Work Text:
'"I desire violently -
and I wait."
- Anais Nin, The Voice
Harua watches as Jo takes off her helmet and mail coif, her dark hair spilling like ink down her shoulders, beautiful and stark against the shiny silver armour.
There's a white scar which goes from her left ear through her cheek all the way down to her small square chin. She's as beautiful as ever, as fierce as can be.
Harua’s heart is still beating wildly from the sprint earlier, his appearance disheveled, forehead sweaty, hair sticking to it. It's an appearance entirely unbecoming of the heir to a throne. Jo had given him no warning, waking him up in the middle of the night, her calloused hand closing like a vice grip around his wrist and yanking him violently, breaking into a mad dash down the many stairs and corridors of the castle. Spiriting Harua away from the comfort of his bed, of his kingdom. His feet bare and unaccustomed to the outside, get easily torn up as he steps on sharp sticks and sharper stones, leaving a thin trail of blood behind. When Jo realizes her mistake she immediately hauls him over her back and takes off anew. She utters no words of apology, entirely too embarrassed of her carelessness, the gal to be the one to inflict damage on the prince. Harua’s not mad, not in the slightest, but he can see the mortification written all over Jo’s face.
She's a woman of utmost dignity, strength unmatched and unchallenged. Having Harua entrusted to her was a sign of just how invaluable her service was. A job no one else could possibly take on but her. No one else's sword, hands, claws could protect Harua like hers.
It's unlike Jo, Harua thinks, to be this out of her depth, this clearly unprepared. Not her fault — a surprise attack, a coup d’état — these things are impossible to predict. Even still. It's a strange sight, unfamiliar. Harua trusts her, he's not afraid, but it's a puzzling situation. Still, the sight of her back eases his discomfort. Harua can rest easy if it's in her hands.
“My prince,” she calls softly. Jo had put him down to rest against a tree earlier while she went to fetch some water. Her face is damp, the dirt and grime washed clean, giving way to the scars and moles underneath. She's otherworldly, Harua thinks wishfully as he traces the sight with his eyes alone. His heart is beating wildly in his chest even though he's had time to rest. The proximity is making him feel weak and vulnerable but it's not something he minds much at all.
Harua's breath hitches as Jo starts cleaning the scratches on his feet, washing away the dirt and the dried up blood so they can heal properly.
“My prince,” she calls again. Harua finds himself wishing he could trap her voice in a shell, put it to his ear every night and drift to sleep with the soft sound of it echoing through his body. “I apologize, due to my negligence we almost didn't escape in time. I beg for your forgiveness.” She's not looking him in the eye. She rarely does. She's allowed to, Harua wants to tell her. Please look at me, is what he wants to say but it never manages to make it past the tight seal of his lips.
“No need.” is all he manages. “I trust your judgement, Jo.” Harua doesn't ask why they're running because it doesn't matter.
He doesn't want to know if someone's trying to assassinate him or take him prisoner as a bargaining chip. He was born into this life so he lives it, whether he's satisfied with it matters very little. Just like how Jo, though brilliant and outstanding, will never rise beyond being the king’s left hand, his most trusted commander and strategist, Harua will also never be anything less than the prince, the kingdom’s future. He’ll never be commonfolk and Jo will never be nobility.
Harua can be a proactive monarch but he doesn't want to. He’s made peace with his place in this world. Someone to be admired and marvelled at. A figure, a figment, never his own person, neve someone capable of desire because desire means weakness. He steals glances at Jo, wishes he could live safely behind her ribs, in the depths of her being, but he never crosses the line, never actually says it out loud.
“My right ankle hurts.” Harua lies and Jo without so much as a nod extends her long slim fingers and starts massaging his leg. Her touch is ice cold because of the water and Harua shivers like a leaf. He's cold and her touch only makes it worse but he craves it still, an invisible force keeping him from pulling his leg away from her grasp.
“Thank you.” Harua whispers.
“No need to, my prince.” Jo’s looking down and the dark hair cascading down hides her face almost entirely. Harua’s hand twitches, he wants to run it through the shiny locks, to tuck a strand behind her red ear. Naturally, he does no such thing. He desires violently and waits.
Jo never asked to be looked at like a beloved and all Harua wants is to do right by her, so looking is all he's allowed himself to do.
“We need to find shelter before dusk breaks.” Jo says. Harua lets himself be picked up again. Jo has put her helmet back on so his arms wrap around cold metal instead of her beautiful neck. It's better this way, safer, easier.
They reach a village before long and are welcomed into a small hut. Harua only has Jo and the clothes on his back so he can't repay the kindness. Once this whole thing blows over he'll be sure to send someone back.
The kind woman feeds them, though the food is scarce, and makes the bed in her late son's room for them to rest at. Harua feels the adrenaline giving way to bone deep tiredness. Jo helps him change into a pair of old scrubs the woman provided. They're surprisingly soft and unsurprisingly too big. Harua lies down and tries not to say something stupid but fails.
“Jo, I'm scared. Won't you lie down with me?” Jo’s eyes betray nothing. There's no imperceptible twitch or a raised eyebrow, no appalment or confusion. She just looks at him quietly for a few seconds and lets out a sigh which could mean just about anything. Harua’s no longer cold but he feels a shiver run down his spine, regardless.
“You know I cannot do that, my prince.” Harua nods but his face must have done something because instead of letting the conversation die down, Jo adds: “I'll stand as close as possible to your bedpost. Nothing can hurt you as long as I'm here.”
And he trusts Jo. As she makes her way to his bed and stands tall, Harua knows that he'll come to no harm under her watchful eye. The universe trembles at the sight of her devotion.
“My prince,” she speaks up again. Harua is starting to succumb to sleep but snaps his eyes open quickly. “Is it not time for you to start looking for a dutiful wife? Your parents are growing worried.” Bile rises at the back of Harua’s throat but he swallows it down.
“I know it's not my place to ask but please consider their plague. I.. understand if you're not in want of a wife but it's only proper for a prince to have one. I'm sure she'll understand if you take on a lov-”
“Jo, stop talking.” It's not a command so much as a plea. Harua knows. Many a princesses have been offered to him but his swift rejection came about before his parents could even show him their portraits. What does it matter anyways? None of them are Jo.
“I do wish to have a wife.” The night sky is cloud ridden so Harua can barely see Jo’s face but her eyes give off a dim spark so he focuses there. “Not one of those my parents want me to wed to, I want..” He cannot finish the sentence. Always falls just short of voicing out what he wants. It's cruel. He shouldn't want things or people because it's unfair on them, puts an insurmountable weight on their shoulders.
Jo, brilliant and smart, a woman who's seen through every scheme against Harua and his kingdom, who's been by his side since he was thirteen, figures it out. Of course she does. Maybe she's always known but had until now given him grace, pretended not to notice what lurks just underneath.
“My prince, we can't.” She's firm but kind.
“I know that.” Of course, he does.
“Even,” her voice cracks. “Even if I were of the same standing as you, I cannot marry you nor can I carry your children.” Harua looks at her wide shoulders, her Adam's apple bobbing as she swallows, her clean-shaven face. She's lovely. No matter how much he stares he never tires of the sight of her. Jo is so strong, so earthly, so beautiful. Is it so wrong to imagine a future with someone so dear?
“I know that. It doesn't matter. I just,” Harua allows himself this moment of selfishness. He wants to say it, just once. To feel the words roll from his tongue, vibrate through the air. “I just want you, only you. Everyone else pales in comparison, is second to my lack of you.”
Harua hears rustling but Jo remains silent. If the confession did reach her she shows no sight of it. Harua waits — a minute, two, ten. Nothing. And then a pair of chapped lips against his own. They come just as quickly as they go.
“In my next life I'll reborn as a woman, who can do right by you, Harua.”
“But I want you as you are now, Jo.”
Harua’s eyes turn glassy but he doesn't cry. For Jo’s sake as well as for his own. Tomorrow he'll be a prince again and Jo his most trusted knight. In a year he'll marry but on the altar, in his wedding bed, before his people, as the crown graces his head, and in death, he'll still be the Harua who loves, who lacks Jo. Just like anything else lacking must be a habit he still hasn't adapted to, that's why it hurts so bad. Surely in due time he’ll get used to it.