or marriage portrait. But this woman is undoubtedly old, and entirely alone save for a fox at her feet. Its tail is wrapped around her leg, and she is smiling down at it. The frame is thick and sturdy, gilded with gold, and the plaque beneath it is slightly obscured by its size.

Kiyoomi peers closer, trying to make out its words, when a voice startles him.

“That’s Yumie,” someone says, and Kiyoomi whirls to find a young man looking at him. A familiar young man. Kiyoomi wracks his brain for a moment, until –

“You don’t have flour on your clothes this time,” Kiyoomi observes. The other man flushes slightly.

“So you did notice me,” he says.

Kiyoomi nods. “I am required to be observant,” he says.

The young man snorts. It’s a fairly unbecoming gesture, but it’s an honest one. Kiyoomi does not tend to get familiar with people, but he does prefer genuine reactions over anything cloaked in propriety. At least when it comes to himself, anyway. He will still do his utmost to ensure everyone’s behaviour regarding his prince is befitting their statuses.

“What else are you required to do?” he asks curiously.

Kiyoomi blinks.

“I figure you have to go with the prince on all his endeavours, right?” the other man asks. “As head of the guard and all.”

“Mostly,” Kiyoomi says after a moment. “I’m not really required to be present when we’re stationed at Tachibana itself. Unless he requests my presence, of course.”

The other man nods thoughtfully. Kiyoomi takes the moment to survey him properly. He’s shorter than Kiyoomi, but not by too much. His posture is more casual – open, even – which probably pronounces it, but Kiyoomi doesn’t think the difference is more than a handful of centimetres. His hair is an odd colour – clearly naturally very dark, but most of it is pigmented grey, a shade or two lighter than slate – and swept to the left.

He is handsome, Kiyoomi supposes. His eyes are a similar colour to his hair, but alight with curiosity. He’s very… Kiyoomi doesn’t know a better word for it than thick, at least in the upper half of his torso. His shoulders are broad, and his arms look like they’re no strangers to hard work, but his waist seems narrow from the cinching of the apron.

Also, yes. The apron. It’s a navy blue, a few shades darker than the royal blue of the House of Kita, and there’s a little fox head embroidered in the bottom left corner. In the bottom right, there’s the kanji for – Kiyoomi squints. Miya, he thinks. He’d expected Kita.

“Miya?” he asks.

“Hm?” the man hums, looking up at Kiyoomi again. Kiyoomi gestures towards the apron, and the man’s expression clears. “Oh, yeah – this isn’t my apron, actually, it’s ‘Tsumu’s, because mine’s in the laundry right now, but yeah. Works either way, I guess. Call me Osamu, though. There are too many Miyas in this castle for that to be feasible.”

Kiyoomi blinks, absorbing this. He’s been instructed to call people by first name before – Kenma, most notably, who has successfully broken everyone but Akaashi of the habit of calling him Kozume – but not usually within a minute of meeting.

“Osamu,” he tests, and Miya Osamu grins at him.

“That’s me,” he says.

“Who are the other Miyas?” Kiyoomi asks.

“There’s me and ‘Tsumu – Atsumu, you’ll know him when ya see him, though hopefully that won’t be for a while – and then my father,” Osamu explains. “He’s the head of the kitchens.”

Kiyoomi remembers him from the court’s welcome. He had broad shoulders too, but everything about him had been broad. Sturdy, maybe.

“So you live in the castle,” Kiyoomi surmises.

“Yeah,” Osamu says. “Have my whole life.”

It does not surprise Kiyoomi. Kita Shinsuke seems the type to retain the same members of household staff for as long as he can, and Osamu is at ease in the walls of Inarizaki in a way that Kiyoomi has never been in Tachibana, as much as he has called it home for the last decade. Osamu moves like he belongs – like every scuffed edge of the carpet is an old friend, like all the nooks and crannies of the castle walls are his to traverse.

Kiyoomi supposes they are. Castles belong to royals, but the denizens who know every inch of them are the ones who work them each day.

“So what’s it like?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi frowns. “What’s what like?”

“Being a member of the guard,” Osamu says. “Tachibana. Falconlands in general. Travelling. Any of it.”

He’s very inquisitive, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, being the target of constant questions. Prince Lev tends to ask questions too, but he asks everyone, and in turn, everyone ignores him to varying degrees. This feels different. Like Osamu has been wanting to ask him specifically these questions.

Kiyoomi is not sure how he feels about it.

“It’s all I know,” he says at last. He doubts it’s the answer Osamu was looking for, but it’s all he has. “What is living in Inarizaki like?”

Osamu hums, his lips tugging upwards at the corners. “All right, I see your point,” he says agreeably. “Loud, though,” he adds on.

Kiyoomi gives him a baffled look. That had not been the answer he’d expected.

“You’re in the Lords’ Quarters, yeah?” Osamu asks, eye glinting knowingly. “Up in the Western Wing? Bet they’ve got you in one of the big rooms too – the Rose Suite?”

“Itachiyama, I think,” Kiyoomi supplies. Kurosu-san had called it that when he’d brought Kiyoomi there, and then Motoya and Iizuna later. It is a set of three suites, all larger than the other rooms in the area, interconnected by a shared antechamber.

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot up. “Huh,” he says. “The trio.”

Kiyoomi inclines his head. “Yes. Two of my friends are in the other two rooms,” he says. Motoya is his cousin too, but more than anything, he is Kiyoomi’s best friend. Blood did not bring them together from birth, having been born in different estates, but it provided six year old Kiyoomi with an invitation to attend swordsmanship lessons with Motoya.

Blood did not keep Kiyoomi going back, though. Motoya’s constant companionship, his easy friendship and loyalty, and his patience with all of Kiyoomi’s idiosyncrasies – those were what had made Kiyoomi want to keep returning.

He still remembers the first time he made Motoya laugh – not just a flash of amusement, or the light chuckle he would let out when Kiyoomi was making a particularly perturbed expression, but a full-bodied laugh, with his eyes crinkled at the corners and his whole body at risk of doubling over from the force of it. It had been after a particular bout of practice with their wooden swords that Motoya’s eyes had narrowed, finally figuring out why Kiyoomi was managing to flick his sword in ways hard to catch, but was still fast enough to counter his cousin.

“It’s your wrists!” Motoya had announced, pointing at Kiyoomi with triumph.

“Yeah. It’s my wrists. Don’t point. It’s rude,” Kiyoomi had replied, but then he had shown Motoya and the other assorted members of their practice group the full flexibility of his wrist, and Motoya had laughed so hard that Kiyoomi had felt a satisfied smirk paint itself across his face.

“They’re pretty soundproofed rooms,” Osamu says thoughtfully, bringing Kiyoomi back to the present. “And the wing itself is fairly removed from the rest of the castle – it’s no surprise you don’t think it’s loud.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Even this corridor seems fairly tranquil,” he points out. Certainly nobody had interrupted him in his wandering until Osamu had turned up.

Osamu laughs. It’s a nice sound. Warm and clear, the only thing that feels new in this corridor full of history.

“That’s because they’re all outside,” he says, smile going a little crooked.

Kiyoomi looks at him in askance, and his smile widens into a grin.

“C’mon, I’ll show you,” he says.

✧

Osamu is right.

The castle grounds are a lot livelier than its corridors, bustling with life and movement. Especially in two areas: the stables, and the practice grounds.

Kiyoomi spots Iizuna deep in conversation with a stablehand as they walk past the stables, and stops to rub his horse’s face and neck.

“Oi, Gin!” Osamu calls from beside him.

A man about their age – Kiyoomi thinks Osamu is probably around his age but he could be wrong; other than his own men, he’s not usually around people he didn’t grow up with to some extent, so his experience with guessing ages is somewhat limited – pops up from behind Motoya’s horse. He has short spiky hair, a little sandier in colour than Osamu’s, and an earnest set to his face.

“Hey ‘Samu!” he calls back. “What’s up?”

“Where’s the brat?” Osamu asks. He leans down and reaches into a bucket, scooping out two apples. He hands one to Kiyoomi, who obligingly holds it out for his horse to eat. He receives a loud whinny in thanks.

“Where d’ya think?” Gin huffs. He sounds amused, though, or at least more amused than he is annoyed.

“Thought he was meant to help you today,” Osamu says, frowning. He tosses the other apple to Gin, who catches it with one quick hand. “Did he and Rin fuck off to race, then?”

“Nah,” Gin says, shaking his head. He holds the apple out to Motoya’s horse, patting her head gently as she eats it. “Kita-san said they’re not allowed to go racing while everyone settles in, least not without Kurosu-san’s permission. And they’re not gonna ask him, so.”

“Practice ring, then?” Osamu asks.

“Yeah,” Gin says, giving Motoya’s horse a satisfied pat on her neck once she finishes the apple. “Some of Prince Aran’s guards were sparring, so obviously Atsumu wanted to look. And where Atsumu goes…”

“Trouble follows,” murmurs Osamu.

Gin barks a laugh. “You know I was expectin’ ya to say Rin,” he says.

Osamu shrugs. “Same difference, really, ‘specially when he’s with ‘Tsumu.” He looks at Kiyoomi. “Ready to go see what your men are up to, my lord?”

Kiyoomi scowls at him. Gin straightens, eyes surveying Kiyoomi properly for the first time.

“You were at the announcement,” Kiyoomi complains. “I know you heard me tell the prince to call me Sakusa.”

“Ah, but Kita-san is a prince,” Osamu points out, his tone light. “Me and Gin aren’t anything that fancy.”

Kiyoomi flicks a glance at Gin, who gives a short bow, disappearing behind the horse again as he does so. Popping up again, he says, “Ginjima Hitoshi, my lord – er. Sir?”

“Just Sakusa,” Kiyoomi repeats. “Well met, Ginjima.”

“Same to you,” he says, his register remarkably more formal than when he was speaking to Osamu. Still, there’s a warmth to it, as if ease of speech is too built into the residents of this castle to fade away fully, even when obeying the laws of propriety.

Kiyoomi thinks he likes it.

“All right,” Osamu says, clapping his hands. He holds one hand up, palm facing Ginjima, in a sort of wave, then nods at Kiyoomi. “Off we go, then.”

Osamu weaves between the hustle and bustle of the grounds, darting past three men carrying a large bundle of fabric and poles over their shoulders, and spinning one of the maids around by the wrist, tugging her out of the way of a gangly teenage boy driving a rickety wheelbarrow.

Kiyoomi steps nimbly after him, filling each space he leaves, watching the trail of familiarity in his wake. The men carrying what is presumably a tent call light-hearted insults after him, and the maid blushes prettily, her companion yelling out thank you Osamu! The boy with the wheelbarrow throws him a grin, before immediately refocusing on keeping a hold of his unwieldy task, and through it all, Osamu gives light smiles or swift nods, his eyes always fixed on the path before him.

He’s motivated, Kiyoomi thinks. Determined. Once he has his eyes on a goal, he sticks to it.

It’s a good quality, not to look back. At least, it’s helpful in Kiyoomi’s life. He values completion, and his post requires him to be able to focus on the present, or look to the next move – he has never been in a position to spend undue time dwelling on where he has been, nor has his personality lent itself towards such an activity.

Introspection is fine. It’s losing oneself in things that cannot be changed, and allowing nostalgia to hold oneself back, which Kiyoomi considers dangerous.

Ahead of him, Osamu comes to a stop. He glances back at Kiyoomi, his lips quirking up in one corner.

“Here we are,” he says, and Kiyoomi steps forward beside him.

The training yard is not as big as Tachibana’s, but it’s surprisingly well-equipped, considering the absolute lack of presence the guard seems to have in Inarizaki. Kiyoomi has noticed guardsmen patrolling the boundary walls, and there are a respectable number stationed in areas where the prince can often be found, but the culture around the guard seems to be different here. Less of an emphasis on skill with the blade, more of a constant presence.

The armoury seems to house everything from true blades to training staffs, their metalworks ranging from greatswords to sabres, and a great deal in between. Kiyoomi eyes a particularly ornate rapier hanging near the end of the top row, then scans the varying lengths of the wooden practice swords. The training staffs look sleek – well-crafted, and smooth enough for precise movements.

Beside it, there is a practice ring. The ground is looser, allowing for balance training when working on footwork, and the ring’s border is enforced by two wooden rungs set between thick, round posts, circling the enclosure and located about two metres apart each.

Inside the ring, Kiyoomi recognises two of his men: Hakuba, a young lord from the Sealands who has been serving in Aran’s guard for the past two years, and Onigashira, a merchant’s son from the Falconlands. He had never been outside of the Falconlands before joining the guard, Kiyoomi recalls, and even those trips had been sparse before this. They had given the members of the guard the option to retire prior to preparing for their journey to Inarizaki, considering the likely result of such a journey would be a permanent relocation, but none had left the service.

Kiyoomi had been pleased.

Now, looking at his fellow guardsmen, he has to admit they make an amusing picture. Onigashira is by no means small, but he’s roughly a hand shorter than Kiyoomi, and at least twenty centimetres shorter than Hakuba, possibly more. Hakuba is unreasonably tall, frankly, but it makes him an interesting sparring partner. His centre of gravity is significantly different from most of his opponents, and while his height can make it easier for small, quick opponents to make low jabs, it also allows him to use his long reach to keep them from ever getting too close to him. He favours longswords for this reason, although he’s currently bearing a training staff.

Onigashira is staying back, eyeing him warily. On first glance, he appears to be on the defensive, but Kiyoomi quickly surmises that he is merely biding his time. His eyes are tracking each of Hakuba’s movements, honing in on every sweep of his leg or shifting of his weight.

Kiyoomi sees it the same time Onigashira does. Hakuba is putting his weight on his right foot, and his left side is a little less covered with the angle he’s holding his staff at.

Onigashira darts forward suddenly, more like a snake than a falcon, and whacks Hakuba hard on the left side of his torso. Hakuba lets out an oof, but spins his staff quickly, smacking away Onigashira’s staff before he can make a second strike. Onigashira rolls his staff quickly in his hand, causing Hakuba’s to slide off of it. Onigashira makes to pull his back, but Hakuba steps into his space suddenly and shoves his staff between Onigashira’s legs, smacking the inner meat of his left thigh then his right, a quick one-two motion, before stepping back.

“Major cuts,” he announces, sounding pleased with himself.

Kiyoomi studies their positioning, and surmises that Hakuba is correct. Most people would have ended up with a much more horizontal cut if they tried the same move, but given Hakuba’s relative height and the angle from which he hits, it’s true. If they had been using real blades, Onigashira would have two long, dangerous cuts down the inside seam of both his thighs.

Then again, Hakuba would also have a cut across his torso, which might affect his manoeuvrability.

“That’s true,” he comments. He does not raise his voice, but it seems to carry far enough that the two of them notice him. Or perhaps they’re just attuned to his voice – he notices two young men sitting on the ring’s fence who do not seem to have noticed him. He returns his attention to his men. “Hakuba’s cuts were dangerous. However, Onigashira’s cut across your torso would have affected your manoeuvrability too.”

“Not if I was wearing armour,” Hakuba points out.

Kiyoomi makes a tch noise at him. “True in theory, but you’d only be protected if you wore the under-plate too, and when do you ever wear full armour?” he asks, exasperated.

Hakuba shifts. “I would if it fit,” he groans.

“We have a metalsmith here at Inarizaki,” one of the Inarizaki men pipes up. He is wearing a leather jerkin, a fox embossed on the right side of the chest. Kiyoomi assumes he’s one of the swordsmen of the castle, or perhaps one of the craft-workers. “He is very good. I’m sure he’d be happy to shape something to your size.” The man grins. “He’d probably enjoy the challenge.”

“As much to do with Hakuba is,” Kiyoomi murmurs.

Hakuba throws him an injured look, but Onigashira laughs into his hand.

“Are you coming to practice, Sakusa?” Onigashira asks.

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I hadn’t planned on it,” he says. Later, he will, but for now, he wouldn’t provide any value to their training.

Besides, Osamu had wanted to prove a point to him by bringing him out here, and Kiyoomi’s desire to see things through makes him reluctant to leave Osamu’s side until his curiosity is satisfied.

“Suit yourself,” Hakuba says. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but nods.

“Don’t be so obvious with where you’re leaning,” he advises. “You don’t need to be strong to defeat someone. You just need to get in one good hit. Someone observant with good timing, no matter their level of strength, could have beat you with the way you were standing. Kenma could have beat you.”

Hakuba lets out a squawk, but the way his eyes narrow lets Kiyoomi know he’s taking the advice seriously, so Kiyoomi steps back. He turns to Onigashira.

“Staying back to observe his movements was the right choice, especially with Hakuba, but remember to stay in an active defence stance,” he instructs. “You don’t have to expend your energy being quicker than usual if you do, because you’re already halfway prepared to counter anything he might throw at you.”

Onigashira nods, and Kiyoomi nods back, satisfied. He turns away from the ring, searching for Osamu.

He finds him standing by the other two young men he had noticed before, though he doesn’t seem to be paying too much attention to them.

For a moment, Kiyoomi hesitates.

Osamu notices.

Somehow, even halfway across the training yard, Osamu notices.

“Sakusa,” he calls, and so Kiyoomi goes.

He approaches them warily, eyeing the other two stiffly. He feels his eyes widen as he takes in the dark-haired one; he recognises him from the court’s welcome. Suna Rintarou, the valet who had been sent to bring the rest of the Tachibana retinue to their rooms.

His eyes travel to the blond, and he stops short.

He’s looking at Osamu, if Osamu’s hair was straw-weaved-to-gold rather than slate, and his eyes brighter, more inquisitive. Kiyoomi flicks his gaze between Osamu and his blond counterpart, mapping the similarities and differences. Atsumu – because this must be Atsumu; like Osamu had said, Kiyoomi had known him once he had seen him – is the slightest bit shorter, but he holds himself like he is used to taking up space. Everything about him seems more expressive – or maybe not expressive so much as it is open. Unguarded.

When meeting Osamu, Kiyoomi had been struck by the thought that he moved with ease and freedom. He doesn’t think he was wrong, exactly, but meeting Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi can suddenly appreciate the deftness and grace Osamu possesses.

Kiyoomi has always been bedecked in golds, from medals to Tachibana accent colours and detailing, but he much prefers shadows and silvers.

“Holy shit, ‘Samu,” Atsumu breathes, and Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “When the fuck did you make friends with Sakusa Kiyoomi?”

“Close your jaw, Atsumu,” Suna says dryly. “You look like the front gate when the drawbridge is lowered.”

“Yeah, you trying to catch flies or something?” Osamu asks, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, we met in the corridor.”

Suna arches an eyebrow at Osamu for that, but Kiyoomi thinks about the way Osamu sidestepped Atsumu’s accusation of friendship. He appreciates it, he thinks.

Atsumu does shut his mouth, but only to scowl at his brother and friend.

“Sakusa, these are the rest of the contingent of loudmouths I was telling you about,” Osamu says, ignoring his brother easily. “You already met Gin. The rest of this lot – ” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the general bustle of life around them, “ – are also part of it, but chances are, if there’s a racket going on, it’s because of my lot.”

“Yes, including you,” Suna says pointedly.

Osamu shrugs. “Ask anyone, I bet they’ll say I’m the quietest.”

Atsumu snorts. “What, less than Sir Skulks In Shadows over here?” he asks, jerking his head towards Suna. “Dream on.”

Kiyoomi thinks Osamu moves pretty quietly himself, considering how he had managed to approach Kiyoomi without being noticed until he spoke – granted, Kiyoomi had been involved with trying to read the plaque of the portrait, but being perceptive to peripheral actions whilst engaged with active stimuli is one of the most important skills of both a swordsman and a guard. He is impressed that Osamu managed it.

Absently, he realises he never did find out who Yumie was, only that it was the name supplied. He resolves to ask Osamu later.

“Sure, Suna moves quietly, but the whole castle knows that if you or Gin are causing chaos, there’s a ninety percent chance he’s the instigator,” Osamu points out. “If it’s my fault – and when is it ever my fault, anyway, when it comes to you? You’re the one that comes up with all the ridiculous ideas – then I’ll be right in the thick of it with you.”

It’s the way he says it, Kiyoomi thinks. It transcends any – well, most of it, anyway – judgement Kiyoomi may have had for his self-professed troublemaking, because there’s something so unshakeable about that statement. I’ll be right in the thick of it with you.

Kiyoomi does not break rules nor cause ruckuses, partially out of his own dignity but a large amount due to the responsibilities of his station. But the unrelenting loyalty of a statement like that speaks to him, and all that he cares about. He does not believe in doing anything halfway, and if he does anything, he will do it right.

Caring about people is no exception.

Kiyoomi’s loyalty may be limited in its direction, but it is vast in its capacity. He can respect that in others. Even boys with too much easy confidence, too much uncommon grace.

“You’ll never prove it,” Suna says.

Osamu huffs a laugh then. It’s a warm sound rolling through Kiyoomi, though less bright than his laugh in the corridor earlier.

Kiyoomi, briefly, wonders how many different laughs he has.

“Yeah, all right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Are you two just lounging around? Thought you were meant to be helping Gin today, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s face turns pale so quickly that Kiyoomi has to stifle a laugh, and Osamu rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Suna says sharply, frowning at Atsumu.

“I forgot,” Atsumu says, hanging his head. “You said sparring, and – ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Suna says. “I know how you get.” His voice sounds fond to Kiyoomi’s ears, though Kiyoomi acknowledges he does not know them well. Still, part of court life is learning to detangle different relationships from a whisper and at a glance. There’s no denying that these two are as thick as thieves, at the least.

“Besides, he let me go,” Atsumu grumbles.

At that, Suna whacks him upside the head. “You said you wanted to see and ran off!” Suna reminds him. “If I’d realised you were meant to be sticking with him, not just visiting, I wouldn’t have let you come with me, you idiot.”

Atsumu pouts. Kiyoomi glances at Osamu then; clocks the amusement writ into the set of his face, the subtle quirk of his lips and the crinkling around his eyes. Kiyoomi had been right, he thinks, to differentiate the display of emotions between the twins as being different levels of openness rather than expressiveness; looking at Osamu now, he’s plenty expressive. His movements are just explorations in subtlety, rather than the sweeping, blinding declarations of each of Atsumu’s expressions and emotions.

Osamu provides equal amounts of truth to his surroundings; you just have to pay closer attention.

“Let’s go,” Suna says, dismounting from the edge of the ring and looking at Atsumu pointedly.

Atsumu grumbles, but he gets down too. Suna shakes his head.

“It was good to meet you,” he says to Kiyoomi, then flicks his gaze to Osamu. “See you at dinner?”

Osamu nods. “Yeah, I promised I’d help – if you swing by early enough, you can probably choose your own flavours.”

“Excellent,” Suna says.

“See ya, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says, nodding at his brother. “You too, Sakusa.”

The two of them depart, and Kiyoomi watches them go. Their shoulders are knocking together, he observes. The area is somewhat crowded, but there’s certainly enough space to be able to walk together without physical contact. The two of them keep tangling up in each other, however – elbows jostling, hips checking, shoulders knocking. Like the tides coming back into shore. No matter what, they always come back to each other.

Kiyoomi glances back to Osamu, only to find him already looking at Kiyoomi.

“So,” Osamu says, the tiniest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Have I proven my point?”

He gestures around him, as if Kiyoomi could possibly have forgotten the reason for their excursion. To be entirely fair, he has gotten lost in his thoughts a few times during this, but that speaks more to the personalities of the people Osamu has introduced him to, he thinks, than it does to the forgettability of their original purpose.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but he nods. “Yes, I suppose I can understand why you would consider it loud,” he says.

The hint extends into a full blown smirk. “Is Tachibana like it?” he asks curiously.

“Loud?” Kiyoomi checks. Osamu nods. Kiyoomi hums thoughtfully, considering it. “Kind of,” he says. “Not so much in the grounds – our training yard is larger, but it’s generally only occupied by people actually using it. Usually the guard, or the princes, or visitors, but – ”

“Princes?” Osamu asks.

“Prince Aran has a younger brother,” Kiyoomi says. “After the marriage, he will be the heir to the Falconlands. There was talk about combining the kingdoms, but Prince Aran supported his brother’s right to hold the throne. Less of a logistical nightmare, too,” he adds.

“Does that mean you’re staying?” Osamu asks. Kiyoomi blinks, and Osamu hastens to add, “I mean – all of you. The retinue that came. Are you all going to stay here?”

Kiyoomi looks at his hands. “That’s the plan,” he says. Despite the opportunity he had given the guardsmen to leave the service if they felt unprepared to relocate entirely, there hasn’t been a lot of dialogue about the logistics yet.

Still, these members of the guard are sworn to Tachibana, true, but they are Ojiro Aran’s personal guard first and foremost. They have sworn to protect their prince, and that will hold true, no matter what colours he bears.

Osamu hums. He looks like there are still things he wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. Kiyoomi can’t decide if he appreciates it or not.

“Well,” Osamu says at last. “We should make sure you know your way around, then.”

Kiyoomi looks at him. Osamu smiles back.

It feels a little like that sunrise had, the day they first arrived at the castle.

It’s not the rest of his life yet, but it’s a start.

✧

“What have you been up to today?” Iizuna asks when Kiyoomi enters the room. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I bet that hot man from the kitchen he likes was taking him around the castle again,” Motoya calls out. He must be in his own chambers.

Sure enough, he pads out of the antechamber, coming up from behind Kiyoomi, who scowls at him.

“I have never described him that way,” Kiyoomi says. “That’s all you. You are projecting on me.”

Motoya rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure, Kiyoomi,” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s humouring him.

Kiyoomi cannot believe the disrespect he has to put up with. Disgraceful.

“Anyway, were you?” Iizuna interjects, probably sensing the potential for bickering brewing. Kiyoomi glances at him, and he elaborates. “Were you on a tour with the man from the kitchen?”

“His name is Osamu,” Kiyoomi says, already fed up with the unnecessary lengthiness of the description. Then he deflates. “And yes – only because we didn’t finish the Eastern Wing yesterday,” he defends, spotting the way Motoya’s eyes immediately start to gleam.

“Ooh, the Eastern Wing,” Motoya says, batting his eyelashes. “Sounds riveting.”

“It actually was quite interesting,” Kiyoomi offers. “It’s traditionally where the Kitas were installed, but half of it has been converted.”

“To what?” Iizuna asks, expression curious.

“Chambers for soft crafts,” Kiyoomi says. The other two look at him quizzically, and he nods. “I know, I was startled too, but apparently Kita-san has a great respect for traditional crafts, and he wants to encourage those who use them to develop and pass on their skills to younger generations. There were an awful lot of looms.”

“Looms,” Motoya repeats. “You spent the entire day looking at looms?”

Iizuna muffles a laugh. “Excuse me, I have a tickle in my throat,” he says, making his way to the other chamber. “I’ll get some water.”

“Some of the rooms have easels and other forms of art and creation,” Kiyoomi says, rolling his eyes at both of them – Motoya is a menace and Iizuna is not subtle. “And one is for rice storage.”

“So romantic,” Motoya comments sarcastically.

“Yeah, you should take Iizuna,” Kiyoomi snarks back. “I’ll give you directions.”

When Iizuna comes back, glass of water in hand, to find Kiyoomi dodging the pillows Motoya is throwing at him, he only sighs.

“I think I preferred when you were being guided by your Osamu,” he says.

I think I did too, Kiyoomi thinks, but instead of voicing that, he picks up one of the pillows and volleys it towards Iizuna.

“He’s not my anything,” he says.

Motoya and Iizuna exchange a look, but thankfully, do not say another word.

Kiyoomi decides he will take it.

⊹

“Oi, ‘Samu!”

Osamu has his arms buried in a mound of dough larger than his own torso, working it for the almond pastries his father promised Kita-san they would serve for dessert today, when he hears his brother’s voice.

“What?” he asks, not pausing in his task as he meets his brother’s eyes.

“Oh, is that for the meal tonight?” Atsumu asks with interest. “Is there something fancy happening tonight?”

“Think it’s the anniversary of the night the princes met,” Osamu explains. “There’s no end of desserts gettin’ prepared.”

“Hello Atsumu,” their father says, popping his head around the corner. “Thought I heard you. Osamu, how is the pastry coming?”

Osamu gestures towards the dough he’s working with a nod. “It’s almost as big as ‘Tsumu’s fat head,” he says, making his twin squawk.

Their father chuckles, shaking his head. “I have to go fetch some things from the smith – he’s been working on some golden filigree for our decorative toppings – but when I’m back, I can take over here, and Atsumu can drag you off wherever he’s clearly dying to take you.”

Before Osamu can assure his father that he’s fine, Atsumu lights up.

“Good! I wanna show ‘Samu the practice ring today,” he says, and their father gives him a nod and an indulgent smile before disappearing back around the corner, no doubt to go obtain his goods.

Osamu frowns at his brother. “What are you on?” he wants to know. “I’ve seen the practice ring, you idiot. I live here too. I’ve even seen it with some of the Tachibana folk, remember?”

There’s no way that Osamu could forget, after all. It had been that first day he’d really met Sakusa, finding him examining the painting of Kita-san’s beloved grandmother. He’d wanted to talk to him since he first saw him in the court that day the Tachibana retinue first arrived, and that day in the corridor and then practice ring was when that particular wish had come true. How could he ever forget that?

“Yeah, but your precious captain is training today,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes.

“He’s not my – ” Osamu begins, before pausing in his tracks. Sakusa is fighting today?

Atsumu laughs at the look on his face. “Thought that’d catch your attention. Rin’s gone ahead to save us good viewing spots,” he says smugly.

Osamu rolls his eyes. “You mean he’s splayed himself across the edge of the ring and is generally being a nuisance so nobody gets any smart ideas about trying their luck in his area,” he says wryly.

“Same difference,” Atsumu says with a shrug. “Ugh, how long do you think he’ll take at the smithy?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the spot where their father had spoken to them from before leaving.

“At least fifteen minutes,” Osamu judges. He digs his thumbs into the dough, making sure to massage and tug at its skin without overworking it. It’s a delicate art, one which Atsumu has never gotten the hang of, but Atsumu has never really had any interest in any kitchen activities beyond licking the bowl and stealing snacks.

“Ughhhhhh, that’s so long!” Atsumu complains. Osamu pulls one of his hands from the dough and flicks flour from the bench at his brother. “Hey!”

“You can make yourself useful instead of whinging, you fuckin’ brat,” Osamu points out, rolling his eyes. He starts shaping the dough into a long mound, stretching it out and rolling it against the bench. “Go melt me some cinnamon butter,” he commands.

Atsumu grumbles, but he swings his legs off the stool he has been perched on, and makes to do so.

“The full fire, or should I use some of the low wick candles?” he asks, looking over the collection of pewter dishes.

“Just use the full fire, it’ll be quicker, but only if you’re gonna pay attention – can’t use burnt butter. And you’ve gotta put on the thick gloves – I don’t care how tough you think you are, you’ll scald your stupid hands and then you won’t be able to do anything in the practice ring. Or race Rin and Gin,” Osamu says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu grumbles, but he dutifully reaches for the thick hide gloves after selecting a small pewter dish with high walls and long handlebars. He places it on the bench beside Osamu, and fetches the butter from the coldest area of the storeroom, the shadowed brick antechamber. He selects a sharp knife, and holds it up to Osamu to inspect. Once he has his brother’s approval, he begins dicing butter, dropping it into the dish as he goes.

“Cinnamon before, after, or during the melting?” he asks once he has all the butter diced and relocated.

“Do before. You’re not gonna be able to mix it in during with those handles,” Osamu says. Atsumu nods, grabbing the little bowl of cinnamon and dumping three teaspoons in. He raises an eyebrow at Osamu, who clicks his tongue but nods. “Yeah, yeah, good enough, go on then.”

Atsumu takes it over to the fire while Osamu continues his work, now cutting his pastry log into perfectly proportional sections. Baking is not Osamu’s favourite task – he likes that it’s so hands-on, but it’s much more precise than his own preferred cooking methods, and the end result is usually sweet. Osamu much prefers cooking savoury dishes. He likes the traditional fare of the Foxlands, rolling the rice their land produces between his fingers as he crafts it into something simple but delicious, though he has been very curious about what sort of traditional foods they have in the Falconlands. He imagines some will be served at the wedding reception, or possibly the nights preceding it as guests for the wedding begin to arrive, and he cannot wait to see what sort of foods they like.

“Here you go,” Atsumu says, carrying over his steaming dish full of melted butter. Osamu quickly fetches a slab of slate to put it down on, then a brush from the hanging wall.

“Thanks,” he says, dipping his brush into the steaming butter and swirling it quickly to mix in the cinnamon. He then starts brushing his sections of pastry quickly, staining them gold from the liquid butter, with speckles of cinnamon throughout.

“That smells pretty good, ‘Samu,” Atsumu comments.

Osamu grins at him. “They’ll be ready in about forty minutes,” he informs him. He finishes up his brushing, and places the brush back into the cooling pewter dish before scanning the bench. His eyes land on the pile of almonds he chopped earlier, and he drags the wooden board closer to his workspace. Osamu glances up at his brother to find him pouting, and swallows a laugh. “If you ask Riseki nicely, he could probably bring some down to the practice ring once they’re ready,” he points out, and Atsumu immediately lights up.

“Ooh, good plan,” he says, watching as Osamu arranges the almonds carefully on top of each section of pastry, then pushes them down gently. “Is that to make sure they stick?”

“Yeah,” Osamu says with a nod. “Nothing worse than almond pastries without the almonds, right?”

Atsumu nods back, so Osamu focuses on the next part of his task. He teases out the ends of each of his cut sections, rolling them between his fingers, then separating them again, and once more, until he has a circular disc of pastry topped with the almonds and three lines of pastry coming out on either side of it. He folds them on top of the round disc, and begins braiding the pastry ends until the final product is covered completely in a pastry blade, the cinnamon butter and almonds housed within. He reaches for the brush again and quickly spreads more cinnamon butter over the braid, then repeats the entire process for each of his pastry sections.

“All right,” he says, finally satisfied as he surveys his work.

“Excellent timing,” their father says, reappearing in the doorway. “I’ll put them in for you, Osamu, you two go to your practice ring.”

Osamu grins at his father, then makes to the sink to the left of the kitchen. Atsumu follows him without being told, carefully pouring a small amount of the water bucket beside the metal sink over Osamu’s hands, washing them clean of the melted butter and specks of flour. Osamu flips up his apron and dries his hands on the clean inside, before chucking it in the laundry pile.

“Can you send Riseki with some when they’re out?” Atsumu asks their father. “He’ll like watching them, I think. And I want some.”

He rolls his eyes at his sons, but he nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll send him. Go have fun.”

Atsumu grins, seizing Osamu by the hand, and pulls him out of the kitchen through the back door that leads out onto the grounds.

They drop hands a bit before the stables, pausing only to yell for Gin.

“Come to the ring when you’re free!” Atsumu shouts. “The Tachibana lot are pretty much all in the ring today!”

Gin yells back an excited agreement, and the twins resume their path. They arrive with panting breaths, Osamu skidding to a halt and Atsumu grabbing onto his shoulder for balance.

“You’re never gonna make your name in the ring until you work on your balance,” Osamu informs him as they weave their way through the crowd.

“Oh, fuck off,” Atsumu grumbles. “When the fuck am I gonna be sprinting in the ring with a fuckin’ sword?”

Osamu acknowledges this point with a thoughtful hum, still weaving between the crowds. He’s glad Atsumu came to get him, and that Rin went ahead – there are more people packed into the training yards than usual. The Tachibana retinue, of course, account for a lot of this, but there are more Inarizaki people around than usual. Probably here to catch the show.

“There he is,” Atsumu says, grabbing Osamu by the hand and tugging him to the stretch of the ring’s walls that Rin is, indeed, lounging across. He taps Rin on the shoulder, a little harder than would be socially acceptable to most, but Rin doesn’t even startle. He just casts an eye to them lazily, his lips glimmering with a slight smile.

“Took you two long enough,” he remarks, shifting in his position so the two of them can pull themselves onto the ring. Atsumu heaves himself up, but Osamu stays standing between them, hooking his elbows over the upper rung as he watches.

The two in the ring right now are grinning at each other. The atmosphere is electric, and Osamu cannot tell if it is because of these two specifically, or if the air would feel this charged between any two swordsmen of this calibre.

The shorter one has rounded eyebrows and laughing eyes. His footwork is steady, and he parries and counters with an ease that Osamu has never seen before. Even the Tachibana guards he had seen fighting that day he had watched with Sakusa had not been as skilled at defense as this. The other fighter – a little taller, with a more delicate bone structure and hair that looked green in the sunlight, which seems an all around unfortunate combination with the Tachibana colours to Osamu – is no slouch either, though he seems to be more comfortable on the offence than his opponent.

“How has it been going?” Atsumu asks Rin. Osamu glances up at his brother, and is amused to find him leaning so far forward into the ring that there is a genuine risk of him falling in, face-first.

Rin hums. “Interestingly,” he says. “These two have had the longest match-up so far. They seem to be pretty high-calibre, even for an overall skilled set of men such as Tachibana’s guard, at least from what I’ve gathered from the talk.”

Osamu snorts. If Rin says he heard something, Osamu is inclined to believe it to the point of being willing to put money on it. Gin calls him the Whisper of the West, and it’s hardly an inaccurate name.

“Take him down, Komori!” Osamu hears, and he glances over to find Hakuba from the other day. He’s standing one post over from where the three of them are stationed, but his voice carries, and he looks excited.

Beside him, a shorter man in the Tachibana uniform rolls his eyes. His hair is uncommonly long for a guard – almost shoulder length. It kind of looks like Suna’s, except light-coloured, and curving downward rather than extending out sideways.

“Press on, Iizuna!” he calls. “Break through his defence for team morale!”

The shorter man – Komori, Osamu presumes – makes a choking noise, like a laugh caught in his throat.

“How is defeating me good for team morale, Nozawa?” he demands, his eyes still trained on Iizuna. “My defence is used to defend our prince and the rest of the guard!”

Nozawa shrugs unrepentantly. “It’ll keep you humble,” he pitches. “And it’ll convince fledglings like Hakuba here that you’re not impossible to defeat.”

“He probably is to Hakuba at this point,” a familiar voice comments dryly, and Osamu’s breath hitches.

His gaze travels across the ring, settling on Sakusa Kiyoomi. There’s the slightest of smiles playing on his face, and it’s frankly unfair. His eyes are as sharp as ever, but this time they are focused on the fight in front of him. Osamu feels like he can read every shift of the duel in them, such is their expressiveness. Sakusa is wearing what must be his practice kit – a loose-ish white shirt beneath a leather jerkin, cut at the end into a V. It looks thin, probably for breathability, but it also speaks to his fighting style, Osamu thinks. He cannot imagine the Sakusa Kiyoomi that he met that first day to go into any form of battle without at least the barest of protections, but the thinness of the material suggests his skill.

He looks so pretty that Osamu forgets about the duel for a moment.

“Oh, that was a nasty one,” Atsumu says with a wince, snapping Osamu back to the action happening before him. Iizuna seems to have managed a light hit against Komori’s upper arm, cutting into the leather flap protecting his shoulder, but Komori is striking back when Osamu tunes back in, slicing against the leather guard Iizuna is wearing on his right shin.

“Better pay attention, lover boy,” Rin teases in a low tone, clearly having noticed Osamu’s moment of confusion before his brain made sense of the new state of battle. “Or else Atsumu will cut you in the shin.”

Osamu scoffs. He’s a little better at swordsmanship than Atsumu, actually – naturally a little more balanced, a little more deft in his movements. Atsumu loves it more, though. Atsumu loves it so much that Osamu has resigned himself to the fact that one day, Atsumu will walk out of these castle walls to try his luck in tourneys and find someone who will teach him, now that he has outgrown all the assistance the Inarizaki men could give him.

Though. Osamu’s eyes flit to Sakusa again, then back to Komori and Iizuna. He thinks of Hakuba and Onigashira too, and wonders if maybe this sudden influx of skilled swordsmen will be an opportunity Atsumu simply cannot walk away from.

“What swords are they using?” Osamu wonders aloud.

“Sabres,” Atsumu supplies. “Probably just for this practice, though. They’re not that useful in an actual battle because they’re mostly for slashing, so they aren’t very versatile, you know? I bet guards need versatile weapons.”

Osamu hums, then winces as he watches Komori slash at Iizuna’s other leg before rolling away from Iizuna’s answering strike.

“Motoya has always been good at reading the terrain,” a voice remarks, and Osamu turns his head to see Sakusa standing on the other side of Rin from him. Osamu’s eyes widen.

He looks up at Rin, having a silent yet fierce debate that ends in Rin rolling his eyes but shuffling over into the space that Osamu vacates, so that he is now sitting beside Atsumu, and Osamu can lean into Sakusa’s space. Osamu pulls himself up to sit on the edge, swinging his legs over so that they’re on the inside of the ring, right next to Sakusa.

“Motoya is… Komori?” he asks.

Sakusa nods. “Yes, he hails from the House of Komori,” he explains. The sense of familiarity on his voice throws Osamu for a moment – Sakusa doesn’t seem the type to use first names with ease, after all, just that he would if someone requested it, but he says Motoya with a familiarity that Osamu has never had with any but his three closest friends. Everyone else seems to call him Komori, though. Osamu puzzles over this for a moment. He is not jealous, Rin, shut up with that sidelong smirk, that would be ridiculous, but he does feel a little taken aback by it.

“He’s good,” Osamu says eventually. “You guys train together a lot?”

Sakusa throws him a look of amusement. “Motoya and myself, or the guard in general?”

“You and Komori, though I guess I want to know both,” Osamu clarifies.

“We all spend most of our time together,” Sakusa says after a moment. “The guards tend to live in the barracks back at Tachibana – it’s nicer than what you’re probably imagining,” he adds. “A few of us have actual chambers in the castle proper too, but the ‘barracks’ are really a series of large chambers with some private chambers amongst them, so we all tend to spend our time in that section of the castle regardless of other lodging.”

Osamu nods. The household staff all tend to live in the same area of the castle too – personal attendants tend to sleep in the same room as whoever they are attending, or the antechamber or corridor outside of their chambers, but the rest of them are in the same area of the castle. He has shared a bunk with Atsumu for as long as he can remember.

“And you and Komori?” he prompts.

Sakusa’s eyes go back to the battle. Osamu watches his face for a few moments more, marvelling at the line of his jaw and the straight line of his nose – seriously, how does someone with as renowned a reputation as Sakusa Kiyoomi in the art of swordsmanship have a face so utterly pristine? – before turning his face to focus on the battle too.

“It’s been the same, just for longer,” Sakusa says as Komori parries a particularly swift set of strikes from Iizuna. “Since we were six.”

Osamu’s eyes shoot up. That’s even longer than he’s known Rin and Gin. Twelve-year old Gin arrived with his father, a huge-chested stonemason, when he had been called in to rework parts of the castle’s boundary walls, and Gin had stayed after his father had requested a position for his son. It was not an uncommon occurrence; there are always many mouths to feed, and Ginjima-san’s wife had passed from an ailment two summers previous, so the man had adopted a travelling lifestyle to devote himself to his work. Kita-san had agreed with ease, and so Gin had come into the twins’ lives. His father comes to visit whenever he is in the area, which always delights his son, but for the most part, Gin is happy here, Osamu thinks.

Rin had been recommended to the castle by a marquis from the Woodlands when he was fifteen. When Kita-san had accepted him into his service, his family had changed their arrangements. His father had remained with the marquis, but his mother and younger sister had gone into the service of a young countess who spent half her time in the Woodlands with her husband, and half in the Foxlands with her family. Osamu has never seen Rin be as gentle with anyone as he is with his younger sister, but in fairness, it’s a fairly low bar.

He considers Gin and Rin almost as close to his heart as Atsumu himself, even if he’s known them less than half his life – it’s close for Gin, though. There’s not too long to go until he’s had Gin in his life for longer than he’s had without him. He resolves to remind Gin of that later. Gin has always been pretty sentimental, so his reaction ought to be amusing.

“Did you guys live in the same castle?” Osamu asks, trying to puzzle out how someone highborn could be in someone else’s pockets from a young age – he could be wrong, but he had thought that Komori was also a lord of some sort, or else he would have assumed he had been an attendant in Sakusa’s home. The only person he has known for as long as he can remember other than the rest of the household staff is Kita-san, so it would stand to reason that Sakusa may have known people in a similar way to how Kita-san has always known the twins.

“No, not at first,” Sakusa says. He tears his eyes away from Iizuna slashing a line into the base of the back of Komori’s jerkin, and rests them on Osamu.

Osamu turns to meet them.

“His house invited me to take swordsmanship lessons with him,” Sakusa explains. His expression is a little wry. “For years, his mother insisted it was because they didn’t want to send him off by himself, but he’s one of the most amiable people I have ever met. I am fairly certain they were taking pity on me.”

Osamu mulls that over. “Why the pity?” he asks. He quirks up an eyebrow. “Also, amiable?”

Sakusa grimaces. “Yes, to an appalling degree,” he remarks. “He’s always off making friends with people. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Kageyama, he’s originally from Kitaiichi – it’s one of Bluecastle’s offshoot palaces – but he’s part of Karasuno’s court now?” Osamu shakes his head, and Sakusa continues. “He is very talented with a sword, but he avoids most social situations like the plague. Motoya still managed to make friends with him.”

Osamu frowns. Talented with a sword… Dimly, he recalls his brother mentioning someone from Karasuno.

“Tobio-kun?” he questions, and Sakusa looks at him in surprise.

“I thought you didn’t know him,” he says.

“I don’t,” Osamu says, shaking his head. “Remember how I said ‘Tsumu pays attention to the tournaments and all? I remember him going on about some Tobio-kun a while back.” He frowns. “I thought he was a prince, though.” He remembers Kita-san telling Atsumu off for talking so dramatically about the younger man, calling him the King and whatnot.

Sakusa grimaces. “That is a complicated matter,” he says. “There have long been rumours about the Crown Prince being set aside for Kageyama – the laws of those lands are ridiculously convoluted, honestly, and it’s a genuine miracle that there hasn’t been a legally supported coup d’état with how they’ve set themselves up – but I doubt it will ever happen. I doubt even more that Kageyama would want that.”

Osamu has never wanted to be a noble, really – sure, Kita-san can afford to have anything he wants, but even with parents as accommodating as his, he’s never seemed as free to Osamu as Osamu feels when he’s racing against Gin on horseback, or sparring in the practice ring with Atsumu, or stealing refreshments from the banquet tables with Rin – but hearing stuff like that makes him all the more thankful that he isn’t one.

Sure, he has to work every day. But at least he gets to choose who he wants to be, and nobody else would ever care enough about it to gossip. Besides Rin, anyway, but that doesn’t really count. Rin could probably gossip about a hammer if the fancy took him. Osamu thinks that if Inarizaki ever wants a spymaster, at least they’ll never have to scour the lands for one. They’ve already got Suna Rintarou, the best person in the world at ferreting out personal information, housed within their walls.

“That sounds like a mess,” Osamu says frankly, and Sakusa huffs. It sounds a little amused. Osamu suddenly wonders if he can make Sakusa laugh.

He’s struck by how badly he wants to try.

It’s not an entirely new impulse – when he’d first run into Sakusa in the corridor that day, he’d been trying to charm him, at least a little. He knows himself well enough to admit that – and even if he didn’t, the other three would have bullied him into doing so, especially Rin – and he’s not ashamed of it either.

Sakusa is interesting and handsome; Osamu has known that from the outset. He is also clever, difficult to impress through the same methods people are usually impressed with Osamu, and extremely expressive, particularly when discontent.

It probably says something about Osamu that he thinks he likes him even better now.

“Crowns and kingdoms tend to be,” Sakusa says, and Osamu looks at him. He can tell that Rin has been listening to every word they’ve exchanged, even if Atsumu is still utterly focused on the sparring match, but to his credit, he is giving no outward indication of having done so.

There is a sudden cheering, and Osamu glances up to find the match over, Iizuna and Komori bowing to each other.

He has absolutely no idea who won.

“Lay your critiques upon us, Kiyoomi,” Komori calls out, walking over to Osamu and Sakusa.

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t have let him get behind you,” he reprimands.

Komori grins. “Yeah, I know,” he says agreeably. “Anything about the last stretch?”

“I wasn’t watching,” Sakusa says automatically, as if on instinct, before his brow creases.

Komori’s eyebrows shoot up, and he casts Osamu a curious look. “Oh? Distracted, were we?” he teases.

“I’ve seen you fight many times,” Sakusa says flatly. “Perhaps it doesn’t hold much interest for me.”

“Mmm,” Komori says, eyes twinkling. He looks like he wants to say more, but he refrains. “Are you going to show off for us, then?”

Sakusa looks contemplative, but Atsumu, clearly hearing, leans over Rin, ignoring his sound of protest.

“You should,” he says. “It’s how I got ‘Samu to come out – I told him you were training today.”

Osamu glares daggers at his brother as he feels Komori and Sakusa’s gazes both drop to rest on his face. To his left, Rin snorts.

“Yeah, Kiyoomi, you can’t disappoint your new friend,” Komori teases, but his tone is good-natured. It reminds Osamu of Prince Aran, just a little, and it makes him smile. “What were you two even talking about anyway?”

“Kageyama,” Sakusa says brusquely.

Komori looks quizzical. “How on earth did he come up? Do you guys know him?” he asks.

Osamu shakes his head. “Well, ‘Tsumu knows of him, but I’ve never met him,” he replies. “I hear you’re friends, though?”

“Yeah, he’s a good kid,” Komori says. “Kiyoomi’s friends with him too, he just won’t admit it because Kageyama called him normal when they first met.”

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Stop deciding my friendships for me,” Sakusa admonishes. “Anyway, that wasn’t the issue. He’s worse at talking to people than I am. What would we even do together, sit in silence? No, thank you.”

“That’s just because you choose not to,” Komori says easily. “The poor kid actually can’t, and he was stuck with Hoshiumi for three days straight. Maybe he’d enjoy some shared silence.”

Sakusa tchs at him.

“Anyway, you should really take a turn,” Komori says, changing track. “Most of us have gone by now, so it’s only fitting that our captain takes the stage.”

“Against who?” Sakusa asks. “You and Iizuna have tired yourselves out against each other.”

“We could team up,” a new voice suggests, and Osamu looks away from Sakusa to find Iizuna standing there. The newcomer grins at Komori. “We’re meant to be allies, are we not?”

“Excellent idea,” Komori says brightly, before training his eyes onto Sakusa. “What say you, cousin?”

Cousin?

Sakusa notices Osamu’s expression shift, and nods. “Yes, Motoya is my cousin,” he confirms. “That’s how his family knew me, to invite me – we had only met a handful of times, but they knew me enough to request my presence.”

Osamu remembers what Sakusa had said about pity, and resolves to ask him about it later. It seems unkind to chase after such a word when they’re surrounded by others.

He nods, accepting Sakusa’s explanation. He pays no regard to the slight loosening in his chest at the words, because he has no interest in unravelling the meaning behind that right now.

“Two on one seems tricky,” he says instead. He looks evenly at Sakusa – an unvoiced challenge of sorts.

Sakusa’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly – a slight crease to his brow, a flash across his eyes, a tightening of his jaw – as he considers this. Then it all clears.

Komori, whose eyes were on Sakusa the entire time too and are clearly practiced in deciphering his shifts in expression, grins. “That’s settled then,” he says, clapping his cousin on the shoulder. “Sabres or weapon of choice?”

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “You just want to use a halberd,” he accuses.

Komori’s grin widens.

Watching them reminds Osamu of himself and Atsumu, though still a little more civil. He’s not sure if he should put that down to their different statuses and upbringings, or if Atsumu is just way more annoying than anything the other two have had to deal with because of each other.

Probably both.

“How about we use quarterstaffs?” Iizuna suggests. “Then we don’t have to replace our kits to track the cuts.”

Sakusa and Komori meet each other’s eyes, then nod in unison.

“By eye, by referee, or oil marker?” Sakusa asks. He unbuckles his sword belt, then looks around.

“You can leave it here,” Osamu says, patting the stretch of wood between Rin and himself. “I’ll look after it for you, promise,” he says, winking.

Sakusa stills for a moment, then rolls his eyes at Osamu, but drapes it over the proffered wood. Behind him, Komori’s eyebrows are shooting up, and even Iizuna looks amused, although Osamu is not sure why.

The rest of the yard must have been paying attention to their conversation, because Kosaku, one of the armoury attendants, wheels out the rack of quarterstaffs into the centre of the ring. Osamu watches as the three Tachibana men approach it, scrutinising each of the options.

Iizuna opts for a mid-length quarterstaff, darker in colour than the rest. He spins it in a circle, using both his wrists to enable both speed and balance, and looks at it appraisingly. He nods finally, then glances over to the other two.

Komori has ended up with one roughly the same length as Iizuna’s, but lighter in colour, more a golden brown. It looks thicker, which means it’s likely a little more difficult to wield, but stronger for it.

Sakusa is examining all of the options carefully, before finally selecting one from the end of the rack. It’s by far the tallest of the three men’s options – Osamu thinks it’s probably taller than Hakuba. It’s more lithe than both of the other two choices, and Osamu wonders how he’s going to counter their heft.

“Eye, referee, or oil marker?” Sakusa repeats.

Komori shrugs. Iizuna looks around. “O, Washio!” he calls, catching the attention of a tall man clad in white. There is a ribbon of Tachibana red pinned to his chest, but also a dual-toned one of black and gold beside it. Osamu does not recognise it, but beside him, Rin sucks in a breath.

“Fukurodani,” he murmurs.

“What? Like Bokuto?” Atsumu asks from the other side of Rin. He sets his full attention onto Washio. “He’s very tall. Not as broad as Bokuto, though.”

Technically, he should be calling him Prince Koutarou or Bokuto-san, Osamu thinks, but Kita-san isn’t here to scold him; nor are Oomimi-san or Kurosu-san, for that matter. Still, they might let him away with it. In Atsumu’s defence, Prince Koutarou of the House of Bokuto is so famed throughout the kingdoms that participate in tournaments that most forget to call him by his official title, instead falling to what is commonly cheered for at events: Bokuto. He is the star of Fukurodani’s notably impressive academy of swordsmanship, and is probably more famed for his impressive skill and boisterous attitude than he is for his position as prince of the Owlands. He is not heir apparent, though; the Owlands permit female heirs, and he has two older sisters.

As far as princes go, Bokuto Koutarou has always struck Osamu as a remarkably free one.

“You are very preoccupied with the size of Bokuto Koutarou’s chest,” Rin remarks casually.

Atsumu scowls at him. “He has an impressive physique!” Atsumu argues. “Not many people can give Sakusa Kiyoomi a run for his money when bearing a greatsword, after all,” he mutters.

Osamu’s ears perk up at Sakusa’s name.

“True,” Rin allows. “Still, it’s more impressive that Sakusa managed to win that fight with a rapier and no major injury, is it not?”

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t known that Sakusa had taken on Bokuto – perhaps he should listen to Atsumu more often.

“Yeah,” Atsumu allows. “Would have been a different situation in actual combat, though.”

Rin snorts.

“Okay, Washio here shall be our referee,” Iizuna announces, drawing everyone’s attention back to the three men in the centre of the practice ring. Kosaku has wheeled away the rack, leaving just the three of them in the ring, and all eyes on them.

They take up fighting stances, the three of them almost an equal distance apart from each other. Komori and Iizuna are slightly closer together, likely to account for the fact that they are allies in this training. All of them are standing with their right foot first, their quarterstaffs drawn back.

“You may begin,” Washio says, his voice gravelly and commanding, and immediately the three surge into action.

Iizuna strikes first, stepping forward as Komori steps to the side, moving around Sakusa. Iizuna’s staff swings down—

THWACK!

Sakusa parries it with ease, his feet nimbly crossing over each other as he executes a tricky quickstep motion and ends up on the other side of Iizuna. Osamu assumes he will take advantage of his new positioning to strike at Iizuna. Then Sakusa flicks his wrist and hits Komori on the shoulder with the head of his staff.

Osamu blinks. How on earth…? By all rights of angles, Sakusa should have hit the ground to Komori’s left, not managed to twist around to hit his shoulder.

But unlike Osamu, Komori and Iizuna do not seem surprised by Sakusa Kiyoomi’s unreasonable defiance of physics, and immediately step back into motion. Iizuna goes left; Komori goes right. Sakusa slides between them, spinning his quarterstaff the entire time.

Washio calls out commentary, like Komori – upper left and Sakusa – right outer thigh, lightly glancing. The poles are whirling so fast that Osamu can barely keep up, his eyes a blur of wood and white, the sounds of footsteps thundering in his ears.

The crowd behind him sounds bigger. He refuses to tear his eyes away from the battle to check.

“They’re really good,” Osamu says, a little awed.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, sounding excited. “I mean, they’re Tachibana, so obviously, but – fuck, it’s cool to see, isn’t it?”

It really is.

“Are we fighting or dancing?” Iizuna calls, and Komori laughs.

“Maybe I should tell your parents about this comparison, Kiyoomi,” he teases. “They’ll finally get you onto the ballroom floor if they let you hold your sword.”

“At least a quarterstaff wouldn’t almost drop Princess Alisa because her brother is unreasonably noisy,” Sakusa shoots back, and Komori makes an injured noise as he ducks below the swing of the quarterstaff Sakusa aims at his head.

“Come on!” he complains. “Princess Alisa is taller than me, and I was fourteen! Besides, Haiba is extremely distracting, you know that.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Sakusa retorts, aiming a whack at Iizuna’s shin. He jumps back just in time, but his landing is shaky. Osamu watches, fascinated, as Sakusa’s eyes narrow sharply. There’s something dangerous in them, a little like a falcon honing in on his prey.

Osamu licks his lips.

There is one single, breathless moment of clarity. Everything around Osamu stills. All he can hear is his own heartbeat as he meets Sakusa’s eyes across the ring. Sakusa is not looking at him, not really, he’s just flicking his gaze from Iizuna to Komori for a moment, as if judging how quickly Komori will be able to cross the distance between them, but Osamu thinks there is a spark of recognition in his eyes regardless.

It does not matter either way. Osamu is struck by the way Sakusa looks in this moment: those regal features sharp and calculating, like anyone gets in a fight; the specks of dust in his curls, undoubtedly a consequence of the high speed footwork of three skilled swordsmen, but looking from a distance like snowfall, if snow was sandy in colour; the thin line of sweat trailing down his face, falling over the jut of his high cheekbones like a creek dreaming of being a waterfall; the determination in his eyes, alight in a way Osamu has not had the privilege to observe yet; and the air of breathlessness to him, like he’s a hair’s breadth away from a laugh.

Like he’s having fun.

And then everything begins again, a maelstrom of speed and focus and unflinching skill, and Osamu, transfixed, watches.

“Iizuna, left torso!” Washio calls out. “Second strike.”

Iizuna curses, and steps back.

“There’s no way anyone is staying upright after two of those,” he says wryly, to which Komori shrugs.

“I shall avenge you,” he says, then glances warily up at Sakusa. “Or at least give him some hell before joining you in the infirmary, or whatever. Is this to the death?” he asks, raising his voice for the question to catch Sakusa’s attention.

“In what world would we be using quarterstaffs to the death?” Sakusa demands, aiming a blow at Komori’s foot. He moves it quickly out of the way, the pole making a hard oof noise as it pounds into the sand.

“They could be halberd stand-ins,” Komori says, jabbing at Sakusa’s thighs. Sakusa evades, then frowns.

“Then we would have been stabbing each other,” Sakusa points out. “Or only using the axe-end.”

Komori shrugs, then smacks his quarterstaff down on the back of Sakusa’s right calf.

“Sakusa, right calf,” Washio intones. “Blood flow eminent.”

Sakusa tchs, and glares at his cousin.

“You just wanted to distract me,” he says.

“Yep,” Komori says. “It’s not even playing dirty – I’ve got other fodder for that.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes, then suddenly steps back. He spins his quarterstaff, whirling it so quickly that it looks like a shield, and Komori groans.

“Not this again,” he mutters, but he moves forward gamely. He keeps his eyes on it, as if looking for a break in the speed. Then –

His quarterstaff catches Sakusa’s, stopping its spin, but before he can gloat or leverage his staff against Sakusa, his cousin executes some particularly difficult footwork to follow and ends up on his right – the side of Komori’s quarterstaff that stopped Sakusa’s – and flicks his wrist suddenly, driving the quarterstaff down and smacking hard against Komori’s left arm.

Komori cries out, and to his credit, he does not drop his quarterstaff, but his knees buckle a little under the impact. Sakusa is quick to plant his foot on Komori’s thigh and push, and suddenly Komori is kneeling on the ground.

“Yield?” Washio asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I yield,” Komori says, but he’s grinning breathlessly. “Got him back for you, Tsukasa-kun,” he calls behind him.

“My hero,” Iizuna says wryly, stepping forward to help Komori up. Komori seizes the proffered arm, and, the pair of them planting their hands on each other’s biceps, pulls himself up.

“Sakusa is the winner,” Washio announces.

The sound of cheering surrounds Osamu, until it suddenly quietens.

Osamu glances up at the same time that Sakusa does.

“Well, well, well,” Rin murmurs from beside him.

Prince Aran stands there, surveying his men with amusement.

“Having fun?” he asks.

“I liked the part where I got Kiyoomi in the calf,” Komori informs him cheerfully.

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “I enjoyed the part where I beat you both,” he retorts, then looks at his prince. “Do you have need of us?” he asks, then his gaze travels to the scabbard held in the prince’s fancy sword belt. “Or were you hoping to practice too?”

“Ah, I just came to see what all the fuss was about,” Prince Aran explains. “I don’t know about practicing…”

“I would like to see it,” Kita-san says, appearing from behind his betrothed.

Prince Aran looks at him in askance, and Kita-san shrugs. “Like I said, I have taken some interest in the art of swordsmanship since meeting you,” he says lightly. His cheeks go slightly pink at the admission, but then he catches sight of Osamu, Rin and Atsumu, and his expression turns amused. “Besides, as you may recall my mentioning, a few members of my court and household have long held an interest in such matters. I would not deprive them of observing the skill of their future King… and his head of guard, I hope?” He redirects his gaze to Sakusa at that.

Sakusa bows lightly. “I am always at my prince’s service,” he says.

“Are you allowed to beat the prince?” Atsumu asks suddenly. Rin looks like he’s torn between swatting him upside the head and laughing, and manages a stifled smirk instead.

Luckily, Prince Aran simply laughs. “Oh, he is, trust me,” he says wryly. “And he has done so on many occasions.”

“Not without significant effort,” Sakusa says, before flicking a glance to Atsumu. “I suppose you might not be aware of this if you haven’t seen the prince duel in person, because he is so rarely permitted to enter the tourneys, but he is a very good swordsman. His skill is akin to that of Prince Koutarou.”

Atsumu’s eyes go wide, but he tilts his head, as if unsure whether or not to believe it. Rin’s expression is thoughtful.

Sakusa scoffs. “Well, you’ll see,” he says, before turning back to the prince. “Blades or bokken?”

Prince Aran glances at Kita-san. Whatever he finds in his face seems to satisfy him, because he nods once, then turns back to Sakusa.

“The audience has already seen your skill with the quarterstaff, my friend,” he says, smiling slightly. “Let’s show them why your reputation with a blade precedes you.”

Sakusa clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes at the prince, but he looks a little amused. It’s an interesting expression. Fond, but displeased about it.

Osamu wants to see him make it again.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Sakusa says, bowing lightly. Prince Aran bows back, and Sakusa clicks his tongue again. He shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. Prince Aran looks pleased with himself, and Osamu swallows a laugh.

Iizuna and Komori are at the side of the ring now, not too far from where Osamu is stationed, and Prince Aran vaults himself over the stretch of ring beside them.

“Gentlemen,” he says in greeting.

“That’s a generous term,” Sakusa says, snorting. He walks past them, dodging Komori’s halfhearted kick, to arrive at Osamu’s side.

“Hi,” Osamu says, smiling a little.

Sakusa raises an eyebrow, but his cheeks look a little pink. Osamu chooses to believe it’s not entirely from exertion.

“Hi,” Sakusa says dryly. “May I have my sword belt?”

“Oh, right,” Osamu says. Sakusa looks incredulous for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. Osamu lifts the belt gently, careful not to let the blade slide out of its scabbard, when Kita-san catches sight of them.

“Is that a tradition for luck?” he asks Prince Aran curiously, having come up to the edge of the ring. As one, Osamu and Sakusa pause, glancing at Kita-san. “Having someone fasten your belt for you? I knew of traditional favours being tied around one’s arm, but I hadn’t heard of that one.”

Osamu is fairly sure the tips of his ears are burning. In front of him, Sakusa looks completely taken aback, but there’s a slight flush building in his cheeks.

Pretty, Osamu thinks.

Prince Aran looks caught between laughter and mischief, and Sakusa narrows his eyes at him. If anything, that seems to make the prince look even more amused.

“Not traditionally, but I imagine we will be making many traditions together, my prince,” Prince Aran says to Kita-san, capturing his hand from over the barrier of the practice ring, and lifting it to his mouth to press a gentle kiss to it. “Why not start now?”

Kita-san’s eyes shine, and not for the first time, Osamu finds himself grateful that his prince has found someone who so clearly makes him happy.

That feeling quickly fades when the pair of them turn their eyes onto him and Sakusa.

“Thank you for inspiring this first tradition of our lives together,” Prince Aran says, amusement pressed into the lines of his mouth.

“It would only be fitting for you to carry it out alongside us,” Kita-san continues, smooth as silk. Osamu takes back every good thought and feeling he has ever had about him.

“We wouldn’t want to intrude on this special moment,” Sakusa says stiffly. His posture is impeccable, the paragon of respect, but when Osamu glances at his expression, he catches his eyes glaring daggers at Prince Aran.

Osamu swallows a laugh. Now is not the time to be amused by the prettiest person you’ve ever met’s ability to scowl, Osamu, he scolds himself.

“No, please, Kiyoomi-kun, we insist,” Prince Aran says, placing his hand – and Kita-san’s, still clasped in his – on his heart. “Ours is to be a life shared with those we care for, is it not?”

“It is,” Kita-san agrees solemnly. Osamu has known him his entire life, however, and he detects a glint of mischief in his eyes. He resists the urge to bury his head in his hands and groan. Beside him, he can feel the amusement radiating off of Rin. He doesn’t even dare look at Atsumu. If he sees that stupid smirk right now, he won’t be responsible for what he does next. “And what a symbol of the union of our lives – my dear friend, and Aran’s.”

Part of Osamu is melting a little at Kita-san’s designation of him as a dear friend, because he knows many royals would never deign to admit such a feeling of kinship with their household workers. More of him, however, is caught at how utterly cornered he and Sakusa are.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sakusa mutters under his breath.

“Please don’t,” Osamu whispers back. “I’m good with picking locks, but I have a feeling that treason and regicide might merit security levels beyond even my skills.”

For a second, Sakusa looks like he’s fighting off a laugh, and Osamu’s heart soars. When Sakusa next speaks, he isn’t laughing, but there’s still a trace of that lightness around the lines of his mouth. Osamu will take it.

“Sorry about this,” Sakusa sighs, then he looks back up at the princes.

“It would be our honour to join you in introducing this tradition, Your Highnesses,” Sakusa says.

Kita-san smiles, a brilliant thing, and Prince Aran grins at Sakusa, before taking off his sword belt quickly. He hands it over to Kita-san.

Meanwhile, Komori and Iizuna are grinning brightly at Osamu and Sakusa.

“Ignore them,” Sakusa mutters. “Do you know how to do this?” He inclines his head towards the sword belt in Osamu’s hands.

Osamu shrugs. “Kind of – you might need to walk me through the fastening if it’s anything fancy, but I’ve helped Rin with kitting up Kita-san for fancy things before, so it should be okay.”

Sakusa nods, a short thing, and scowls at his cousin and friend before turning his gaze back to Osamu.

“I know I’m taller than you, but you might still struggle to get it around my hips from up there,” Sakusa murmurs.

“Oh, right,” Osamu mutters, flushing a little. He hops down from his perch on the ring, landing with care. He is pleased to note that the sword does not fall out of the scabbard, nor does the scabbard detach from where it’s hanging off the belt.

“Well done,” Rin says in an undertone. “Step one achieved with no injury. Now to do the actual task.”

Osamu throws him a quick glare, and he hears Atsumu snorting, but he turns back to face Sakusa. As he does, Sakusa’s earlier words float into the forefront of his mind.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for, you know,” he says as he scans Sakusa’s body to figure out the angle to hang the belt at. He moves forward awkwardly, pressing in a little, to wrap his arms around him to grab a hold of the other end of the belt with his free hand. “Wow, this is way less efficient than doing it yourself,” he remarks, stepping back now that he has it looped around Sakusa’s back. He realises that in this position, he could pull Sakusa closer easily.

He resists the impulse.

“Yes, this is destined to be a terrible tradition,” Sakusa mutters. “Any tournaments held at Inarizaki will be cursed to start ten minutes after their projected start time to account for this behaviour.”

Osamu huffs a laugh, glancing up at Sakusa as he does so. Sakusa’s eyes widen slightly, but there’s something soft about the set of his lips. It’s suddenly a little hard to hold his gaze, so Osamu glances sideways, and spots Kita-san fixing Prince Aran’s sword belt through the gap between the rungs of the practice ring boundaries.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Osamu says, snorting, and Sakusa’s gaze travels to rest on the pair.

“I suppose they’re enjoying themselves, at least,” Sakusa says, sighing.

“Hey, don’t look so down,” Osamu says. “I’m enjoying myself too.”

Sakusa lets out a choked noise, and Osamu can hear Rin go holy shit as Atsumu snorts. Osamu steadily does not look at either of them, instead forcing himself to look up at Sakusa and give him an easy grin.

Sakusa looks vaguely strangled.

Osamu looks back down at what he’s doing with his hands, and readjusts where the sword is hanging. Satisfied with the location, he tugs the two ends of the belt together and closes the fastening.

“There you go,” Osamu says, his hand instinctively going to clap Sakusa on the hip before he stops himself halfway and, instead, awkwardly pats the pommel.

He doesn’t need to look at Atsumu and Suna to know that they’re laughing at him.

Sakusa stares at him for a few moments longer until Prince Aran calls his name.

“Good luck,” Osamu offers.

“I don’t believe in luck,” Sakusa says automatically, before grimacing a little. “I mean – thank you.”

Osamu nods, watching as Sakusa walks over to his cousin and friend, accepting a dagger from Iizuna. The three of them then start whispering furiously at each other – though only Sakusa looks remotely displeased about their topic of conversation; Komori looks like he’s having the time of his life, and Iizuna is openly smiling at Sakusa – before Sakusa finally gives them one final glorious scowl and heads to the centre of the ring where Prince Aran is waiting. The prince is now wearing a leather jerkin on top of his doublet, which makes Osamu wonder what kind of swords they’re using, but mostly makes him give Kita-san further credit for his taste – his beloved is pulling the look off pretty damned well.

“Your Highness,” Sakusa says, bowing.

“Your Champion-ness,” Prince Aran says in return, also bowing. Sakusa just makes a tch noise, like he’s used to this and it just brings a well-worn sense of fond exasperation, but Kita-san smiles in delight.

“You may draw your swords,” Iizuna announces. The pair obey the instruction.

Prince Aran’s sword is unquestionably more ornate. It looks like there’s more heft to it, and the pommel and rein-guard are both gilded in gold, with a deep red tassel. The blade is a little wider than Sakusa’s too, more like a two-handed sword, and it is also tinted gold.

Sakusa’s, in contrast, is thin with a wickedly sharp point. The hilt is significantly more intricate, with a wide guard and long-reaching quillon, curling around Sakusa’s hand as it, in turn, curls around the sword’s grip.

“You mean he uses a rapier during normal combat too?” Atsumu asks, incredulous.

“Not always,” Hakuba says, overhearing. He comes up from behind them, Riseki of all people at his side. “He likes cut and thrust swords too, and he has a few longswords and sideswords, but yeah, he tends to favour weapons made for speed and agility.”

He plops an almond pastry in his mouth, and Atsumu looks at Riseki in betrayal.

“Whatcha giving them out for?” he complains. “I thought I was meant to get one!”

“I couldn’t find you!” Riseki defends. “There are so many people here… Anyway, your father gave me half the batch, I’ve got some for you three too, here…”

Once Atsumu’s greed has been satisfied – okay, sure, two is still less than Osamu’s four, but Osamu made them; besides, he may or may not be holding onto one in case Sakusa is peckish after all his sparring – he turns back to Hakuba’s statement.

“Rapiers aren’t as good for parrying as most, though,” he points out. “Unless he’s fighting against people with rapiers a lot, isn’t that a disadvantage?”

“You may begin!” Komori calls, drawing all their attention back to the centre of the ring.

Hakuba’s smirk can be heard in his voice. “If you think that’s a disadvantage to someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi, well… you’ll see.”

And see they do.

It starts slow, the two men circling each other with a casual, easy grace. It almost looks like a dance, Osamu thinks – two stars in orbit, spinning around the heavens. It speeds up quickly, though, and suddenly they are lunging at each other, their blades whirling in clashes of silver and gold.

At one point, Sakusa rolls between Prince Aran’s legs, and Atsumu’s gasp is loud enough that it hides the sound of Osamu’s breath hitching. Prince Aran is quick to recover, however, pivoting on his left foot and striking down with his sword. Sakusa manages to lift his dagger in time, parrying the blow, then twists the dagger, flicking away Prince Aran’s sword tip. He slashes at Prince Aran’s breeches, then rolls away.

“Thigh cut!” Iizuna calls.

“Is he okay?” Riseki asks, concerned.

Hakuba laughs. “Yeah, it’s sparring,” he says. “They’re very good at what they do – neither of them would cut the skin, even in the chaos of the ring. Sakusa-san will have just sliced through the fabric of the prince’s breeches, that’s all.”

In the centre of the ring now, Sakusa is thrusting his rapier forward, and he manages to stab a point into Prince Aran’s jerkin. Prince Aran retaliates by hitting him in the forearm with the flat of his blade, and Sakusa staggers back for a moment, before regaining his balance and darting back a step further.

“Right forearm on Sakusa! Chest stab for the prince!” Iizuna calls.

“That was some aim, Kiyoomi,” Komori comments, and Osamu squints at the duelling pair, as if he can decipher Komori’s words from that alone.

Luckily for him, the princes help him out. “I’ll say,” he says, looking at the head of his guard with an impressed expression.

“Where did he get you?” Kita-san, asks curiously.

Prince Aran shifts to show his jerkin more clearly. He points at the falcon embossed into the right side of his chest. Osamu hadn’t even noticed it from this distance; he marvels at Sakusa’s aim.

“He stabbed it in the eye,” Prince Aran says, and Osamu blinks.

“What the fuck?” Atsumu whispers, echoing the exact sentiment Osamu is thinking.

“Your Highness,” Sakusa says, and Osamu blinks. Sakusa is standing behind the prince, his rapier pointing at the small of Prince Aran’s back, just below where the jerkin ends. “You shouldn’t turn your back on an opponent,” he remarks dryly.

Prince Aran grins. “Sometimes your opponent is just so impressive that you have to take a moment to marvel at their precision as you bleed to death,” he says lightly.

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Hopefully not,” he says. “Ideally, my job is to stop that outcome.”

“And I thank you for your service,” Kita-san says. There is a wry smile on his face. “I, too, would like him to avoid such a fate.”

“Look, Motoya,” Sakusa says, turning to his cousin. “Now I have an ally in intent too.”

Komori scrunches up his nose. “I’m your ally in that intent too!” he protests. Sakusa shrugs, and Prince Aran laughs.

“Do you yield, Your Highness?” Iizuna asks.

Prince Aran nods, his laughter fading into a smile. “Yes, I don’t think there’s any defeating the man who managed to blind my poor falcon,” he says teasingly, before his tone shifts, sincerity staining it. “I only hope I did not embarrass myself in my efforts.”

Sakusa makes a rude noise as he sheathes his rapier. Osamu is not surprised he’s capable of such a thing, but he can’t say he expected to hear it used against the prince.

“Of course you didn’t,” he says impatiently. “As I said, you’re one of the most skilled swordsmen I have ever had the opportunity to ring blades with.”

“Yeah, you were great, Your Highness,” Hakuba calls out. “You managed to get a hit on him, for one, and it’s pretty rare to get him beneath you!”

“Yeah,” Komori says in agreement. “Also, bonus points for getting him to roll on the ground. I love it when he gets dirty. Then I get to give him grief for his presentability and inability to wear his uniform correctly.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes at him, but Prince Aran chuckles.

“The both of us, I’m afraid,” he says wryly, looking at the state of his breeches.

“Yes, but Motoya-kun is too polite to tell you off,” Iizuna says.

Sakusa immediately snorts. “You are the only person in the entire world who has ever suggested my cousin has manners, Iizuna,” he says dryly. He turns to Prince Aran, ignoring Komori’s sputtering behind him, and bows. “Well met, my prince.”

“Well met, my friend,” the prince replies, bowing in return. Upon rising, he grins, and holds out his arm. Sakusa returns the gesture, and they clasp each other’s wrists for a long moment, before releasing. Prince Aran walks towards Kita-san, and Sakusa leans down to pick up the dagger he dropped when the prince yielded. He takes it over to Iizuna and Komori, passing it to Iizuna, before rolling his eyes at something Komori says.

Then he walks back over to Osamu.

“Is taking it off also part of the tradition?” Osamu asks, and Sakusa makes a face.

“I hope not,” he says, and immediately unfastens his sword belt before either of the princes can get any ideas. He hangs it over the wood beside Osamu again, then nods in greeting to Hakuba, Riseki, Rin and Atsumu.

“Do you believe me about the prince’s skill now?” he asks Atsumu archly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes, far too giddy from the adrenaline of watching the sport he loves enacted at such a high skill level. “Yeah, he’s great.”

“So were you,” Osamu feels compelled to add.

Sakusa turns to face him. In his peripheral vision, Osamu can see Rin and Atsumu smirking at him, those jackasses, but he keeps his eyes locked on Sakusa’s.

“Thank you,” Sakusa says after a long moment.

“Must have been the luck you gave him,” Rin says lightly.

“I don’t believe in luck,” Sakusa says.

It’s soft this time, though, and he keeps his eyes on Osamu as he says it.

I don’t believe in luck.

All Osamu can think about is how it’s not a no.

✧

Running into Osamu quickly becomes a regular part of Kiyoomi’s day.

Maybe it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is; after all, Osamu lives in Inarizaki, and has for much longer than Kiyoomi. These halls are his domain, and Kiyoomi is the errant star which fell into his constellation.

Still, many people live within Inarizaki’s walls, yet Kiyoomi never sees any of them as much as he does Osamu. Especially considering that Osamu’s location of choice is the kitchen, which Kiyoomi has very little reason to enter.

He’s not complaining about the amount of Osamu encounters he has, mind. It’s just a curious phenomenon.

Sometimes he’ll be wandering the corridors, familiarising himself with the castle layout, and Osamu will pop out from some corner and accompany him for the next half hour. Kiyoomi isn’t sure it’s all that helpful for his conscious memorising of the castle, but his feet lead themselves through the halls now, comfortable in a way they weren’t prior to Osamu’s constant interruptions to the steady beat of Kiyoomi’s life.

Other times, Osamu will come to chime in during the wedding planning – ostensibly as an envoy from the kitchen to weigh in on the menu, but more often than not just providing his own opinions about everything from table centrepieces to the order of compositions to provide to the musicians. Also, being distracting. There is no other word for it. He has taken to making clever comments in an undertone, presumably in an attempt to make Kiyoomi laugh or otherwise embarrass himself, and sometimes – even more distractingly – Kiyoomi finds himself glancing at Osamu, only to find Osamu already looking back, lips curving into a cheeky grin.

“That’s cute,” Motoya says, when Kiyoomi informs him of the situation, flopping backwards onto his bed as he does so. “He likes looking at you, huh?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Kiyoomi grouses.

Motoya snorts. “How else am I meant to say it?” he asks. “I am just saying true words.”

Walking in from the connecting antechamber, Iizuna nods. “I’m with Motoya-kun,” he says. “This whole courtship thing is quite – ”

“Courtship?” demands Kiyoomi, vaguely aghast.

“Well, what would you call it?” Motoya asks, tilting his head.

Handsome son of local chef attempts to make me lose my composure in public, as if the sword belt incident wasn’t enough, in what is most likely an effort to entertain himself and pursue friendship in a bizarre manner springs to mind, but he quickly rejects it. For one, it sounds utterly ridiculous, and for another…

Something about laying it out like that doesn’t feel right. It’s like when you try to force something into a container with edges that are too narrow. The designation doesn’t quite fit, though Kiyoomi is not sure what part is incorrect.

He suspects Motoya and Iizuna would be able to identify it, but that path is paved with endless teasing, so he intends to keep that as a last resort.

“Being a distraction,” Kiyoomi says, echoing the terms he used to describe it with initially.

Motoya throws a pillow at him.

✧

“Hey.”

Kiyoomi stares resolutely ahead.

“Hey, psst, Sakusa,” Osamu repeats, still in the same whisper as before. “I have an idea.”

That gets Kiyoomi’s attention. If anyone asks, it’s because such words are generally a harbinger of chaos and misfortune. To be fair, it’s mostly true – the words are usually an indication of worse to come, and part of Kiyoomi is legitimately concerned about it.

Another part of him, however, is just very uninterested in a night of dance rehearsals, and is kind of curious to find out what Osamu has come up with.

“What is it?” he asks quietly. Technically, nobody has said he needs to pay strict attention to the ballroom floor right now, but he’s somewhat concerned that if he makes too much noise, the princes will notice him and bully him onto the dance floor.

Like Motoya said, he’s much more comfortable on the training yards ground than he is spinning someone around on any polished floor.

It’s not that he can’t dance – he’s trained in the art, like most of his birth, and he’s participated in a handful of balls. Upon duress, usually, but he’s enjoyed himself on occasion. He’s never minded dancing with Lady Yukie, the daughter of a duke, when he visits Fukurodani, but Shirofuku Yukie is friends with many, and most of his other options are a far more excruciating experience, Kiyoomi has found.

Osamu grins, a flicker of brightness in the dullness of the night, a little like a candle flame in the shadows of the night.

“You’ll have to come find out,” he says, which, what. Kiyoomi’s face must reflect his incredulity, because Osamu snorts. “It’s fine, I promise,” he says. “Just come to the kitchens as soon as you can get away, yeah? I’ll show you.”

Before Kiyoomi can protest, Osamu scampers off, disappearing into the shadowy corners of the ballroom, too far for Kiyoomi to reach.

Kiyoomi looks around. The night is in full-swing, but it’s still too early for anyone to believe he’d be sleeping. He does tend to keep a strict routine, but everyone knows he’ll stay up until he’s dismissed on nights where events are occurring.

Motoya sidles up to him.

“You look like you’re contemplating escape,” he says conversationally.

“You make me sound like a criminal,” Kiyoomi mutters.

Motoya smirks. “Well…” he sing-songs, before chuckling at Kiyoomi’s expression. “Okay, okay. Anyway, where are you thinking of escaping to?”

Kiyoomi hesitates for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he finally says.

“Going off without a plan?” Motoya asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not like you.”

“Not exactly,” Kiyoomi says, his lips twisting into a frown. “Just – ” he cuts off, and recollects himself. “Hypothetically, I would be going to the kitchens,” he says.

Motoya’s expression is awash with understanding. “Ah,” he says. There is a smile playing at his lips. “You should go.”

Kiyoomi does a double take.

Motoya huffs lightly. “You should go,” he repeats, a little more insistently. “There’s no point to you being here – you already know how to dance, first off, but it’s not like you have any intention of doing it at the ball before the wedding, nor at the reception, right?”

“Maybe if Shirofuku shows up,” he says, and Motoya rolls his eyes.

“Kiyoomi,” he says, and Kiyoomi acquiesces.

“Okay, you’re right. It is… extremely unlikely.”

“See? Then there’s no point in you staying. This isn’t one of your specific official duties. There are tons of us around, anyway, if anything is needed. Just go. I’ll cover you if anyone notices.”

Kiyoomi frowns. It goes against the grain to sneak out. But –

“Okay,” he says once more. “Thank you, Motoya.”

His cousin shrugs. “Of course,” he says. “What are friends for?”

“Advising against bad decisions?” Kiyoomi offers wryly.

“You’ve got Tsukasa-kun for that,” Motoya says cheerfully. “Now go!”

Kiyoomi does.

It takes him a moment to reorient himself, exiting the ballroom from a different point to which he entered it, but he quickly figures out where he is. The trip to the kitchens is a short one, thanks to Osamu’s voluntary work as a tour guide during the first two weeks in the castle.

He ducks into the kitchens, and debates calling out. He decides against it, just in case there are still others around. He makes his way past the entrance to the store room and the bench with the large fire pit in the centre until he hears voices.

“You’re really going above and beyond, Osamu.”

That’s Suna.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen you like this.”

Atsumu.

“Lay off, guys, I think it’s cute.”

Ginjima. So, the whole gang is involved?

“All of you are absolutely no help – well, Gin, that was supportive, I guess,” Osamu grouses.

“What do you expect us to do?” Atsumu wants to know. “Cheer you on from a distance?”

Kiyoomi stays where he is, not sure yet if he should interrupt.

“No, just – keep the others out, all right? Especially Oomimi-san and Kurosu-san, okay?” Osamu says.

“Yeah, of course, you can rely on us,” Ginjima says earnestly.

“Akagi-san would be unfortunate too,” Suna comments. “He’s bad at leaving things alone when he thinks it’ll be entertaining.”

Osamu groans.

“Hey, hey, c’mon, Rin, don’t tease him,” Atsumu says, jumping in. “Especially doesn’t mean only, you know that.”

Kiyoomi is a little surprised at Atsumu taking his brother’s side, but then he thinks about Motoya convincing him to come out on this little escapade. For all that the twins rile each other up, they are still brothers.

“Thanks,” Osamu says after a long moment.

Kiyoomi decides to test something.

“Hello?” he calls out. Suddenly, there’s a bustle of movement, and a flurry of whispered commands – get out, just go and Atsumu, fuck, don’t step on my foot, you jackass – amongst them.

“Uh, Sakusa?” Osamu calls. “I’m just through here.”

Kiyoomi bites the smile down from his lips, and moves through to the room Osamu is calling from. Unsurprisingly, there is no Atsumu, Suna nor Ginjima. There is, however, a large wicker basket, and an array of ingredients spread across the counter in front of Osamu.

“What’s all this?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Have you seen the gardens yet, Sakusa?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi does not approve of answering questions with other questions, but he indulges Osamu. “I think so, in passing?” he says. “What about them?”

“They’re actually best observed at night,” Osamu says. “I’ll show you why, but first…” He casts his hand in a sweeping motion over the assorted ingredients. “I figured we should take some food.” A beat. Two. Then, softer: “I was going to make it in advance, but I realised I didn’t actually know your favourites.” He rubs the back of his neck, and quirks his lips up in a half-smile. “I didn’t want to risk making you something you wouldn’t be able to eat.”

Kiyoomi’s heart hurts.

“Oh,” he says. It is a small noise, made by a small voice, all because Kiyoomi’s chest is too full of something vast and unprecedented to let out enough sound for a more robust one. He thinks this feeling could crack his ribs. Bruise them, at the very least.

Osamu waits patiently.

That also feels like a bruise, but Kiyoomi breathes through it.

“I like umeboshi,” he says.

“Okay,” Osamu says, smiling a little. It’s crooked, and a little soft at the edges. It feels a little like being entrusted with a secret. “I can work with that.”

Kiyoomi wonders if his ribcage will ever recover from the battering he’s putting it through tonight.

✧

The gardens really are beautiful.

Kiyoomi had been skeptical at first, unsure how nightfall could benefit the viewing of anything beyond the stars, but his breath hitches at the luminescence of the flowers.

“How are they like this?” he asks in wonder.

Osamu, still holding their basket, shrugs. “They’ve always been like this,” he says. “The storyweavers say they’re blessed by the moon, but the travelling alchemist who comes around says that’s not it. Pick your truth, I guess.”

Pick your truth. Kiyoomi has never heard anyone say something like that before.

“C’mon,” Osamu says, nudging Kiyoomi lightly with his shoulder. He points ahead at a weeping willow. “Through there.”

Kiyoomi follows Osamu as he weaves through the bushes beneath the draped leaves, until they find themselves on a cobbled path lined with whitebells, blooming and glinting beneath the moonlight.

“Here,” Osamu says, pointing to a worn patch of grass. He places down the basket carefully, and sits down next to it with a great deal less care. Kiyoomi seats himself gingerly, crossing his legs. “This is my favourite spot,” Osamu says. “I used to come here with ‘Tsumu and Kita-san when we were younger – back when Kita-san’s parents still lived in the castle.”

“When did they leave?” Kiyoomi asks curiously.

Osamu tilts his head. “I was seven, I think,” he says at last. “Yumie-obaachan was still here, though. Remember her painting?” he asks, and Kiyoomi nods. “She was the regent, I suppose.”

“Where is she now?” Kiyoomi asks.

“She moved into one of the smaller residences the House of Kita holds,” Osamu explains. “She’ll be back for the wedding, of course, and I imagine she’ll stay for a while. She just wanted to give Kita-san some space to start to build his new life with Prince Aran, I think.”

Kiyoomi nods, musing on this. While he does so, Osamu starts to unpack the basket. He hands Kiyoomi a few specific items, wrapped in beeswax paper – a few rice balls with umeboshi on the inside, wrapped in dried seaweed, lightly salted in the custom of the Sealands; a gourd of water, flavoured with squeezed lemon and a light honey extract; some round dessert balls, made of cooked rice beaten thin and infused with cherry blossom syrup; and a small plate topped with chopped cubes of fresh fruit.

“Itadakimasu,” Osamu says.

“Itadakimasu,” Kiyoomi murmurs in return.

They eat quietly for a while, punctuated with commentary on the food – this is really good, I’ve never had this before, thank you and oh, wait, try it with this, I know it sounds weird, but trust me – and light hums of contentment.

Kiyoomi enjoys the night like this: air cool on his skin, the sounds and scents of nature around him, and the atmosphere between him and Osamu comfortable in a way he so rarely feels around others.

At one point, long after the food has been finished and the basket is no longer between them, instead placed to the side as they shift into swapping stories and basking in each other’s presence, Osamu puts his hand on Kiyoomi’s wrist.

Kiyoomi’s heart rate quickens.

“Look,” Osamu says, using his other finger to point just past Kiyoomi.

He turns his head to follow the trajectory indicated by Osamu’s finger, and stifles a gasp.

“What are they?” he asks.

The bushes are no longer mostly dark, lightly lit by the glow of the luminescent blooms and the whitebells near the path – now there are amber coloured lights flitting around, lighting them up, and filling the area with a soft, warm glow. Kiyoomi glances up to find the same lights settling in the hanging leaves of the weeping willow.

It’s a little like the stars have descended from the heavens, choosing to surround Osamu and Kiyoomi in the cosmos instead.

“We call them fireflies,” Osamu says. “They’re in the Crowlands too, I hear, but I think they call them lightning bugs – I dunno why, they don’t hurt and lightning scars all the earth it touches, but it’s a cool name, I guess.”

“I like fireflies,” Kiyoomi says. He means the word, but he supposes it’s a true statement no matter how it’s taken. The night looks beautiful.

Osamu smiles. “Me too.”

He looks beautiful too.

Kiyoomi swallows.

Osamu flicks his gaze up to meet Kiyoomi’s, and Kiyoomi is profoundly aware of the heart beating in his ribcage. It still feels tender like a bruise, but he feels a little less like he’s about to crack beneath its weight. Instead, it feels like everything has gone suddenly, intensely quiet. The only sounds are the light hum of the fireflies, the soft exhale of Osamu’s breath, and Kiyoomi’s own heartbeat ringing in his ears.

Kiyoomi looks at Osamu, and he can’t look away.

Osamu’s eyes are just so gentle, and he looks so cute, and Kiyoomi’s heart is thudding in his chest. It’s a staccato beat, the sound of hooves thundering through the woods, or the steady rhythm of swords clashing against each other.

It’s everything he knows made completely anew in this moment.

Osamu’s eyes are gentle, and Kiyoomi is leaning in.

He’s gratified that Osamu leans in too, meeting him halfway, but that appreciation fades away once their lips touch, because suddenly everything in the world narrows down to that single point of contact.

Osamu’s lips are soft, and a little chapped, and Kiyoomi wants to taste them forever.

He doesn’t know what to do, though – has no idea how to kiss Osamu in a way that he’ll like, has no idea what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know if he should lean in further, or readjust his face, or pull back. He remembers Hakuba talking about tongue once, when discussing romantic escapades, and Kiyoomi cannot imagine a less fitting body part to add to the equation right now than something that belongs inside your mouth.

He pulls back, biting his lip a little.

Osamu’s expression is – Kiyoomi doesn’t even know how to explain it. His eyes are shining, and his lips are pulled into the softest smile Kiyoomi has ever seen on his face. His cheeks are pink.

Kiyoomi places it after a moment. Osamu looks endeared.

“Uh,” Kiyoomi says. He feels a little embarrassed – not of his lack of experience, exactly, because he doesn’t care about that. Just… that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and still, he’d gone for it. And now Osamu is looking at him, with that expression on his face, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with that.

Osamu lifts his hand to cup Kiyoomi’s jaw, and Kiyoomi stills.

“Is this okay?” Osamu asks, and Kiyoomi nods. Osamu smiles again, then leans in.

This time, when his lips press against Kiyoomi’s, he tilts his mouth slightly. Kiyoomi still doesn’t know what to do with himself – his hands are awkwardly folded in his lap – but he exhales a breath when Osamu’s slight angle change makes the entire kiss feel different. Hesitantly, Kiyoomi presses forward a little, craning his neck, and Osamu smiles against his lips.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

He slides his mouth over a little, brushing his lips against Kiyoomi’s, and it’s unfair how good at this Osamu is. Kiyoomi isn’t exactly complaining, because he’s benefitting, but he would like it stated for the record that it is extremely unfair that Osamu knows how to make Kiyoomi’s breath hitch and heart try to thunder its way out of his ribs, while Kiyoomi can’t even figure out what to do with his hands, let alone the lips that are awkwardly participating in this entire terrible, wonderful situation.

“You’re really cute,” Osamu murmurs against his lips, before breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against Kiyoomi’s.

Kiyoomi’s head is spinning.

“I have been compared to a particularly imposing vampire before,” Kiyoomi says. His breath is a little ragged.

Osamu huffs a laugh. “I don’t think an imposing vampire would sneak out and kiss me beneath the starlight,” he muses.

It’s like a wave of cold water washing over Kiyoomi. The tide crashing over his head. That image makes him think, for a second, of Atsumu and Suna colliding together over and over, like the sea returning to shore; then of Aran and Prince Shinsuke, stepping closer together to fasten the sword belt; then of Iizuna and Motoya, dancing around each other, but somehow always staying in step.

But this night, this whole thing – he’s not meant to have this. He snuck out for it to happen. He thinks for a moment of all those people at balls that he watches incredulously from the sidelines with Kuroo, paying no attention to what they’re meant to be doing, just chasing their own impulses through to whatever end, and he wonders, somewhat panicked, if there’s any difference between that and this.

“I,” Kiyoomi says, his voice caught in his throat. Osamu hums, his forehead still pressed against Kiyoomi’s, and Kiyoomi closes his eyes. “I should go,” Kiyoomi says, pulling back his forehead.

He forces himself to open his eyes and look at Osamu – Osamu, who had looked so endeared earlier, eyes shining, cheeks flushed pink.

Now he just looks confused, and a little hurt. Or – no, Kiyoomi thinks, it’s worse, because he doesn’t look hurt so much as he looks concerned. Like he did something wrong, maybe, when Kiyoomi is the one who broke the rules.

Sure, it was Osamu’s idea, but he always gave Kiyoomi the choice. He pushes away the idea of Osamu sitting alone in the kitchen all night if he hadn’t come, or of Osamu waiting with his friends trying to cheer him up – he can’t think about that right now. Not when he shouldn’t have come. It may have been Osamu’s idea, but Kiyoomi is the head of Aran’s guard. A sworn sword of Tachibana, and a son of the House of Sakusa even earlier than that. He has spent his life in attendance at courts, and building up his rituals, earning the esteem of others through his own merit, not just his name and birth. He knows better.

He is Lord Kiyoomi of the House of Sakusa, sworn sword of Tachibana, and head of Prince Aran’s personal guard.

Never before have these titles felt so heavy on his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have – ” he continues, stepping up quickly. “Do you need assistance packing up?” he asks, cooling his tone. Get it together, Kiyoomi.

“What?” Osamu asks, expression twisted with concern. “No, that’s fine, I’ve got it, but Sakusa – ”

Kiyoomi doesn’t wait for what he’s going to say. He can’t. He just nods quickly.

“That’s good. Okay. Thank you for showing me this,” he says, bowing his head stiffly. If anything, that seems to upset Osamu more than anything, his look of concern marred by a sudden flash of distress. Kiyoomi cannot help it, though. Even if he shouldn’t have come, he owes Osamu the truth of his thanks. It was kind of him to introduce Kiyoomi to this corner of his world. It is not his fault that Kiyoomi should never have come. “I have to go,” he says, a little more clear, and then he spins on his heel, moving quickly under the cover of the night.

He hears Osamu calling his name, but he doesn’t turn. He follows the path, brushes the weeping willow back, and tries to ignore the way his eyes burn.

Beneath the moonlight, his chest no longer feels bruised.

It feels sharp and serrated, all jagged edges, as his heart thunders. Perhaps lightning bugs was more apt a name than they had realised, Kiyoomi thinks. It certainly feels like the earth of his ribs has been struck hard enough to leave a scar.

✧

“What do you mean you left?” Motoya asks, incredulous.

Kiyoomi, lying down on his bed, tilts his head up enough to scowl at his cousin.

“I mean exactly that,” he says. “I left.”

He ignores the way the words make something shudder in his chest.

“Why?” Motoya demands.

Kiyoomi huffs. “I shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” he says. He tries to make his tone detached, but unfortunately his voice is as expressive as his face. Even if it weren’t, Motoya has known him since they were six years old. There would be no hiding the forlorn tinge to it from Motoya, even if he manages to mask it from the rest of the world.

“Kiyoomi, I don’t understand,” Motoya says, sitting on the other edge of the bed. Kiyoomi allows it. “Everything sounds like it was going well?”

“It’s not that,” Kiyoomi says, before making a frustrated noise. “It’s – I shouldn’t have gone. It’s not about him.”

Iizuna, sitting in the corner of the room, speaks for the first time since Kiyoomi started telling them about his night.

“But what’s wrong with you going?” he asks. Kiyoomi throws him a look, and he holds up his hands placatingly. “No, I mean – can you articulate what exactly is wrong with you going? Or is it just a gut feeling?”

Kiyoomi goes silent, thinking about this. Motoya still looks a little like he has more to say, but he stays quiet too.

“I just… don’t know what this is,” he says after a long moment. Iizuna holds up a hand, presumably to silence Motoya, who looks ready to burst into an impassioned speech. “I can’t get past the fact that we broke the rules,” he says, looking at his hands. “Or, well, I did. I suppose he did too, but he does it all the time, and nobody seems to mind.”

“Do you think anyone will mind if you do?” Iizuna asks.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says immediately.

“As if Aran’s going to tell you off for liking a nice boy, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says exasperatedly, but his expression softens when Kiyoomi looks up at him. “I know this is all very new for you – liking someone, doing something not strictly by the books, kissing, all that – but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing,” he continues.

“Breaking the rules is, by definition, a bad thing,” Kiyoomi points out mutinously.

“You ditched a rehearsal event that nobody was going to miss you at because you weren’t even participating,” Motoya reminds him. “As far as rules go, it’s pretty low stakes.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip. “It’s not just that,” he says quietly. “I mean – it’s not the specific rule, you know? It’s the fact that I broke a rule for him.”

Iizuna and Motoya are silent for a moment as they digest this.

“Because you broke it for him, meaning that someone could get you to break a rule at all, or because you broke it for him, meaning the son of the chef?” Iizuna asks quietly.

Motoya throws him an incredulous look, but Kiyoomi shifts.

“Mostly the former,” Kiyoomi says. “But – ” He exhales deeply. “I don’t care, obviously. I don’t even like when people call me lord if it’s related to the guard, let alone if it’s about the court. Just – ” he grimaces. “It’s not me people will talk about. I don’t mean much, in the scheme of things.”

Motoya narrows his eyes. “You are being a fool,” he says bluntly. “But I know it’s just because you’ve never liked someone before, and now you have all sorts of confusing feelings, and you’re a workaholic who takes pride in doing things correctly, and everything about this has been instilled in you as improper conduct since you were the same size as Hinata Shouyou.”

Kiyoomi huffs, more an exhale than a laugh, but there’s the slightest hint of amusement to it. Motoya looks encouraged by it.

“Kiyoomi, I promise you, nobody will care,” Motoya says. “Nobody who matters. Come on. When have you ever cared what most people think?”

“I just don’t want to be the reason someone casts aspersions,” Kiyoomi mutters.

Motoya scoffs. “If anyone wants to cast aspersions on Aran because you think his future husband’s childhood friend is cute, Aran would laugh in their face,” he points out. “Your brother would do the same! It’s not like anyone needs you to marry well and bring about some highborn heirs – you’re the youngest son, Kiyoomi. And don’t even get me started on what Ayumi-chan would say. Maybe I should write to her…”

“Do not write to my sister,” Kiyoomi immediately prohibits.

“Is there anyone left who would be disappointed in you for breaking a rule?” Iizuna asks.

Yes.

“Myself,” Kiyoomi says quietly.

Iizuna gives him a gentle look. “I know that the birth status aspect can be difficult to navigate,” he says delicately, “but it’s hardly unheard of. And you’ve never cared what anyone thinks of you. I very much doubt that Osamu-kun feels any different.” He pauses, then takes a breath. “Reckoning with your own expectations for yourself is much harder,” he says slowly. “But I think that’s your real problem.”

Motoya nods emphatically. He twists his body to face Kiyoomi fully, drawing his legs onto the bed. Kiyoomi doesn’t even push him off.

“I mean, what it comes down to is how much you like him, right?” Motoya asks. “When he looked all happy with you, or how you felt when he was telling you all that stuff about his childhood or whatever – does that matter more than always doing things ‘correctly’?”

Kiyoomi bites his lip as he thinks about it.

“What do you want, Sakusa?” Iizuna asks.

His heart cracks.

“I want to kiss him again,” he confesses.

Motoya and Iizuna exchange a glance; triumph on Motoya’s face, relief on Iizuna’s.

“Well,” Motoya says. “There’s your answer.”

✧

Not for the first time, Kiyoomi bemoans that both his position and his birth status necessitated his presence at events such as this.

At least in most balls, he was never expected to participate, his duties to Aran taking priority over anything else someone could ask of him.

This time, however, Aran had very clearly informed all his guards that they were present as guests tonight, and then had given Motoya and Iizuna a meaningful look for good measure. As if Kiyoomi couldn’t tell that Aran had intended such an unsubtle command to apply to him.

He supposes it isn’t all bad. It is still very much not his scene, but milling around the sidelines, ducking overly determined courtiers and generally trying to look as unapproachable as possible is a good distraction, he finds.

“Since when do you pursue distractions?” Hakuba had asked after Kiyoomi had shared this insight when they found each other near the refreshments table. Not that Kiyoomi was partaking in anything other than beverages.

“Since Miya Osamu walked into his life,” Motoya had said, popping up out of nowhere and throwing Kiyoomi immediately to the wolves.

He has finally lost both of his friends – admittedly not hard when they could so reliably be convinced to focus on Nozawa and Iizuna respectively, if for different reasons – and is tucked away in an alcove to the left of the ballroom floor. He looks mournfully up at one of the inner balconies. It would be so easy to disappear up there and keep an eye on the events of the night from above…

But Aran would know, and Aran would be disappointed. Kiyoomi cares very little about the opinions of others, but Aran is one of the few people whom he both likes and values the esteem of. He would not want to disappoint him, especially not on this night of celebration.

Aran is getting married in three days, and here is Kiyoomi, glaring holes into an innocent agapanthus potted in the corner of the room, all because he wants to kiss Osamu again, and doesn’t know what to do about it.

Hear me out here, a voice remarkably like Motoya’s pipes up in his head. You could – and I know this is shocking – kiss him again.

Kiyoomi groans. Even his own subconscious is ganging up on him. This is ridiculous.

“What’s up with you?”

Kiyoomi glances up and finds himself face-to-face with Kuroo. He frowns.

“Have you been hiding from the maids all night?” he asks. “How on earth did you get in here without anyone chasing you around with a broom in an attempt to fix that fiasco you call a hairstyle?”

Kuroo rolls his eyes. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know that most maids find me dashing,” he says.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Kiyoomi says.

Kuroo jabs him in the ribs. Kiyoomi is a little horrified, but not entirely surprised, to find that he’s missed this overgrown hairball.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Kiyoomi says. It’s the closest he’ll get to greeting him, or even admitting that he missed him.

Kuroo shrugs. “It wasn’t scheduled in, mostly because Bokuto forgot to tell Akaashi that the wedding was this month – Fukurodani’s been having issues with mail recently, and the messenger got delayed by intense storms somewhere around the Ironlands. Well, all of the Owlands have been struggling with deliveries, really, but it’s been particularly bad to Fukurodani. So when the invitation finally arrived, it was a bit of a rush, but of course Bo would never agree to miss Aran’s wedding. And so…” he trails off.

“And so,” Kiyoomi agrees. “Poor Akaashi.”

Kuroo grins. “Yeah, Konoha chewed Bokuto out for it. Think it calmed Akaashi down a bit, actually. He got Konoha to lay off after a while, and then Bokuto had the cook make both their favourites for dinner that night, so it all worked out. The power of food, right?”

Kiyoomi nods, but his mind isn’t on Fukurodani’s admittedly excellent food, courtesy of their experienced cook. He’s thinking about Osamu sneaking them out of the kitchens and dragging Kiyoomi by the hand, the way the warmth of his palm had seeped through the fabric of Kiyoomi’s glove, and the way he’d gone out of his way to make something Kiyoomi could eat, even though Kiyoomi would have been willing to go without.

“Okay, what gives?” Kuroo asks.

Blinking, Kiyoomi looks up at him. “What?” he asks. He makes his tone irritated, but Kuroo doesn’t even blink. The problem of knowing someone since adolescence, Kiyoomi thinks mournfully.

“Avoiding crowds is one thing, but moping in a fucking corner is definitely not like you,” Kuroo says, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you care about something enough to mope about it.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “I care about things,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, sure, but not the kind of things that would make you mope,” Kuroo says impatiently, brushing off Kiyoomi’s words.

“I don’t – I am not moping,” Kiyoomi informs him. He thinks it’s true. Thinking about someone is not the same as moping. He’s fairly certain, anyway.

“Don’t make me call over Kenma,” Kuroo threatens. “He’ll back me up.”

“No, please call over Kenma,” Kiyoomi says. “I would like to see him. It would be an improvement on the present company.”

“Okay, fuck you,” Kuroo says, but he begins scanning the crowds anyway. “Looks like he’s talking to Konoha… He’ll come over when he’s done.”

“I look forward to him saving me from you,” Kiyoomi says.

Kuroo scoffs. “Okay, sure, you guys may gang up on me, but you know how perceptive he is. There’s absolutely no way that he lets you get away with being cagey about this. You may as well come out with it now.”

Kiyoomi wants to tell him that his reasoning is not very convincing, mostly because it really isn’t, but… part of him wants to tell Kuroo. It’s not because of what he said – while Kiyoomi knows he would likely tell Kenma when asked, he is also more than capable of resisting telling anyone until he wants to – but rather the length of time he has been friends with Kuroo. He has never had any compunctions about mocking him, and he has absolutely no intention to change the way their friendship operates now, but for as much as they rib each other, Kiyoomi doesn’t know anyone more loyal than Kuroo Tetsurou. He would never trust Kuroo with a bucket of water – though experience has taught Kiyoomi that Fukunaga, the apprentice cook at Fukurodani who both Kenma and Shirofuku have gotten close to, is much more likely to be a danger in that department – but he would trust him with his life, and his heart, and anything he holds close to it.

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi says, and Kuroo grins.

“What’s up, Kiyoomi-kun?” he asks. He only ever calls Kiyoomi that when he’s being facetious or gentle. Kiyoomi is fairly sure in this case it is the latter, but he eyes Kuroo warily for a moment anyway before relaxing.

“I’m not really sure where to start,” Kiyoomi says, resigned.

“The start is always a good option,” Kuroo prompts.

Kiyoomi sighs. “Okay, I need you to just – not be you for a few minutes,” he instructs. Kuroo looks offended, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Just – don’t react as theatrically as I know you’ll want to, or else I won’t get through it, okay?”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” Kuroo says. His eyes are curious, hazel alight with questions he doesn’t even know how to ask yet, but he mimes sealing his mouth shut and looks expectantly at Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. “I guess I’ve been… befriending? The son of the head chef here at Inarizaki,” he says after a long moment.

“You don’t sound very sure,” Kuroo observes.

Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “Well. He keeps talking to me – asking me questions, really. Sometimes I think he’s just trying to make me laugh, but usually he wants to know what… what my life is like, I suppose. What the world is like… and then sometimes stuff like my favourite flavours of food.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.

“Hm,” Kuroo says. “And do you like talking to him?”

Kiyoomi pauses, then nods – a quick thing, but unmistakable.

“And are you sure you’re… just friends?” Kuroo probes.

Kiyoomi looks down at his hands. He can feel Kuroo’s patient gaze on him. He knows Kuroo has already come to his own conclusion about this, but he knows he’s waiting for Kiyoomi to say it. With good reason, probably. Kiyoomi ought to say it. He has never shied away from a direct truth before. There is no reason to let Miya Osamu become the undoing of that foundational principle of Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“He thinks my hair is pretty,” he says.

It is not an answer, and yet.

“So he thinks you’re pretty,” Kuroo surmises.

“That’s not what I said,” Kiyoomi says, frowning.

Kuroo gives him a very judgemental look. “Kiyoomi-kun, your hair is part of you,” he says. “I bet you anything he thinks you’re pretty.”

It is fairly instinctual at this point of their friendship to argue against anything Kuroo says in that tone, but Kiyoomi tamps down on the urge. Mostly because he’s not sure he wants Kuroo to be wrong.

Which says a lot, really.

“Do you think he’s pretty?” Kuroo asks.

Kiyoomi makes a rude noise in the back of his throat. “I have eyes,” he says. “He is objectively attractive.”

Kuroo clucks at him. “Okay, you’ll have to point him out to me so I can figure out exactly how objective you’re being, but that aside – ignoring his objective attractiveness, do you think he’s pretty? As in, more than someone else might?”

“Well, he doesn’t look a thing like Kenma, so I certainly find him prettier than you would,” Kiyoomi says mutinously.

“This is not about me and Kenma,” Kuroo says. “Stop avoiding the question. Do you think he’s pretty?”

Kiyoomi exhales. Moment of truth.

“Yes,” he says. Then, slightly quieter, though no less clear: “I am fairly certain he knows I think so.”

“Why?” Kuroo asks. “Did you tell him? He catch you checking him out?”

Kiyoomi grimaces. “Well. I kissed him,” he says, as nonchalantly as possible.

Kuroo drops his drink into the agapanthus pot.

“I don’t think mead is the suggested fertiliser for indoor plants,” Kiyoomi says flatly.

“Forget the plant!” Kuroo exclaims. “Rewind a little to where you kissed your pretty boy chefling or whatever he is!”

“He’s the son of the chef,” Kiyoomi corrects, before tilting his head. “He usually works in the kitchens, though, so that’s not… entirely inaccurate. I think he wants to be head of a kitchen himself one day.”

“I support his life aspirations, I really do, but seriously, Kiyoomi-kun, rewind the fuck back to when you told me you kissed him,” Kuroo says.

“Oh. Yes,” Kiyoomi says.

“Is that what’s got you hiding with potted plants?” Kuroo asks suddenly, his expression shrewd.

“Not… entirely. Kind of,” Kiyoomi says. He thinks about how to phrase it. “I broke the rules for him,” he says. “And I don’t…”

“You don’t know what to do with that?” Kuroo suggests.

Kiyoomi grimaces. “Yes,” he says. “But also – I don’t know how to navigate that.”

“Navigate what? Feelings?” Kuroo asks.

“The way it makes me feel,” Kiyoomi corrects. The difference is minute, but it feels important to clarify. He has always been good at figuring out the next step to take, with his clear sight and nimble footwork, but this is uncharted territory. There is no map here, no obvious movement or sign post to follow. There is just Kiyoomi’s heart lurching in his chest whenever Osamu gives him that smile – the small one, a little secretive at the corners, like it just exists for the two of them.

There is just Kiyoomi standing at the edge of a dance floor, surrounded by people he has known for at least half his life, not paying attention to any of them because all he can think about is the way Osamu’s eyes had shone in the moonlight.

Kuroo goes quiet.

That’s how they are when Kenma finds them: Kuroo, frowning contemplatively at the pot in which he dropped his glass of mead, and Kiyoomi, looking out onto the ballroom floor but not registering anything which passes his line of sight.

“Hello Kiyoomi,” Kenma greets, snapping both of them out of their thoughts.

“Hi Kenma,” Kiyoomi says, nodding. Beside him, Kuroo is jutting out his lip in an exaggerated pout.

“Kenma! No greeting for your favourite person?” he asks.

Kenma looks him right in the eyes. His expression is utterly calm. Kiyoomi gets ready to hear Kuroo squawk. He recognises this expression.

“Shouyou isn’t here,” Kenma says blandly, and Kuroo makes an outraged noise. Kiyoomi snorts.

“Kenma, that’s mean,” Kuroo complains.

Kenma hides a smile, but Kiyoomi notices it. It draws one onto his own face – just a small thing, but there nonetheless. He has missed these two. As much as he approves of Inarizaki, both as a castle in and of itself and as a home for his prince, it is further from the kingdoms of Kiyoomi’s youth than Tachibana was. He hadn’t expected to see them so soon, especially after there was no response to the invitations issued to Bokuto, but he’s happy they are here.

“What are you guys doing in here?” Kenma asks. “I thought you’d be out with Bokuto, Kuro.”

“Kuroo has been busy watering plants with alcohol,” Kiyoomi says dryly. “I don’t think he has a career as a gardener if the whole duke’s son thing ends up not working out.”

Kenma’s eyebrows shoot up. Kuroo makes a rude hand gesture at Kiyoomi, one which would get him reprimanded by Akaashi if he saw. Kiyoomi doesn’t bat an eyelid. Even if he wasn’t used to it from Kuroo at this point, he’s seen the same and even worse so many times over the past month – courtesy of the twins and Suna, primarily, because Ginjima actually has manners – that he is completely desensitised.

“I only dropped it because Kiyoomi startled me,” Kuroo argues.

Distantly, Kiyoomi feels a warmth spread through his chest at Kuroo’s phrasing. He knows he can trust Kuroo with his secrets, but it is one thing to know something, and another to see it in action when Kenma is involved. As far as Kiyoomi knows, the only thing Kuroo had ever kept hidden from Kenma were his own feelings towards him. At least until this.

“How did you startle him?” Kenma asks, turning those luminous eyes onto Kiyoomi.

“I told him – ” Kiyoomi pauses, thinks about what he’s going to say, and wrinkles his nose before sighing gustily. “I was telling him about someone I have been getting to know during our time in the castle. And then I mentioned having kissed him, and Kuroo took that as a moment of inspiration for poor attempts at plant-care.”

Kenma widens his eyes slightly, but he nods as he digests this.

“What made Kuro so surprised that you kissed your friend?” Kenma asks. “Besides the general lack of interest in such actions expressed up to this point.”

“He’s been moping in the corner for most of the night,” Kuroo informs Kenma.

“Oh.” Kenma’s brow furrows. “Did the kiss not go well?”

“No, that part was fine,” Kiyoomi replies. “But then he mentioned something about how we snuck out, and I just – ” he twists his hands in front of him, as if to represent the mess his mind had made of the situation.

“You broke the rules for him,” Kuroo says, repeating Kiyoomi’s words back at him. His tone is stained with understanding, and Kiyoomi swallows.

Kenma hums. “When was this?” he asks.

“Two nights ago,” Kiyoomi says.

“And how do you feel now?” Kenma probes.

Kiyoomi frowns. “In terms of what?”

“Well, you were distressed in the moment,” Kenma says. “Now that the moment has passed, and you’ve been sitting with everything for two days, how do you feel? Does it still feel so big?”

Kiyoomi considers this. Does it? He knows he wants to kiss Osamu again – if Osamu even wants to kiss him again – because he figured that out last night, but is that still the biggest feeling in his chest? Is everything else small enough now?

“No,” he says after an entire minute has passed. “It’s still – it’s still a little difficult, but.” He pauses, thinks. “I just miss him,” he confesses.

“Well,” Kuroo says. “That tells you a lot, doesn’t it?”

It doesn’t escape Kiyoomi’s notice how similar that is to what Motoya had said yesterday after the conversation they’d had with Iizuna in their chambers.

“You should go find him,” Kenma advises.

“But – the ball…” Kiyoomi says, frowning immediately.

Kuroo shrugs. “Listen, Kiyoomi-kun, I realise you only just learned how to break rules that aren’t about letting people call you lord, like, two days ago, but take it from me – there are a lot of rules worth breaking, especially for people you care about. Ditching events you don’t even want to be at to find someone you actually do want to be with is pretty low on the list of sins.”

Kenma nods. “Kuro is right,” he says clearly. “Don’t worry – if Aran looks for you, we’ll explain.”

Kiyoomi frowns again, but Kuroo rolls his eyes.

“Just go already,” he says, making a shoo gesture with his hands. “We’ll go get Bokuto to start some extravagant dancing or something – Akaashi probably won’t agree to do it with him unless Konoha does too, but Yukie came with, and I’ll accompany them too. Go get your man, we’ll keep everyone entertained.”

Kiyoomi blinks. “Thank you both,” he says.

Kuroo looks genuinely moved, which is ridiculous, but Kenma merely nods, smiling slightly.

“I’ll go talk to the band,” he murmurs, touching Kuroo lightly on the arm as he goes.

“And I’ll go round up some owls,” Kuroo says, winking at Kiyoomi. “Don’t look so worried – you’ve got this.”

With that, he disappears into the crowd, making a beeline for the refreshments table, where Kiyoomi can see Shirofuku building a mound of snacks.

Kiyoomi snorts. He resolves to find Shirofuku later; it’s been a while since he saw her, and she’s always pleasant to catch up with. He thinks Osamu would like her.

With that in mind, he steels himself.

He has someone to find.

✧

Kiyoomi considers the kitchens, then the training grounds, but –

He finds himself following the path to the gardens.

It’s optimistic, he knows, or maybe even foolish, to think that Osamu would come here after their last encounter there, but something in his gut is telling him to try.

He makes his way past the bushes, pausing only to brush his fingers against the luminescent blooms. The petals are soft, like Osamu’s hands had been on his face. He wonders how he gets them so soft, considering how much he uses them to work. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to find out.

Kiyoomi pushes past the weeping willow leaves, weaves around the bushes, and finds himself on the path again. He breathes in deep, and steps forward, one foot after the other, until he finds himself in the clearing again.

Osamu is sitting there, looking at the stars.

Kiyoomi stands there, looking at him.

He lets a beat pass. Two. His heart is building a rhythm between his ribs – not quite as forceful as the other night, but still steady. Like it remembers how badly it was cracked last time, but wants to keep beating anyway.

Pick your truth, he thinks.

“Osamu,” he says softly.

For a second, there isn’t any movement. Then Osamu tilts his head back, baring the slender line of his throat, and Kiyoomi swallows.

“Sakusa?” he asks, and Kiyoomi can’t say anything. He just nods.

Osamu takes a deep breath, then he spins himself around so he’s facing Kiyoomi. “What – ” he cuts himself off, but his voice sounds unsure. Kiyoomi hates the idea that he made him sound that way.

“What are you doing here?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi exhales.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Osamu blinks, like that was the last thing he was expecting. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he could possibly have been expecting in its stead. It’s what he deserves.

“What?” Osamu says.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi repeats. “I shouldn’t have – ”

There are a lot of things he could say here. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have stayed. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have been scared.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he settles on.

Osamu looks up at him, searching his face intently. “Why did you leave?” His voice is soft. Gentle in its curiosity.

Kiyoomi’s heart aches.

“I got a little overwhelmed,” he says.

Osamu’s face immediately falls, and his expression turns apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he says, which makes Kiyoomi’s head spin. “I shouldn’t have – ”

“No,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “I got overwhelmed because I was scared. It’s not your fault.” He glances down at his feet, then he forces himself to meet Osamu’s eyes again. “I’ve just… never done this before,” he says awkwardly.

“I kind of guessed,” Osamu confesses, his voice fond.

Kiyoomi flushes, but he shakes his head. “I figured, but that’s not what I meant,” he says, the tiniest bit wry. “I’ve never really… felt this way before. I’ve certainly never broken the rules for someone before.”

Osamu’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he whispers.

“Oh,” Kiyoomi agrees.

Osamu blinks, then he tilts his head. “Not because?” he asks.

Kiyoomi frowns. “Not because of what?” he asks.

“You said you broke rules for me,” Osamu explains. “Not because of me?”

Kiyoomi thinks about this – mulls over the difference. “No,” he says in the end. “It wasn’t your fault. I wanted to do it, because you wanted me to come. I wanted to spend time with you.” He shrugs. “That’s not on you.”

Osamu hums. Then, eyes shining a little: “You wanted to spend time with me?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi admits. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“So, when you kissed me…” Osamu trails off.

Kiyoomi swallows. “You just looked so – ” He searches for the word. “So real, I suppose. You’re always pretty, but in that moment, it was like you were right there. Like I could reach out and touch you.” He grimaces. “It sounds stupid,” he mutters.

“You can,” Osamu says. There’s an urgent tone in his voice, like he’s trying to make something get through to Kiyoomi, like it matters to him that Kiyoomi understands this. “I’m right here. You can reach out and touch me.”

Kiyoomi hesitates. “Osamu, are you – ” he begins, before Osamu clicks his tongue – a move Kiyoomi is fairly sure he picked up from Kiyoomi himself – and reaches for the front of Kiyoomi’s tunic, tugging him down.

Kiyoomi goes willingly, the rhythm of his heart like a cavalcade of footsteps. Every inch of him marching forwards toward Miya Osamu.

Osamu tugs him forward until their foreheads are touching again. It’s a lot like two nights ago, except Kiyoomi is braced above Osamu this time, his palms splayed out on the ground, supporting his weight.

“If I kiss you, will you leave again?” Osamu asks. His tone is teasing, the look on his face light, but Kiyoomi thinks he detects a hint of vulnerability beneath it, and he shakes his head.

“Never again,” he promises, more a breath than a word, but meant with his entire heart nonetheless.

Osamu’s eyes darken. “I am going to kiss you now,” he informs Kiyoomi. “If that’s okay.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you again since we stopped,” Kiyoomi confesses. It’s true. Even when he was distressed, that was always an underlying truth: everything was overwhelming, he didn’t know how to navigate it, and Miya Osamu was so pretty that all he wanted to do was kiss him again.

All he wanted was him, full stop.

Osamu lets out a low, ragged breath, then he tilts his head up and seals his lips over Kiyoomi’s.

Kiyoomi sighs against his mouth, which is apparently a good thing, because Osamu starts kissing him a little more fiercely. It’s not hard, exactly, and it certainly doesn’t hurt, but it makes Kiyoomi think of his chest the other night. Bruising.

His lips feel tender enough to bruise.

It’s apt, Kiyoomi thinks, considering every inch of him feels like a livewire right now, all of him tender enough to bruise with every inch of Osamu that presses against him – his lips, his hands, his heart.

“I really like you, Miya Osamu,” Kiyoomi says once they finally break apart. He feels like he owes him this truth.

Osamu sucks in a breath, then he smiles, big and bright, a little like that sunrise on the first day they arrived at Inarizaki. Warm enough to light up the entire horizon.

“I like you too, Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says, his tone teasing, but his eyes utterly earnest.

Kiyoomi leans down and kisses him again.

✧

Shirofuku adjusts the shoulders of Kiyoomi’s fitted jacket, shifting the epaulettes so that they hang correctly.

“There you go,” she says cheerily. “Looking good, Sakusa!”

He smiles at her. “Thank you, Shirofuku,” he says. He turns to examine himself in the looking glass. The gold of the epaulettes and the large buttons closing the tunic across the left line of his torso complement the cream of the uniform, and the purple sash pinned across his torso from his shoulder is striking against it. Next to him, Motoya and Iizuna are wearing the same – further back, Kiyoomi can see the rest of the guard all dressed smartly. Well, mostly.

“I don’t know how to make it hang right,” Hakuba complains.

“I’ve got it,” Motoya says, clapping Kiyoomi on the shoulder with a grin.

“I can’t believe we’re at the point where you’re helping people dress correctly,” Kiyoomi comments, and Motoya just cheerfully makes a rude hand gesture at him. He slips into the crowd of guardsmen, evidently making his way towards Hakuba, and Kiyoomi glances at Iizuna.

“What do you think of the new colours?” he asks curiously.

“Purple isn’t really any better for me than red,” Iizuna says mournfully, “but the wedding attire is nice.”

“Yes, the purple is pretty subtle here,” Kiyoomi agrees.

Kuroo’s head pops up in the doorway, and Kiyoomi glances at him. “What?” he asks.

“Time for you guys to assemble,” Kuroo says. “Wow, Kiyoomi-kun, who knew you could clean up that nice?”

“I did,” a familiar voice volunteers, and Kiyoomi turns to see Osamu standing behind him.

“Shouldn’t you be helping seat people?” he asks wryly.

Osamu shrugs. “The others can handle it for a moment,” he says, then amends: “Well. Gin and Rin can handle it. ‘Tsumu’s still mourning the lack of blue, I think. Something about how it brought out his best colouring.” Osamu rolls his eyes, and Kiyoomi stifles a laugh.

Behind him, Kiyoomi can hear the sounds of his men filing out. They must be assembling, he realises. And giving him a private moment, most likely.

“I like the purple,” Kiyoomi says conversationally.

“So do I,” Osamu says, smiling a little. He lifts his hand to cup Kiyoomi’s cheek. “You really do look nice,” he whispers.

Kiyoomi’s cheeks flush, but he manages to raise an eyebrow. “Nice, huh?”

“Handsome,” Osamu corrects, grinning a little. “Beautiful, even.”

Now Kiyoomi really is blushing, and he scowls at Osamu. For some ridiculous reason, that makes him grin even wider. “Okay, that’s enough out of you,” he says. “Absolute menace. Go help your friends.”

Osamu laughs, that same clear sound from the hallway in which they met. It still rings in Kiyoomi’s ears. Sticks with him in a way he didn’t realise any sound could.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me I look nice too?” Osamu asks, spinning a little. It dislodges his hair slightly. Unfairly, it makes him look even more handsome.

“You look okay,” he says, sniffing.

“Just okay, huh?” Osamu asks, affecting a wounded look.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, fonder than he knows what to do with. “You look like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he says. It’s the truest thing he could have said.

Osamu stares at him, open-mouthed. Kiyoomi smiles, his cheeks a little pink, then squeezes his hand once before leaving the chamber to assemble with his men.

The guardsmen are assembled near the thrones, ready to stand witness to their prince marrying his chosen love. On the other side of the central carpet, several of the household staff stand witness for Prince Shinsuke. Kiyoomi spots Kurosu-san amongst them, and Miya-san too. His cheeks flush again at the thought of what he just said to the man’s son, but he dismisses the thought as he takes his place at the head of the guard.

The central carpet is purple, lined with gold, and all the guests’ rows are located there. From the left of the throne room, there is a red carpet leading towards the thrones; on the right, a blue one. They’re leading from the far corners of the room, creating a trident sort of shape from the thrones, with the carpets on either side of the guests’ seating.

Aran’s guard are on the left, standing on the red path; Kita’s men stand on the right, watching over the blue.

Finally the music begins. Kiyoomi watches as Osamu, Atsumu, Ginjima and Suna duck into the seats in the front row, sliding in next to Kuroo and Kenma.

Then he hears footsteps, and he turns his head.

Aran is walking down the red carpet, accompanied by his younger brother. Kiyoomi glances to the other side of the hall, and spots Prince Shinsuke holding the arm of a very small, old lady. His mind flashes to the portrait he saw all those weeks ago, and then to Osamu in the garden. Yumie-obaachan. So this is Prince Shinsuke’s beloved grandmother.

Aran given away by the youthful; Prince Shinsuke by the elderly. Something about it feels right, Kiyoomi thinks. Like it aligns with everything the pair have been trying to do with their uniting of everything in their lives.

Kiyoomi notices Aran’s eyes. They’re fixed on Prince Shinsuke.

It makes Kiyoomi smile.

When Aran and his brother pass the guardsmen, they pause. On the other side, Prince Shinsuke seems to be doing the same with his men, and even the four boys in the front row.

“Thank you all,” Aran says. His voice is choked with emotion, and Kiyoomi resists the urge to whip out a handkerchief and hand it to him.

Sometimes, there are emotions that matter more than proper conduct. He thinks Aran would agree with him.

“I thank you all for your service and consistent support,” Aran continues. “I would not be here without any of you – literally, considering the amount of times you have defended me, but also in every sense of the word.” He smiles. “You are my friends, and I thank you for your constant companionship.”

Kiyoomi bows his head. He can feel the rest of his men doing the same. He lifts his head, and looks Aran in the eyes.

“Well met, my prince,” he says for the last time. After this ceremony, a wedding and coronation in one, he will forevermore be Kiyoomi’s king.

“Well met, my friend,” Aran says in response, smiling so fiercely his eyes are clinking. Kiyoomi hopes there will never be a last time for that response.

He nods, and watches as Aran and Prince Shinsuke finally meet at the altar, their beloved family members by their sides.

The blessings are given – three fingers to each forehead, anointing them with the crushed liquid of the luminescent flowers – and the vows are exchanged – I will love you forever and in our union, no soul shall be turned away wanting and this is our kingdom, built on home and hearth and hope itself – and through it all, Kiyoomi stands vigilant, watching as his prince and dear friend takes the first step for the rest of his life.

Atsumu starts wolf-whistling when Aran kisses his prince – his king, Kiyoomi thinks, slightly struck by the phrase – and Motoya and Hakuba quickly join in.

Kiyoomi makes no move to stop them. Everyone should celebrate this day, in every way their heart calls for.

✧

“And you’re sure about this?” King Shinsuke asks, looking at Osamu intently.

Osamu juts out his chin, looking determined.

“I am,” he says firmly.

King Shinsuke glances at Aran. “And you know Bokuto well?”

Aran nods. “Koutarou will take good care of him,” he says. “His court has long been known as a space of light.”

King Shinsuke absorbs this, and nods.

“Then I wish you well on your endeavour, Osamu,” he says, smiling gently. “But we will miss you very much.”

Kiyoomi thinks of the way Atsumu’s face had twisted when he’d first heard the news. Understatement.

“Still, it is a long journey to the Owlands, and Fukurodani is deep within it,” Aran says.

“Yeah, and Bokuto was telling me that the Ironlands have been very storm-heavy this year,” Motoya is quick to put in. Kiyoomi frowns at him, confused.

“Exactly,” Aran says. “It would not do to travel alone, especially when you are inexperienced with the route.”

King Shinsuke raises an eyebrow. Kiyoomi recognises the expression as the same one he had worn that day at the practice ring. Something in his heart stills.

“What do you propose, my king?” King Shinsuke asks, looking quietly thrilled – as he always does – to call Aran that.

“Kiyoomi,” Aran calls. Kiyoomi snaps to attention, looking up at him.

“Your Majesty?” he asks.

Aran’s smile is warm. “Would you do this court the kindness of taking on an additional duty?”

Kiyoomi blinks.

“A royal escort would make me feel better,” King Shinsuke muses. “Osamu is a very dear friend to me.”

“I would be comforted as well,” Miya-san calls from the side of the hall.

Osamu’s eyes are wide, and he glances at Kiyoomi, who can only stare back.

“Would you be willing, my friend?” Aran asks again.

Kiyoomi looks up at him, then scans the court – Motoya and Iizuna, grinning from across the court; Miya-san, nodding at him; the kings themselves, raising twin eyebrows at him; Suna in the shadows, no doubt listening in for Atsumu, quirking a lip up at Kiyoomi; and finally Osamu, whose eyes are shining – as he recognises this great kindness they are offering him.

He had thought he would spend a year at the castle, wishing for Osamu to return, but wishing even more for his adventure to be a success.

This is a much more precious chance.

“I would be honoured, Your Majesties,” he says.

Osamu smiles at him, that small, slightly crooked one that always feels like a secret.

Kiyoomi smiles back.

✧

The skies are blue the day they set out.

Kiyoomi still does not believe in omens, but he believes in the man seated on the horse beside him, and the utter determination in his expression. The wonder.

Kiyoomi may not believe in omens, but he believes in Miya Osamu.

This feels like the first day of the rest of his life.

He has faith it will be a good one.