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Isagi Yoichi never had much love for feasts and banquets.
He remembers sneaking up some as a young squire for hedge knights, on the nights of tournaments - standing on the edge of a tree line with a curious gaze as he watched nobles gorge themselves with pies and cheese and wine, the smoke of their fires a sting to his eyes. It smelled of scorched meat and sweet honey, of sour ale, warm bread, stews and soups and all things delicious ; but feasts were loud, knights and bannermen assembled under sigils and well in their cups. Their laughs ran raucous past morning light, hands often finding solace on the thighs of camp wenches, and under their dresses as well ; and Isagi found that when his eyes drifted to the tables at the near end of the feast, where the highborn nobles and the King’s court were seated in their silks and velvet doublets, the temperature seemed to drop a couple degrees at least.
Isagi was born with eyes big as the moon, and as a kid his gaze was sharp and his mind quick ; he made a fine squire. Even without seeing the highborn’s faces, their heads maybe the size of a needle’s eye in the distance, it was easy to sense the frigid contempt pour from them and seep over camp in an aqueous veil. People would say they ought to feel this way for the lesser nobles and the common folk - a birthright. Yet Isagi had found it strange. He stood on the edge of their camp, on the invisible limit separating their worlds like oil ripples on water, stale bread and dried sausage in hand, and thought that bodies all looked the same whether they were dressed in cloth-of-gold or hemp tunics.
A whole war later, now in his mid-twenties, and Isagi finds himself to have crossed the invisible line. People walk around him in the busy banquet hall, servants and cooks and castellans rushing to turn their austere castle into a regal home for the Mikage delegation’s arrival.
Isagi had fought in the war for years ; elevated himself from infantry soldier to the noble standing of general, and bestowed the highest honours he could receive by being stationed at court, directly under the King’s command … and yet, on days such as today, Isagi would pick up his sword in a heartbeat and go back to the ugliness of battlefields if it meant he could escape his duties of attending a diplomatic feast.
he sighs, sensing a headache on the horizon - already, the tight collar of his embroidered military uniform scratches at his skin like hands slowly pressing on his throat. Combined with the thick, rich fabric of his coat, Isagi can’t fathom how he’s to survive the night when the hall fills with pompous nobles and the air grows warm and stuffy from their breathing.
I need a drink, he can’t help but think. The day is far from being done.
“ Isagi, “ a familiar voice calls to him, and immediately he knows - there’s only a few people who would dare call him by his name, and not his title.
(Not that Isagi cares - but at court, there is etiquette. And their King is known for his rigid enforcement of any sort of rule.)
Oliver Aiku stands in front of him in the Royal Guard’s uniform, draped in a red-and-gold cloak over a shining armour ; on his breast, the seal of Captain of the guard shines ever so brightly, as he prides himself with the status. There is a constant air of insouciance that follows Aiku wherever he goes - paired with his shaggy hair, and his rugged looks, he made for an odd sight, and yet the man was the most reliable Captain any King could ask for.
” Captain. “ Isagi nods, looking up - Aiku was annoyingly tall. “ Can I help you with something ? “
Aiku sighs, scratching his beard stubbles ; there’s a veil of something in his eyes that makes Isagi’s skin prickle. The stench of bad news.
“ In fact, yeah, you can. “ The captain cocks his hip, rests his hand casually on the golden hand guard of the sword that peeks through his cape. “ M’fraid His Grace is having one of his spells again. Almost frightened the poor wench to death with his yelling when she dropped an empty cup of water while cleaning his chambers. “
Oh, but of course. A feast on the horizon meant the King’s humors would grow increasingly foul until he surpassed his usual grumpiness and turned into the living incarnation of Hell itself. Isagi pinches his brow - forget the drink, forget the headache. He craved death.
” Say no more, “ Isagi mumbles - as a General, he already had an extensive list of tasks to juggle with on the daily. Calming the King on the day of a feast was but one of them. “ I will handle His Grace. “
As he takes his leave, he turns towards Aiku, glances at him with one stern eye.
” I expect you to be freshly shaved as a newborn babe before the King graces us with his presence - have Sendou give you a clean haircut as well. “
“ Aye aye, M’lord, “ Aiku sings mockingly, gracing him with a curt little bow - Isagi didn’t care much for his insubordination. He had bigger concerns on his plate.
He travels the corridors in strides, barely acknowledging servants and guards ; the severe look on his face is enough to keep most people at bay. He reaches the King’s tower in a record time, climbs the stairs two at a time, huffing and puffing, mood successfully soured by the time he’s reached the top, turned into a sweaty mess. Isagi might have hated feasts for a long time, but his equal dislike for towers was rather novel.
” Your Grace, “ He announces while knocking on the door ; silence welcomes him back.
Isagi waits. He knocks a second time, louder this time, waits some more. No response. Typical.
Any other man opening the door without his King’s consent would probably end up in the dungeons - Isagi had privileges no one else at court could enjoy.
The King’s private chamber greets him, and it’s a sight he’s seen many times : the rich tapestries hanging from the walls, the sculpted columns of the immense bedpost sitting in the middle of the room, curtains drawn in a veil over the most private corner of His Grace’s life. The table has been cleaned from the eve’s supper, and there’s an open book lying on a chair, forgotten. Isagi walks up to the bed, peeks through the curtains ; the bedsheets are tangled, feathered pillows still creased from the King laying on them the night before. His Grace is nowhere to be found.
The wicker door leading to the King’s balcony is ajar, and Isagi’s steps lead him right through it ; the balcony is wide, almost as big as any private room in the castle, and there are potted plants and flowers weaved into a curtain, right over an ornate chair where a man is currently benched, sulking.
Barou is sitting in the shades, strong thighs dressed in leathers and cotton shirt opened, barely draping his muscular chest. His hair is mussed and still damp, long, dark strands framing his face and shoulders, leaving beads of water nested in his collarbone. His face and nose are made of brusque angles, the court’s whisperings claiming one could sharpen a sword off the King’s jaw ; yet Barou’s eyes are his most impressive feature - they are a profound red, striking so intensely it sometimes felt like being stabbed in the chest with a dagger. Just as they are staring at Isagi, now.
“ Leave me alone, “ Barou’s tone is commanding, angry.
Isagi wouldn’t be a famed war General if the temper of his King was enough to frighten him ; he walks slowly with a leisurely pace and stations himself in front of the brooding man.
” Would that I could, You Grace, “ his tone is light, yet assured, like the kite who easily surfs the breeze on a sunny day. “ But the Mikage delegation is almost at the gates ; King Reo is expected to walk the halls of your castle in the hour that comes. It would be a shame if he found the King missing. “
Barou grunts, but says nothing ; Isagi is wise enough to suppress the smile that threatens to spill over his lips. He had learned long enough that poking enraged beasts with the point of your sword brought you nothing if not deserved scars and a lesson in humility.
The King stares at him some more, and his eyes grow hungry - another sort of gaze that was reserved for Isagi only.
” You clean up well, “ that was a compliment, in Barou’s own words. “ Come to me. “
Isagi sits on Barou’s lap, lets the King wrap strong arms against his slender waist ; his sovereign’s presence is all engulfing, and he plants his lips in the crook of Isagi’s neck, breathes in the smell of his honey shampoo. Isagi’s hands are quick to find refuge in Barou’s hair, and he gently massages his scalp, earning pleased grunts from the man.
” I should cancel this stupid feast, “ Barou grumbles, and his hands fall to Isagi’s asscheeks, squeeze them slightly, earning a soft, raspy breath from the smaller man. “ Undress you on the way to my bed and ride you like one breaks a steed all night. “
Isagi’s cheeks are flushed, and he feels himself grow hard in his already constricting pants, the King’s forceful grip pushing his hardness against his own growing member. He lets Barou unbutton his collar to plant a blossoming flower on his naked shoulder, a shiny, purple mark for his eyes only to see.
” That would be scandalous, Your Grace, “ Isagi huffs, his hand slipping under Barou’s shirt to claw at the vast expanse of his back. He keeps grinding on his lap like a dog in heat, suppressing a moan by biting one of his fingers.
” Shouei, “ Barou murmurs on his skin, where a second flower sprouts into the King’s personal garden. “ Call me Shouei. “
“ Shouei, “ Isagi breathes on the King’s lips, before kissing him, slow and deep.
His hips are now moving at a devilish pace, the arousal so violent Isagi sees white for a second ; he has to press urgently into Barou’s chest for the King to stop moving as well, not without an affronted look on his face. He almost doesn’t stop, for it is a King’s job to take until he is satisfied.
” We do not have time, Your Grace, “ Isagi successfully manages to keep a steady voice - his own chambers are far away from the King’s, and he refuses to spend the evening with soiled breeches. “ Your guests are coming. “
Barou stares at him angrily, his mouth turned upside down in an ugly scowl ; it pierces him so, just not in the way Isagi had hoped.
” Fine. Have your way, “ the man mutters in the crook of Isagi’s neck, defeated.
He buttons Isagi’s collar back with careful hands ; to the people, King Barou was a hard man to love, strict and unwavering in his ruling. He was known to be a just King, but he dispensed said justice with harsh words and an even harsher hand, for a King’s idea of justice was not always what the people seeked. To Isagi only, Barou was a gentle man capable of unwavering love. He had called him his only weakness, at times ; Isagi could have replied that the King was equally his.
When he is done dressing Isagi back, and when their ardor has fanned, Barou brings both their foreheads together with a firm but tender grasp.
” Sometimes, I am possessed to steal horses from the stables and kidnap you, so we can both escape this farce, “ Barou murmurs in a low voice, eyes averted. “ Live like free men, and make love under the stars, far away from our burden. “
“ It would hardly be stealing, Your Grace, “ Isagi muses, eyes so close to his lover's their eyelashes dance gently on skin. “ The horses are yours. “
The entire realm is yours, Isagi refrains from saying ; it is still true. Just like I am.
The King shifts awkwardly in his seat, and he closes his eyes, suddenly shy - a sight so rare comets paled in comparison.
” Do you ever regret serving under my banners ? “ The question comes to him, odd.
Isagi ponders upon the words - there was a time where it could have been true. Isagi had never been after glory, at least not the kind most knights spent their lives chasing to an early grave. He was a smart man - a capable fighter. He saw the people in need of a hero, and so he picked a side, letting his sword sing a song of war and freedom. The Kingmaker, they had whispered on the red fields when Barou Shouei had picked his hand and raised it in the air with a bloodied claymore and his name on the tip of his tongue. He thought he’d swing his sword on his back and ride his horse in the sunset when all the fighting was over, and let the minstrels spread his legend while he traveled the world in search of his next fable.
But the King refused to let him leave, and so Isagi had stayed - and found that the vapid court politics became far more tolerable when you could kiss Kings and take them to bed. So Isagi hated feasts ; he hated noblemen, and castle life, but he loved Barou much, much more.
” No, “ Isagi finally answers after a while - he lifts Barou’s chin so the King’s eyes meet his, and learn of the truth behind his word.
Barou kisses him, gently, softly ; Isagi slips from the King’s lap, lets the hand chase him as he offers his in return.
” Come, “ Isagi says. “ Duty calls. “
He helps Barou get up from his chair, and the King looks sour still.
” What is duty, if not sacrifice ? “ The bitter words leave Barou’s mouth like ash falling from the fireplace.
“ To you it is, perhaps. “ Isagi gently intertwines their fingers together, kisses the rough knuckles of his lover - his King. “ To me, duty is love. “
The King finally smiles a genuine smile - it is delicate, and beautiful, and blinding. Love.
” Out, “ Barou commands when they enter his chambers, and the shirt slips from his broad shoulders. “ I will begin changing. “
It is nothing I haven’t seen before. The tease is on Isagi’s tongue, but he remains silent, only smiling in a mocking grin, eyes a pale fire.
“ Your Grace. “
His bow is deep, and his walk devoted when he turns to leave.
The King’s gaze remains on Isagi long after the heavy oak door has closed on its hinges.