Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His one regret, he realizes as the tip of a halberd ushers him toward the cliff side, is that he never finished teaching his apprentice how to craft the perfect blade.

They really thought he was a warlock—a veteran knight commander turned reluctant blacksmith instructor. Oh well. He’d rather go out like this, protecting Hizashi and the kids, even if it means false accusations and execution.

The roar of the wind billowing up from the sheer face of the cliff is louder than the clanking of his shackles. It screams, thunderous and insistent, whipping and pulling strands of his dark locks like a child throwing a tantrum. It drowns out the final jeers of his captors—a small blessing, but he’ll take it.

He wonders idly if it will hurt. They say this particular beast likes to toy with its prey. Years of capturing meals so graciously delivered in this fashion have spoiled and bored it, so it entertains itself with games of cat and mouse. But perhaps Shouta will be lucky. Perhaps the great Dragon God Shirakumo of the Skies will be hungry today.

Despite the grim acceptance of his fate, Shouta’s stomach still lurches when his toes are pushed to the edge of the cliff. Loose rock crumbles away, dropping into the abyss. They’re so far up on the side of this mountain that he can only make out specks signifying the village in the distance. If the dragon doesn’t catch him in its talons, the fall will certainly kill him.

The point of the halberd jabs into his spine, a final push, a final choice. He can take the plunge on his own accord, showing repentance for his sins, or he can rely on the knights to enact justice. No one in their right mind would willingly leap, however, and Shouta instinctively jerks backward. It’s a mistake, of course. The halberd is sharp and held firm, and the flailing motion forces the soldier to take action. The spear slams forward, Shouta’s balance is lost, his footing disappears, and he plummets.

The gut-wrenching terror and sickening feeling of his stomach rising seems to last only a moment. Then, everything is slow. He can count his heartbeats, wondering which will be his last. Adrenaline or fear or perhaps a lack of oxygen fuzzies his vision. He’s losing consciousness, which is a good thing. Maybe the impact won’t hurt.

Just as his eyes begin to flutter shut, he sees a sight he’ll never be able to properly describe. The vast sky above is decorated with puffy white clouds hovering below streaks of white. Layers of shimmering mist block the light of the sun. That is…until the clouds part.

It’s as if a mighty gust of wind scatters the skyscape. Sunlight pours in through the rift in the clouds, blinding and brilliant. It’s so bright that its glint makes it impossible to see the details of the shape diving from above. There’s only the explosive glow of light glimmering on something reflective, the blur of motion, and the ear-shattering roar that ricochets off the mountains.

Shouta loses consciousness.

The smell is what awakens him.

The scent of burning meat and smoke registers in his brain, and he jolts awake, horrified that the scent is his own flesh being crisped for the devouring. But no, when his vision clears through the splitting pain in his skull, he finds himself…unscathed?

Well, unscathed isn’t quite right. His back is in agony, stinging as though covered in deep wounds. He can’t move his right arm and suspects it’s broken. His head feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of a dozen boulders, but…he’s alive. Alive, and not currently being cooked by a dragon.

The source of the smell is actually a carcass of some kind laying on the floor a few feet away from him. It must be the beast’s meal, yet the sky god is nowhere to be found. Shouta observes his surroundings in confusion. He’d expected…well, rumors and legends said that the dragon lived in a cave above the clouds, but this is no cave. Instead, he finds himself in a structure. The floor is flat and laid with stone bricks, some of which retain a shimmery polish, but most which are cracked with grass and flowers growing in the spaces between. A tall, arched ceiling and ornate pillars tells him that these are the ruins of some holy place. Elaborate engravings of clouds, dragons, and lightning confirms that this was once a temple devoted to the worship of the sky god. He’s heard of such ruins tucked high up in the mountains where pilgrims used to travel to give offerings. But recent centuries have turned reverence into fear, and few pray to the dragons anymore.

Yet here is where the dragon chooses to call home?

A sickening realization strikes him when his gaze combs over the animal carcass again, noting the long gashes in its torso. I’m alive, he thinks. And that means the beast wants to play.

He has to escape. He has to try.

Ignoring his pain, he rises to his feet, swaying slightly as stars burst in his vision. There’s still no sign of the dragon, and the ruins are completely silent. Yet, it must be close, judging by the recently charred meat on the ground.

He moves as quietly as possible, gritting his teeth as he makes for the grand archway ahead of him. He trudges into the sunlight, cautiously checking the skies for the beast. Seeing nothing, he descends the steps into a massive courtyard. Here, evidence of the dragon’s residence is everywhere. Gashes from talons mark the stone. Dried bones litter the ground. White and blue scales shimmer in the sunlight, along with odd feathers and down that are too large for any bird. And, in the corner of the courtyard, is what can only be described as a nest. Constructed from animal hides, entire branches of trees and leaves, and—most notably—human clothes and blankets, the nest is big enough to engulf Shouta’s entire smithy from the village.

He creeps past it, trying to stick to the shadows of pillars as he approaches the ground beyond the ruins. The relief he feels after sneaking undetected beyond the entryway is short lived, however. Now, Shouta finds himself stranded, gazing down yet another steep cliff into the crevices of the mountain range. He looks frantically around him, hoping for some route down, knowing that humans once climbed here to build a sanctuary for the dragon. Dread coils in his stomach when he sees the collapsed ruins of an old bridge, swept away along with chunks of stone, the only connecting piece from the dragon ruins to the slope beyond.

There is no escape from here.

Perhaps he could climb down the jagged rocks to safety, if not for his broken arm. As it stands, Shouta has no hope of fleeing the dragon’s den, which leaves him with only two options, each ultimately resulting in his death. He can take his own life and leap into the chasm beneath him, or resign himself to becoming the dragon’s next meal.

The choice is simple. A fall will be quick and painless, supposing the dragon doesn’t just swoop him up as it had before. Preferable to being gnawed on and clawed up by a bored god-beast.

Still, willingly taking the plunge without a halberd pressed to his spine isn’t an easy task. He stares over the ledge, insides twisting at the thought of falling again. And what if he doesn’t make it? What if the fall doesn’t kill him but cripples him instead? What if this is part of the dragon’s game and it’s waiting nearby to catch its prey again?

He contemplates for too long. His blood runs cold when a shadow suddenly falls over him, followed by the scratch of claws on stone. He lurches around to face the monster, then immediately falls to his knees, all fight and all hope drained away instantly.

The creature is towering. Its white scales glimmer in the sunlight, shifting with little ripples that cause a holographic, purple effect when the sun hits them just right. Twisting, ivory white horns protrude from its skull in a bed of spiky scales and pale blue fur with strands so thin that they’re nearly transparent. The fur trails down its neck and spine, also draping over its shoulders and drawing together in a v shape on its chest. Little feathers (well, little in comparison to the beast’s size) blend with scales on its arms, legs, and the outspread wings held aloft. Shades of blue accent the white of its body along its chest, stomach, the underside of its wings and tail. 

And its eyes… They’re unnatural, not a static shade like human eyes. Instead, they swirl with blue mist, as if made of clouds. They bear no pupils, at least, not until Shouta takes an instinctive step back toward the ledge. Then, like bolts of lightning, yellow slits widen in the hazy blue mist and the dragon moves.

Shouta lets out a startled cry and lurches backward, falling instantly. He’s barely begun to drop, however, when a clawed hand wraps around his body. A single hand, fully encompassing him from thighs to shoulders.

It hoists him up so effortlessly, nostrils flaring and expelling mist with the guttural huff the beast makes.

Shouta cries out in pain as his broken arm is jarred by the pressure. The dragon reacts with a low growl, ruffles its wings, then suddenly leaps into the air, carrying Shouta over the courtyard wall and landing in its nest. It drops him unceremoniously in the center of the nest, then bounds away fluidly, somehow moving lightly and buoyantly as it disappears into the sanctuary.

Shouta has barely had time to process any of this before the creature returns. In its great maw is the animal carcass. It drops it beside Shouta, makes an atrocious grinding sound with its teeth, and also spits out…the shackles that had bound Shouta before his attempted execution. The chains are broken and mangled, nothing but crumpled scrap now, leaving Shouta wondering when—and how—the dragon got them off of him.

More importantly, what does this bizarre action mean?

It leans back, narrowing its eyes at him before pushing the carcass toward Shouta with its talons. He recoils on instinct, confused, disturbed, and disgusted. What is this? Is it trying to feed me? Like a bird?

“No games,” he says in a shaky voice. “Get it over with.” He has no idea if it can even understand him and the beast gives no indication either way. Instead, it lowers its hulking body into the nest, long, lizard-like form coiling to encircle Shouta. His eyes pinch shut and he waits for its tail to wrap around and suffocate him, or for its teeth to snap down on his head. But the pain doesn’t come. When he finally opens his eyes, he finds the creature with its head resting on its front claws, and its misty blue eyes fixed on Shouta.

There it stays. For hours, as the sun creeps toward the horizon and the sky begins to fill with stars. Unblinking. Completely still. Shouta doesn’t move either, too terrified of the predator whose unnatural body has him caged here on this floating prison, isolated from everything and everyone. He stares back at the dragon until pain and exhaustion begin to chip away at him. Eventually, he succumbs, too tired to care about what the creature might do when his eyes close.

Not that it matters. Shouta has no hope of escape and no future. This is where he’ll die, as slowly or quickly as the dragon god wishes.

Three days pass and still, Dragon God Shirakumo of the Skies has not devoured its human prey.

Shouta lives in perpetual fear and confusion. Every day he wonders when the beast will turn on him. His waking hours are spent studying its behavior, trying to understand why it hasn’t killed or maimed him yet. Its behavior so far has not been aggressive. It spends most of its time observing him with matching intensity, lidless eyes always fixed on Shouta. At times, it takes flight, glorious wings stretching across the sky as it springs into the air with the unnatural grace it possesses. It roars, spins, and loops among the clouds before disappearing—sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours.

Whenever it leaves the nest, Shouta tries to concoct a way out. He’s explored every brick of the ruins, every stone of the mountaintop. He thinks his best bet is to climb down the rubble of the collapsed bridge that once led pilgrims here to worship. The problem is that his arm is broken, and until it heals, he can’t hope to make the perilous journey down.

During one period of absence, Shouta creates a brace for his arm, using items from the nest. It isn’t easy, but the task is made simpler using tools he found inside the church. Evidence of human occupancy still exists in the small side rooms and towers connected to the main sanctuary of the ruins. In one room, he’s surprised to find tools and clothes miraculously well-preserved despite the possible decades that have passed since their use. There’s also an old, dusty bed near a partially collapsed fireplace. The bed doesn’t hold a candle to his living quarters in the village (which he now sorely regrets ever complaining about), but it’s more welcoming than a dragon nest. 

After countless hours spent trembling under the gaze of the beast, he seeks refuge here and falls asleep until the sound of its wings or roar alert him to its return. He doesn’t have the courage to gather branches and attempt to light a fire, however, despite the frigid mountain air that buffets the ruins. Unfortunately, the warmest place on this mountaintop is the center of the nest when the dragon has encircled his body and draped a leathery wing over him like the roof of a shelter.

This is exactly where the dragon prefers him to be. The one day when Shouta slept in the back room of the ruins and didn’t hear the creature land, he was startled awake by a horrible wailing and the scramble of claws against stone. The creature was frantic and terrifying as it crashed over, around, and inside the ruins, huffing and hissing like the hot steel of a blade being lowered into water. It couldn’t hope to fit through the door of the room Shouta was in, but a scaly arm reached inside, fumbling to find him. Afraid of being accidentally mauled by the flexing claws on its hand, Shouta reached out and touched it, body shaking as he muttered out a reluctant “I’m here.”

Immediately, the beast pulled him into its grasp and brought him back to the courtyard and the center of the nest. Here, a freshly charred animal was waiting for him. 

For days, Shouta refuses to touch the meat the dragon brings him. There’s no mistaking that it is for him. For one thing, the dragon eats its meals raw. Shouta has been privy to unwanted showings of this activity. He’s seen the god beast swallow animals whole, and tear flesh from the bones of larger prey. It doesn’t use the lightning bolt sparks in its maw to cook its own food, but it does for Shouta. It breathes sparking energy onto the meat until it smokes and sizzles, then uses its snout to push the food in front of Shouta.

Its motives are a mystery. It wails when it can’t find him, presents offerings of meat which it somehow knows must be cooked for human consumption, and…the first time Shouta begrudgingly eats strips of deer meat, the dragon hops on its toes, lifts into the air and twirls with what could only be inferred to be excitement. 

For unknown reasons, it’s attempting to nurture Shouta, but this brings him little comfort. For all he knows, this is a fickle whim of the great beast. This may be the same behavior that fuels the rumors that it enjoys playing with its food. And even if the creature has grown attached to him for some unfathomable reason, it can never make for a safe or suitable provider. Shouta can’t live on burnt strips of game and the small trickle of spring water he found behind the ruins. He’s withering away, with no access to healing tonics, no protection from the encroaching winter, and in the presence of a being that could roll over and crush him or nick him once with a claw and end his life with no effort at all.

He has to escape, but he needs time for his arm to heal, and this is what breeds the plan in his mind. He’ll do his best to appease the beast for the few weeks it takes his bones to heal. He’ll submit to it, play the part of the dragonling in the nest, worship it like the generations before him—whatever it takes to stay alive until he can flee this place. Then, he’ll scale down to the forgotten path that will lead to civilization. He’ll return to the village where Hitoshi will cry upon his master’s return, where he’ll see all the students again, and where he can give Hizashi a solid punch in the jaw. He hopes the bastard is grateful to Shouta for taking the fall for him. Fucking warlock. Hizashi should have been the one sentenced to execution, now playing the part of the dragon’s pet.

Thoughts of home and the ones he holds dear are his driving force. Though, he’s never been the type of man to sit idle. He’s alive, and that means he must fight.

Now, when the dragon god brings him food, he eats. And while he has no idea if it understands his language or gestures, he hopes that centuries of divine life have given it some understanding of humans. He thanks the dragon for every meal and bows his head in respect. Each time he does, its nostrils flare and its chest rumbles.

Despite his dire predicament, Shouta grows restless and bored. Lack of human company leaves him feeling isolated and…lonely. So, on dark nights when he’s burrowed in the center of a dragon’s nest, staring up at the immaculate and infinite realm of stars above them, he sometimes speaks.

“I’ve never seen the stars this close,” he says. He has no idea if the dragon is listening or slumbering with its unblinking gaze. It doesn’t matter. The words are for himself, just so he can hear a voice again. “Hitoshi would love to see this. He’s my apprentice. Good kid but he’s always got his head in the clouds.

“That whole generation is like that, though.” He smiles wistfully as a shooting star stripes the sky for an instant. “There’s an organization I’m part of. It’s underground, highly illegal. You could call it a…school. I train young orphans and the children of rebels in combat. Hizashi, my oldest friend, teaches them incantations. They’re all problem children, but…if the kingdom’s future is in their hands, it will be a good future.”

If the dragon is listening, it gives no sign.

“We were almost discovered. Paladins were able to trace magic back to us. Hizashi was going to turn himself in, but…” Shouta remembers the look of despair in his friend’s green eyes on that night as he looked at their students. “I couldn’t let him. Any hunter or veteran can teach those kids how to hold a weapon. But witches and warlocks? Those are rare. They needed him more than they needed me, so I took the fall.” He remembers being pushed from the cliff side toward his death. “Literally.”

He closes his eyes and breathes out a slow sigh. “I don’t regret it. I’d suffer any torment—lose limbs or eyes—even die if it means I can keep my children safe.”

A strange sound emanates from the dragon as if in response. It’s low and rumbling, an odd vibration that reminds Shouta of the stray cats that hunt mice in the fields of the village. The sound is impossibly similar to a purr. Then, the beast’s tail rises, and Shouta instinctively lifts his good arm to shield his face, afraid of the whip-like strike of the muscle. The hit doesn’t come, however. Instead, the creature lowers the end of its tail slowly until it drapes across Shouta’s stomach. The sensation is akin to holding a snake and feeling the flexible muscle beneath smooth scales.

He holds his breath, terrified of the unwelcome touch. He waits for more, wondering if it will coil that tail around him and crush his ribs slowly before finally killing him. But no, the tail remains like this, strewn over his body like a blanket, thin strands of fur swaying in the breeze along its crest.

Is it an affectionate gesture? Or is it a warning for the pesky human to be silent? Uncertain, Shouta remains in silence, willing the dragon to pull away from him.

It doesn’t. Its tail rests on him the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Shouta begins to predict the dragon’s behavior. After studying it for over a week, he thinks he can even ascribe meaning to some of its actions. He can tell when it’s asleep now based on the way its scales move. They ruffle and puff out with each long inhale. When it’s awake, it only does this in response to unexpected stimuli, like a hawk landing on a nearby pillar or the surprise of hearing a crumbling stone slamming onto the ground.

He can also tell when the dragon is getting hungry, which is Shouta’s least favorite time. It begins to pace and crawl and stretch as if uncomfortable. Distorted clicking sounds emanate from its throat and it seems agitated. Inevitably, this behavior is always followed by gusts of wind as it takes flight, and long stretches of silence until it returns with fresh meat. Shouta’s stomach is a mess of anxiety at these times. Being around a hungry dragon is horrifying, and he feels the size and stature of a mouse beside a lion. But, when the creature leaves, he feels relief at knowing he hasn’t been selected as the next meal, and these are also the times when he can get the best sleep. Unfortunately, that contentment is short-lived, because each time he sees the speck in the sky and glint of sunlight off scales, he wonders if the day’s catch is going to be another human.

The dragon never returns with a human prey, however, and Shouta wonders why that is. This is the same dragon that regularly swoops falling criminals out of the air. What does it do with them? Why didn’t it do the same with Shouta?

Whatever fortune has put him on the good side of this celestial being, he hopes it will last until the day of his departure from this isolated prison.

Perhaps the most unexpected and bizarre encounter he has with the dragon comes one sunny midday. The creature is sprawled out in the courtyard basking in the sun when a bright yellow bird lands on its tail. The unexpected touch causes the dragon to jolt upright with a snort, head whipping around to look at its tail. The bird hops and tilts its head, apparently unaware of the danger it’s in.

The dragon’s scales ruffle and its front claws jerk forward as if to catch the little avian. The bird flies out of reach at the last moment, and the dragon clamps onto its own tail instead. With a startled hiss, it jumps to its feet, looks at the twitching tail, and…chases it in a circle.

Shouta watches in awestruck surprise as this massive dragon god actually plays with its tail for several moments before going completely still. Its nostrils are flaring, and yellow slits blow wide in its eyes when the bird lands directly on top of its snout. It stares, slitted pupils going cross-eyed as the bird hops about on its nose. The dragon seems genuinely surprised, scaly body stiff and wings fluttering slightly. Then, its nostrils flare again and it suddenly sneezes, officially scaring off the bird and expelling clouds of white from its nose.

A moment later, its gaze lands on Shouta and it bares its teeth in what can only be described as a smile.

It’s absurd. It’s asinine. The world’s greatest predator, a veritable god that has been worshiped and feared for centuries, behaving like a bashful puppy. It’s so ridiculous and jarring that Shouta can’t help the laugh that unfurls in his chest. He’s laughing at a dragon, and now that he’s begun, he can’t stop. He laughs until his sides hurt, hysterical, panicked. He laughs until the Dragon God Shirakumo of the Skies turns its back on him with a huff, which only makes him laugh harder.

It’s a surreal, unnatural experience, and it convinces Shouta that he’s well on his way to losing his mind up here.

Then, the dragon disappears.

It happens just over two weeks into Shouta’s residency at the abandoned dragon ruins. One morning, he wakes and shuffles out from under the heavy mass of animal hides he uses as a blanket. He’s surprised to find that the beast isn’t looped around him as usual. No, instead it perches on the highest part of the ruins, wings folded at its side and its head tilted back to gaze at the sky. It stands like a sculpted, white statue, morning sunlight refracting off its scales and sending dancing sparkles on the courtyard floor, like a reflection on water. From here, far below and gazing up at the glorious beast, it’s easy to see why humans have worshiped them. They look unlike anything else that walks the earth. They are majestic, ethereal, infallible, and Shouta may be the first man in a hundred years to be this close to one for so long.

Here, in the misty new daylight, it’s easy to forget for the briefest moment, that Shouta is prey.

An icy wind blows through the ruins, sending a shiver down his spine. He watches as the air ruffles the dragon’s feathers and fur, watches with fascination as its wings outstretch and it stands on its hind legs, front claws spreading as if to feel the breeze on its fingers. Then, it turns its blue gaze to Shouta, opens its mouth, and huffs out a cloud of air in the cold. After this, its thighs flex and it leaps into the sky with a roar, circles the ruins once, and ascends beyond the clouds and out of sight.

The day creeps by. Shouta tests his arm, hoping to find progress in its healing. It’s premature, of course. Two weeks isn’t long enough. He’s set to remain here for at least another month if he plans to climb down a mountain. He’s not sure he can hold out that long. His body has already thinned so much while living off solely the lean meat of the dragon’s catches. By then, winter will have graced the door, and it will be a struggle simply to survive the nights.

He busies himself collecting dry wood from the courtyard and sides of the nest, bringing them inside under the cover of a roof in case it rains. He stocks what he finds by the dilapidated fireplace. It may be a risk, but if push comes to shove, he’ll have the option of a fire. He can only pray that the dragon won’t be offended by the heat and smoke.

By early afternoon, the dragon still hasn’t returned. Shouta decides to grasp at real sleep, bundling himself in scraps of fabric and hide before curling in a ball on the sorry excuse for a bed. He falls instantly into slumber, counting on his body to react and wake him when the dragon returns home.

Except…it doesn’t return.

There’s no eerie wailing from the beast trying to find Shouta in the ruins. No pale crescent of white moonlight lying in its nest beneath the stars. So be it. This allows Shouta to stay in the comfort and safety of the room, where at least the wind can’t disrupt his sleep. Although, the cracks in stone do make it less hospitable than being sheltered beneath the dragon’s wing.

The sun rises on the second day and still Shouta is alone. It’s the longest the beast has been away. It always leaves and returns at least once a day with meat for Shouta. But hours pass, the sun arches across the sky, and nightfall returns. Still, no dragon, and now Shouta has gone two days without food.

This could be a major problem. His likelihood of survival will drop exponentially each day he goes without nourishment. By the time his arm does heal, if he hasn’t died from starvation, he won’t have the strength to make the journey down the mountain and he’ll die anyway. But what can he do? He’s completely helpless, fully reliant upon the creature that was meant to carry out his execution.

A third day comes and goes. Shouta walks from ledge to ledge, eyes searching for movement. He walks until exhaustion leads him to the dragon’s nest. He busies himself with rifling through the buried contents in the sides of it. A collection of trinkets, shiny things, and seemingly random objects are stuffed under feathers and fur. He finds everything from ornate, jewel-studded dagger sheaths to childrens’ toys. He can only hope that these items weren’t taken from unwitting victims.

The sun sets and he falls asleep beneath furs in the center of the nest, with a makeshift pillow of dragon feathers beneath his head.

At long last, he’s roused by the flap of wings and a familiar wail. He sits up and sees the brilliant streak of white shooting across the sky like a falling star, circling the mountaintop several times before hovering above the courtyard. The dragon drops like a stone, lacking all semblance of the grace it usually holds.

There’s a loud thump as something else falls with it, and the smell of blood. A flash of yellow illuminates the darkness for a moment, followed by the crackle of electricity and the mouthwatering aroma of cooked meat. Charred or not, Shouta is ravenous for whatever the dragon has brought him.

He waits for the beast to drag the meal to his side, but it doesn’t move. The moon and starlight is dim tonight, but Shouta can still clearly make out the ivory form laying on the courtyard bricks. The dragon’s wings are still unfolded. One is twisted under its body, but it makes no effort to roll into a more comfortable position. It’s breathing heavily and its mouth is open as if it’s panting for breath.

Something is wrong.

Shouta works up the courage to crawl to the edge of the nest. He freezes when the dragon grunts and its heavy clawed hand flops on the ground. Weakly, it pushes the remains of a skinned and cooked animal toward him.

He takes the offering, tearing into the food and forgetting the dragon’s condition for a while. It’s only after he’s picked the meat from every bone that he notes that the dragon still hasn’t moved.

“Where did you go?” he asks, though he knows it can’t answer him. “I almost starved, you know.”

It huffs out a puff of steam in response.

“You want me here, right?” Shouta asks. “You’re trying to…keep me alive, aren’t you?”

A low sound rumbles from its chest. It’s…gentle somehow.

“Well, how do you expect me to live if you disappear for days? That’s irresponsible.”

It lets out another sound. It’s lilting and whispery, and reminds Shouta of laughter.

“You should rest,” Shouta continues. “Lay down in your nest, come on.”

Still, the beast doesn’t move.

“Or let me freeze. That’s fine, too.”

This seems to do the trick. The dragon adjusts its weight, pulling the trapped wing from beneath its body. It stands, or /tries/ to stand, but immediately slumps back down with a weighty groan.

“You’re hurt,” Shouta deduces. “Show me.”

The creature tucks its wings back in, then shifts onto its side.

Shouta stands. “If I come closer to look, will you kill me?”

There’s no reply other than heavy breathing.

The smart thing to do, of course, would be to back away from the creature, not to get closer. A wounded animal can be vicious, and the wrong move could result in Shouta being gutted like a fish. But…an injured beast can’t hunt, and that’s a necessary feature to Shouta’s life right now.

Carefully, he approaches, looking for any sign of aggression. It’s dark, but there’s enough light and reflection from the dragon to see its body fairly clearly.

Immediately, he identifies the problem—or at least part of it. Fluid that appears black in the dim light covers its hind leg. Protruding from its right thigh is an object. He steps closer and recognizes it instantly as a knight’s spear. The shaft had been broken, but the tip and several inches of the pole are lodged deep in the dragon’s leg.

This isn’t the only wound, either. Deep gashes and puncture wounds litter its side. Shouta recognizes a bolt from a ballista jutting from its flank. This dragon was attacked by humans.

For the strangest moment, Shouta feels a flash of heat boil in his throat. Outrage. For weeks he’s lived in these ruins. He’s read carved tales of miraculous feats and the scattered, yellowed pages of tomes detailing the proper way to worship a god. He’s seen the dragon curl its body around the broken statue in the center of the courtyard and rest its head on the open hands of a stony human in a state of worship. For weeks, this otherworldly being has wailed for him, brought him food, and sheltered him.

It’s a dangerous beast, that much is true. It’s worthy of fear, but of awe, too. It’s not a snake with wings, it’s a deity. The god of the skies.

A god who, even bearing deep wounds, made its first priority to bring and cook food for Shouta.

“Let me help you,” he says, stepping close enough to the creature that he can hear the thump of its heart. “I won’t survive if you don’t.”

It makes that sound again, the one like laughter, then rests its head on the ground. Shouta takes this to be permission. He takes a step forward and reaches out tentatively until his fingers connect with the creature's scales. They’re cool and silky beneath his hand, and he can feel the sheer muscle beneath them and the ripple that passes through the dragon’s skin at Shouta’s touch. His palm drags along the beast’s side, and he passively wonders if he’s the only man alive who can say he’s touched a dragon.

He pauses when his fingers slip on blood. He tries to inspect the ballista wound, but sighs and shakes his head. “It’s too dark. In the morning I’ll—”

He’s interrupted by the sudden motion of the dragon lifting its head. He jerks back, startled as the creature cranes its neck to look at him. Its jaw opens and Shouta pinches his eyes shut, expecting the worst. To his surprise, light shines beyond his eyelids, and he opens them to find crackling sparks of electricity in the dragon’s mouth, lighting the area. Snakes of lightning undulate along its teeth, and a ball of flickering white rests at the back of its tongue.

For a moment, he’s too amazed and afraid to move. This being is a storm, a bringer of rain and lightning, master of the clouds. But it’s not striking out, it’s lighting Shouta’s work area.

“Thank you,” he mutters, before looking back at the ballista wound. It’s bad, blood still trickling from the gash where the bolt is lodged so deep that he can’t see the arrowhead at all. “I’m going to pull it out. But first…” He returns to the nest and finds one of the dragon’s treasures. A flat, steel dagger with a wooden hilt. “I’ll need you to heat the blade so I can cauterize the skin so you don’t bleed out. Assuming dragon skin works like that at all.”

Its tail slaps the ground once as if in acknowledgement, then Shouta addresses the ballista bolt. Carefully, he uses his fingers to part the gash, hoping to find the arrowhead. To his relief, it’s a standard ballista bolt without barbs. He’s seen hundreds of these in the years he spent as a knight. It’s lucky because pulling out the arrow won’t do more damage to the creature than has already been done.

“It’s going to hurt,” he warns, as he wraps his hand around the shaft of the bolt. “Please, don’t kill me.”

He keeps the gash spread with one hand, then eases the obstruction out with the other. The dragon’s tail slams hard on the ground and a suppressed roar rumbles in its chest, but it doesn’t move. At last, Shouta drops the bolt onto the ground, then holds up the dagger. “Heat this for me until the blade glows orange.”

He flinches as the dragon’s tongue snakes out from its electrified maw and wraps around the blade. Shouta watches as it clamps the metal between its teeth, then closes its mouth. Blinding white light shines through the spaces between its teeth for several long moments. At last, it opens its mouth again and the blade clatters to the ground, as orange as if it had been worked in the forge.

Shouta retrieves it quickly, does his best to hold the wound closed, then presses the flat of the hot blade against the dragon’s skin.

An ear-shattering screech fills the night air and the dragon’s jaw snaps shut, too close to Shouta’s skull for comfort.

“It’s done!” Shouta says, dropping the dagger. “It’s done now, the bleeding has stopped!”

He wipes sweat from his brow as the creature relaxes slightly, though it still leaves the matter of the spear in its leg.

Thankfully, though the wound is long, it’s shallow and not in as tender an area as the side. The spear hit at an angle, no worse than catching a splinter beneath the surface of the skin.

“I’m going to pull this one out fast. Don’t bite me.” Before he’s even finished the sentence, he’s yanking the spear toward him. It takes all of his body weight, and he stumbles to the ground once the weapon gives, but he does manage to do it. The spear clanks on the ground and fresh blood falls from the injury.

The dragon picks up the dagger with its tongue again, but Shouta reaches out, placing his palm on its snout between its flaring nostrils. “I don’t think this one needs that. The bleeding will stop soon.”

The dagger drops and Shouta fetches a strip of fabric from the nest that he suspects used to be someone’s blanket. He folds the fabric, then presses it against the dragon’s gash and holds it there to absorb the residual blood for a few minutes.

Silence stretches between them. The dragon has lowered its head again, no longer sparking electricity in its mouth. Its breathing is calmer now, at least.

“Where did you go?” Shouta wonders quietly. “Why did they do this to you?”

It lets out a low, sad croon.

“I’m…” Shouta grits his teeth. He’s conflicted as he runs his hand along smooth and spiky scales. On the one hand, he is this beast’s prisoner. Or…is he? The dragon was meant to devour him. It didn’t. He should be dead right now. He’s not. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I’m sorry that men have forgotten how to respect you. I’m sorry you’ve been alone and forgotten in these ruins, denigrated to nothing more than a beast that carries out divine punishment.”

He rests his cheek against the dragon’s thigh and pushes his fingertips through the soft wispy fur near the crest of its spine. “You deserve better, Dragon God Shirakumo.”

The creature shudders. Its scales ripple, and Shouta can feel it himself this time. The harder, spikier scales of its side puff out and flutter in waves, and a series of vibrating chuffing sounds rattle in its throat.

It likes that, Shouta realizes. It…no, he…remembers his name.

“Shirakumo,” he repeats, thinking about priests and worshippers chanting that name like a song for this god.

Suddenly, the dragon moves, disrupting his thoughts. In a flash, one of his arms hooks around Shouta and he tucks him against his furry chest before diving into the nest. This time, the creature doesn’t circle around him in a protective loop. This time, he curls tightly in on himself and squeezes Shouta against his body with an arm, his tail, and one of his wings. Then, he goes still, holding Shouta securely against the impossibly soft fur of his chest.

This…wasn’t the gesture Shouta was expecting, and there’s no denying the fear that shoots up his spine at being manhandled like nothing but a kitten in Shirakumo’s arms. But this is clearly an act of affection or gratitude, nothing malicious, which eases some of his anxiety. Also…the dragon’s soft fur is unreal, and though his reptilian body isn’t exactly warm, it does insulate from the cold. Maybe…he can let his guard down a bit and play the role of whatever Shirakumo thinks he is. A pet or a child, he can’t be sure, but at least he knows the dragon wants to keep him safe. That’s good enough for now.

Chapter Text

Another week passes and the temperature drops .

Shouta is running out of time.

It’s all he can do just to stay alive. When Shirakumo is here, he provides Shouta with enough warmth and shelter for it to be manageable. Recently, the dragon busied himself with moving the nest into the sanctuary, for more protection against the howling winds. Shouta doesn’t protest being pulled against his furry chest anymore, not that he had much say to begin with.

But when the god leaves to hunt, Shouta must find warmth on his own.

He finally caves and attempts to light the fireplace inside of the ruins. After hours of trying to create sparks with pieces of stone to ignite the old parchment papers beneath the logs, however, he resigns himself to defeat. He falls asleep curled in a ball in front of the unlit wood, dreaming of the forge back home. He wakes to a mournful howl as Shirakumo searches the mountain for him. When the dragon’s head peeks in from the doorway to find Shouta there, too weak and cold to move, his yellow pupils appear in thin slits, his mouth opens, and Shouta waits for the worst.

There’s a horrible /crack/ that splits through the air, the feeling of static, then heat. When he opens his eyes, Shouta finds the logs glowing with flame. Yet again, the dragon surprises him with its knowledge of human needs, and its ability to problem-solve. Then, since Shirakumo can’t fit in the little room, he lowers himself onto the ground with only his head through the doorway, watching Shouta by the fire for the rest of the night.

After this, Shirakumo brings back not only meat, but branches and sometimes entire trees, too. He lights the fire before going on his daily hunts, and Shouta keeps it stoked until he comes back.

Impressed by his intelligence, and encouraged by his continued acts of kindness, Shouta works up the courage to ask for more food. He has no idea if the dragon will understand what he needs, but there seems no harm in trying.

“This isn’t enough,” he complains, holding up the burnt leg of deer to Shirakumo’s nose. “Look at me. I’m starving. I can’t live on meat that you’ve turned to ash forever. I need real food. I have a fire now, I can cook it myself.”

The dragon responds by pushing the meat back toward Shouta with one of its claws.

“No,” Shouta drops the food on the ground. “It’s not enough.”

Shirakumo’s nostrils flare. He picks up the meat with his teeth, then flings it into Shouta’s chest. 

“I know you can understand me,” Shouta says. “Look at this.” He rips off a chunk of meat and crushes it between his fingers until only ashy black crumbles remain. “I can’t live like this. Try harder.” He throws the leg back at the dragon.

Shirakumo catches it in his mouth, snarls, and swallows it whole . Then, he snorts, hisses, and regurgitates just the bone before spitting it at Shouta’s feet. Finally, the dragon turns abruptly away, tail swishing like that of an angry cat, bounds on all fours, and takes to the sky.

He’s pouting, Shouta thinks in amazement. I made a dragon pout .

Pouting or otherwise, Shouta’s words do get through to him. This time, when the dragon returns home, it’s with more meat, a sack of potatoes, and a sack of apples. Shouta can’t help but wonder what that must have been like for the poor sap who’d been carting wares to the marketplace. He must have been praying to the gods to spare him when a great dragon descended and opted for a couple of sacks of food instead of his horse or his own head.

Perhaps the strangest part about this is how Shirakumo acts after delivering the food. He sits on his haunches, puffs his chest, and puffs out all of his scales and feathers. When Shouta ignores him to rifle through the food for anything that could be moldy, Shirakumo huffs like an angry bull and slaps the ground with one hand.

“What do you want?” Shouta asks. The creature’s stance reminds him of a sitting dog. “Praise?” The beast’s chest puffs even more and a shudder passes through his scales. “Then…thank you,” Shouta tries. He bows his head in reverence. “I’m pleased and humbled by your generosity, God of the Skies…” he raises his head and meets the dragon’s eyes again. “Shirakumo.”

The beast’s scales flutter at this, and, as if unable to contain his excitement, he takes to the air with a loud screech, then loops and twirls and spins in the sky.

“Not quite as majestic and mysterious as they say, are you?” Shouta chuckles. It’s hard to believe, but the terror he felt upon being brought to this place has slowly faded to the wayside, replaced with wonder and at least a small amount of amusement.

Since that day, Shouta’s life in the ruins has been…well, not “comfortable,” but livable. The fire keeps him warm. He can cook his own food to an edible state over the flames and embers, and he’s fairly certain at this point that the dragon won’t eat him.

But he misses home. He misses listening to Hizashi’s songs in the tavern. He misses Hitoshi’s stubborn demeanor and finding the young man collapsed from exhaustion over an anvil. He misses the optimistic faces of the magic students and seeing all the tricks they’ve learned. He misses the village, his own home and bed, stew and mead. He misses human company.

“Let me go home,” he whispers one evening, forehead pressed to wispy fur and a dragon’s clawed hand clutched around his back. “I don’t belong here. I’m not a dragon. I’m not your child.”

Shirakumo responds with a low growl that vibrates Shouta’s entire body.

“Please,” he insists. “I won’t survive the winter here. I want to go back to my village, where I belong.”

Another growl rips through the dragon’s chest, but this one is threatening. Shouta’s whole body tenses as Shirakumo’s claws suddenly close around his chest, tearing through clothes until the razor sharp tips pierce his skin.

“Stop!” he cries. “I’m sorry! I won’t ask again! Please, you’re hurting me!”

Immediately, Shirakumo lets go. In a flash, the creature leaps away, as far as he can in the sanctuary walls. He lets out a low, mournful wail, then turns his back on Shouta, curls into a ball, and covers his horned head with a wing. He stays like that the rest of the night, never once tucking Shouta back against his chest.

Whether he wants to protect me or not, he’s still dangerous. It’s only a matter of time before his good intentions get me killed. He touches the sling holding his broken arm and wonders how soon he can risk making an escape.

Two days later, the storm comes.

It’s preceded by a frigid wind, so powerful that it’s impossible for Shouta to keep the fire lit inside the ruins. It howls and crashes through the cracks and holes in the building, snuffing out any warmth he can hope to cling to. The sky turns dark, then the flurry of ice and snow begins.

When Shirakumo dives down from the furious sky, his flight is unsteady and he crashes roughly into a pillar, knocking it down. He scrambles across stone and barrels into the sanctuary to find Shouta. In an instant, he leaps to pull Shouta against him, tucking him against his chest and into a tight embrace. Even this does little to ward off the cold, however. The dragon’s wings don’t offer total coverage from the snow that flies in from the open archways and cracked ceiling. Animal hides and blankets and dragon fur hardly touch the icy bite in Shouta’s bones.

He shivers until his muscles ache. His teeth chatter until he’s sure they're going to crack. 

There is no doubt. Even with Shirakumo’s protection, Shouta will die here. He feels himself fading, lured toward a slumber he knows he won’t wake from.

Then…/heat./ Warmth like summer sunshine cradles him, trapping out even the slightest hint of a breeze. He opens his eyes to a warm, golden light emanating and pulsing from Shirakumo’s skin. It encases them in a sphere of sweet warmth. The snow seems to hover in the air beyond the veil of light. It’s like…

“Magic,” Shouta says in awe.

Shirakumo curls around Shouta and presses his snout against his head in a gesture that Shouta doesn’t understand. Is it meant to be comforting? The dragon nudges and breathes humid air in a cloud around his face. Maybe he’s checking to make sure Shouta’s okay. If that’s the case… Shouta lifts a hand and tentatively rests his fingers on the dragon’s snout. “I’m warm now,” he assures him, then strokes the soft scales there as if petting a cat. “Thank you.”

Shirakumo lowers his head back down with a happy rumble vibrating through his chest.

The danger has subsided…for now.

But the storm is unrelenting. It screams into the night, then the next day. Shirakumo doesn’t leave the nest to hunt or bring back food. It’s too dangerous, and Shouta is at too much risk as the snow coats the ground and builds in the doorways. Every time he moves, whether it’s to scrounge for apples and dried meat or to relieve himself, Shirakumo moves with him, keeping the magic orb of heat around him like a shield at all times.

As time passes, however, the dragon seems to grow weaker. Occasionally, the light from his skin flickers, the cold begins to seep in again. When he does trudge after Shouta, his movements are sluggish and uneven. Then, he stops moving altogether.

It’s dawn, Shouta is tucked under a dragon wing and animal furs, sleeping soundly until fingers of cold begin to creep into his skin. It’s slow, at first, and he’s able to ignore it and burrow deeper against his dragon ward. But the digging fingers of ice get sharper and slice deeper, until he’s shivering again. He opens his eyes to find that the light flowing from the dragon has faded, and there’s no protection against the snow. The storm is still ongoing.

“Shirakumo,” he says quietly, but the dragon doesn’t move. He tugs lightly on his chest fur, then gives the dragon’s arm a nudge. Nothing. The sky god is completely still.

Time passes with no change. Shouta tries to bury himself as tightly as possible, pressed against the dragon’s side, yearning for the magic heat he provided before. Outside, the wind stops howling, but the snow continues to fall, silent and ominous. Again he tries to rouse the dragon, pushing on his shoulder and then tugging his horns a few times.

When this doesn’t work, Shouta makes his way to the fireplace, leaving footprints on a sheet of soft white. He curses under his breath at the sight of logs and branches strewn across the room, all of them soaked from the storm, of course. Not that he’d have had much luck lighting the fire without Shirakumo’s help.

His heart sinks as he returns to the dragon’s side. For a moment, he worries that the creature might be dead. He presses his ear against his ribs and listens. It’s faint, but he’s sure he can hear the slow thumps of a heart. Not dead, but not simply sleeping either. It’s as if…as if the winged lizard has gone into hibernation, prompted by the unexpected storm.

If that’s true, Shouta will die here unless he takes action. For the time being, he stays as warm as he can next to Shirakumo, until he sees sunlight pooling from holes in the clouds as the storm breaks. He trudges outside, eager for the sunlight on his skin, but it does little to help when the cold air hits him.

/What am I going to do? How can I survive this?/

He tries one more time with Shirakumo. He climbs onto the dragon’s back and tugs the joint of one wing sharply. “Wake up, you glorified salamander. I need your magic.” He runs his fingers up the spine of a beautiful white feather. “I need you.”

Still, Shirakumo doesn’t move, which leaves Shouta with only one option.

This was the plan all along, anyway. It’s a bit premature—his arm is mostly healed but he doubts it can carry much weight. It doesn’t matter. Shouta’s only real hope of survival is at the base of these mountains, with humans and furnaces and fires. He was always going to return, and perhaps now is the best opportunity, while Shirakumo slumbers and won’t scoop him up mid-escape. As kind as the god dragon has been, Shouta can’t play the role of his pet any longer.

So, he layers his clothes as much as he can, pockets a few scraps of food and some lucky twigs that escaped the wet snow.

He casts Shirakumo one last look. Here, in the stillness, the dragon looks exactly like an ivory statue. He blends with the snow, save the blue fur that Shouta has slipped his fingers through so many times now. A pang of sorrow settles in his stomach. This is goodbye to the bond he’s made with the dragon. As obscure and confusing as that bond may have been, he knows he will always think wistfully of the celestial being whose presence he reveled in for weeks. He’ll…miss him—the god who saved his life and did his best to keep him safe.

But Shouta can never be safe with a dragon.

He sneaks from the ruins, thankful that the soft snow isn’t old enough to be hard or to crack under his feet. He’s virtually silent as he goes to the side of the mountaintop where the old bridge once stood. The snow and ice have made the rocks slick and dangerous, but Shouta is in a position of weighing dangers. And if he’s going to die, he’d rather do it while trying to get back home.

He finds the least steep portion of rock and begins his descent. As expected, every single step down has to be measured carefully. Every rock he touches has to be tested to make sure it’s secure before he dares to put his body weight on it. The wind makes the journey even more perilous, but thankfully he’s on the side of the mountain opposite the onslaught of the wind.

Progress is painfully slow, and Shouta’s unhealed arm strains and sends needles of pain through his body each time he uses it. He has to be careful—so careful.

Eventually he reaches the rubble of the collapsed bridge. It’s just a small climb upward to reach the weathered path that will take him down the mountainside. He works slowly, fingers so numb from the cold that it’s nearly impossible to grip the stones and bricks ahead of him. Halfway up the pile of rubble he thinks he hears a distant shriek. His gaze turns back up to the ruins, expecting Shirakumo to burst into the pale sky. Nothing happens, and the sound was too distant and distorted to have been the dragon’s anyway. It must have been the wind.

/Just a little more,/ he coaches himself. /Keep moving, Shouta. You’ll get to see Hizashi’s stupid grin and Hitoshi’s pout before you know it./

He keeps going, ignoring the weather and his body’s protests. If he pauses, even for a moment, he knows he’ll lose the will to fight.

Finally, he hoists himself onto the other side of the gap, then grits his teeth as his arm screams in pain. It’s okay though, the worst part is out of the way, unless the trail down the mountain is shattered in more than one location. He’ll deal with that once he comes to it.

The further he descends, the less the wind whips his body. Protection from other mountain sides bars the worst of it, and the path down snakes through a canyon, where the eerie howls of the wind finally die. This is a good thing. As long as he’s secured by high walls on either side of the path, he’s less likely to freeze. If he only had the means to start a fire, a small cave, and dry wood, he’d be able to survive here for some time before continuing his trek down. As it stands, he can’t afford to stop moving.

The crunch of his boots echoes off the steep walls, wind whistles far above his head. He can’t see the end of the canyon past the curve of the path ahead of him, and can only pray that there’s not an area where the way has been blocked by fallen debris.

Once, he thinks he hears that same distant shriek, but it’s far above his head, meshing with the whistles of the wind, so he thinks nothing of it.

He’d have been more careful, if he’d known. Maybe, if he’d paid more attention to the tales carved into the ruin walls and what they must mean. If he stopped to consider that the images of wingless dragons were depictions of another creature, a different beast, neither as elegant nor as kind as a god of the skies. Then, maybe he would have been on guard. Maybe he would have weighed the risks and chosen to stay at Shirakumo’s side after all.

But he didn’t know. He had no idea that drakes, the lesser form of their dragon counterparts, always lurk beneath the dens of dragons, where they scavenge the discarded bones and meat tossed out by their greater cousins. He didn’t know that there were other beings that relied on the protection of dragons, that appealed to the nurturing instinct of the great protectors.

He didn’t know, and now…he pays the price for that ignorance.

The shriek sounds again, louder this time. The vibrations bounce off the canyon walls, then suddenly…there’s an explosion of sound. A chorus of horrible, raspy screeches, and the sound of claws raking on stone. Shouta whips around, instinctually wanting to turn back, but there’s already a creature blocking his path. It’s smaller than Shirakumo, but its scaly body and long limbs are reminiscent of a dragon. There are no wings or horns, however, just sharp black spines that jut from its back like the quills of a porcupine. It paces back and forth, drool dripping from its snarling maw and steaming as it touches the snow.

Ahead of Shouta, two more of the creatures bound from the shadows, jaws snapping and grotesque, pig-like snarls bouncing in the narrow canyon. A horrible clacking above him draws his attention up, where he finds two more of the monsters gripping the canyon walls.

Shouta is completely surrounded. There are at least five of these creatures blocking every possible route to safety. He has no weapons to protect himself with and his body is weak. Of all the ways to die, he wouldn’t have imagined this. Being ripped to shreds by an ambush of scaly scavengers.

The one behind him lunges forward, and Shouta stumbles back in surprise, toward the snapping jaws of the others. In his fall, a white feather is dislodged from the cloaks he’s wearing. It flutters on the breeze, drifting toward the two nearest monsters. Their nostrils flare and they hiss, backing away as if the feather is a threat.

Shouta rolls, grabbing the feather before it can touch the ground. He wields it like a blade, swishing it in front of him and watching as the drakes leap away from it. This is it, /this/ is how he can escape.

He bats the creatures away as he slowly slips past them, farther down the trail. They paw the ground, hiss, and snort, but they don’t attack him, so long as he holds Shirakumo’s feather.

He backs up, keeping an eye on all five of them as he creeps away. His attention is so focused on them, however, that he’s not paying attention to the ground. His heel clips on a stone and he’s thrown off balance. He tries to catch himself, but the land is /hard/, and he feels his unhealed arm /crack/ upon impact. His cry of pain explodes in the air and he releases the feather.

The drakes move instantly. One leaps, foot crushing Shirakumo’s feather underneath it. In the next second it has him pinned to the ground, teeth clicking centimeters from his face. He rolls, trying to throw off the creature. He takes it by surprise but can barely scramble to his knees before another one leaps onto his back.

Pain slices through him with the snag of claws on his skin. They rip and pull and tear, shredding Shouta’s clothes and peeling flesh from bone with talons and teeth.

He wishes he’d stayed in the nest. Freezing to death in his sleep would have been a blessing in comparison to this.

He tries to fight, and manages a good scratch to the side of one’s face, and he breaks the toes on another, but there’s no way one human man can stand against five reptilian harbingers of death.

One of them is snarling at the others. Its hand shoves Shouta’s face down and its powerful thighs crush down on his hips.

Then, he feels it and he prays it’s not what he thinks it is. No…no, that would be a fate worse than death, worse than being mauled, worse than burning alive. And yet…as the drake starts to rut against him and he feels the disgustingly wet slither of something against his back, he knows what’s happening.

“Kill me!” he cries, voice breaking and tears streaming down his cheeks. “Just kill me first, please!”

If they can understand him like Shirakumo could, they don’t care. A hot, forked tongue wraps around his neck and a hind foot claws his pants open.

“Not this…” he blubbers. “Anything but this!”

The other drakes circle around him. He watches it happen in horror—sees the bulging slits of their undersides open, watches as slick red appendages glide into the open air, dripping onto the ground beneath them. Each beast sports two of them—two bumpy and pointed cocks that glisten in the light as the monsters pace and lick their teeth and wait for their turn.

Panicked, he starts to thrash under the drake’s weight. It growls in warning but he doesn’t care. He puts everything, every ounce of strength he has into trying to buck the monster off of him, to no avail. One of its horrific cocks slips low, coating his thighs and ass with hot slick as it searches for passage. He screams in desperation and throws his head back, skull connecting with the creature’s jaw. It hisses violently, hooks its claws into Shouta’s scalp, and slams his head down on the rocks. There’s a split second of blinding pain and a swell of nausea. He might have puked, he’s not sure, and he doesn’t have time to confirm it because the impact explodes in his head, and a moment later…

He blacks out.

Chapter Text

It’s not the first time within the past six weeks that Shouta has awoken completely disoriented when he should have been dead. Nor is it the first time he’s roused by a strong smell.

It’s not burning meat that wakes him this time, though. It’s the pungent smell of something herbal and bitter. And it’s followed by the cold touch of wet moisture on his back.

Immediately, he remembers the drake attack. He cries out and flails away from the unwelcome sensation, absolutely certain that he’s been dragged to some cave to be desecrated and ruined. But then, something familiar pushes gently on his shoulder. Something decidedly… human . 

A hand. A human hand.

Shouta sits up slowly, trying to get his bearings. He’s not in an icy canyon or mountain cave, nor some church ruins. He’s…in a bedroom. A warm, furnished bedroom with a lit fireplace. He’s on a bed—a real bed—not a dirty, ripped mattress or a pile of furs, sticks, and feathers. He’s in a human dwelling. He’s… safe .

Shock makes him feel dizzy. He tries to take in his surroundings, but his head is buzzing now with that one, overwhelming thought. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.

How is he safe? Why is he alive?

Who…is touching him?

At last, his gaze settles on the face of the person sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s a stranger, with a face Shouta’s sure he’s never seen in the village or during his years traveling as a knight. He looks older than Shouta, though that could be as a result of his white facial hair and size of his frame. He’s… huge . Even sitting down, Shouta can tell that he’s roughly twice his own size, and Shouta’s not a little man by any means.

The man is all muscle on bronze colored skin. His hair is snowy white, long and wavy, brushing all the way down against his lower back. A matching shade of white stubble brushes his jaw and trails down his neck. His eyes are steel-blue, like the sky reflected on a shining blade. His dark skin is littered with scars, as well as fresh looking gashes and scrapes. In particular, a long, jagged cut stretches across the bridge of his nose, red and scabbing.

In one of his hands is a jar of some kind of gel-based substance, which shimmers in the light on his other hand. This must be what Shouta felt touching his skin before.

“Who-are—” Shouta coughs as his voice comes out hoarse and dry. The man immediately puts down the gel he’s holding and picks up a canteen from the bedside stand, holding it to Shouta’s lips. He’s too thirsty to be embarrassed, simply tilting his head back and chugging the water that this man pours down his throat. Finally, he wipes his lips with his wrist and meets the other man’s gaze once more. “Who are you?” he tries again. “Why am I here?”

The man doesn’t answer. Instead, he places the canteen down, then gestures for Shouta to lay back down. There’s no chance of that, however. He’s wide awake, keyed up, and confused.

“I was…in the mountains,” he says, mind scanning through his memories. “I was attacked by these beasts and they—”

Dread coils around his stomach so harshly and so suddenly that he instantly leans over the side of the bed and vomits, retching up stomach acid and all the water he just drank. “Did they…” he asks in a trembling voice. He can’t tell. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep here, he’s too out of body to even be able to tell if he can feel pain rippling through his guts from an invasion. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t want to know.

“Where are we?” he asks. “What’s your name? How did you find me?”

The man doesn’t open his mouth to respond. Instead, the door suddenly creaks open, making Shouta jump and press against the wall.

“Don’t bother with that, sonny,” says the voice of a weathered old woman. “In all the years he’s been visiting this village, I’ve only heard Oboro say two words. One was his name.”

Oboro ? Shouta looks curiously back at the other man, but he’s looking away, gaze fixed on the short, round-cheeked woman who just walked into the room. She’s carrying towels with her, and busies herself immediately with cleaning up the mess Shouta made on the floor.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake,” she says. “It’s been three days since Boro dragged you in here. I was afraid you’d waste away. You’re already so skinny.”

Shouta opens his mouth to respond, but finds that he has no idea what to say. The little woman straightens up and grins cheerily at him. Her frizzy gray hair is up in a tight bun, and the wrinkles on her face are set in a way that tells him she often smiles.

“Chiyo,” she introduces herself. “I’m an alchemist and a tavern proprietor. That handsome young stud is Oboro. He’s…well, I think he’s a mercenary. He’s also the man who cut down a swarth of drakes and carried you miles down a mountainside, so I’d give my thanks, hm…?” She pauses, an eyebrow raised as she emphasizes the missing word at the end of the sentence.

“Shouta,” he rasps out. “My name is Shouta.” He turns his attention back to the man called Oboro. “Thank you…for saving me.” The news of that sets in slowly. “You…fought all of them? By yourself?” Shouta had been so powerless against those creatures. “Is that where you got your wounds?” His gaze brushes over the bridge of Oboro’s nose again.

“You ought to be more concerned with your own wounds,” Chiyo clicks her tongue at him. “Lay back down and let Oboro finish putting the salve on your cuts. I need to check your stitches, too. Afterward, I’ll get you a nice warm bowl of stew, how does that sound?”

Shouta has no energy nor will to argue. He lowers himself back onto his stomach and almost instantly feels Oboro’s hand on his back again. “Where is this place?” he mumbles. “How far are we from Yuei village?”

“Yuei?!” Chiyo sounds shocked. “Is that where you’re from, child? How on earth did you end up over here?”

The question alone makes Shouta’s stomach flip. He must be farther from home than he suspected.

“Shouta, the most treacherous mountain range in the kingdom lies between here and your village. It’ll be some time before you can get home, so take it easy, will you?”

Shouta sighs and lets his muscles relax. While he’s eager to finally end this saga of his life, it’s enough for now to simply be alive.

Oboro silently tends to his wounds while Chiyo leaves with the dirty towels and returns a few minutes later with a bowl of stew. The smell is heavenly, better than anything he’s smelled in the past six weeks. This is real food again.

“Don’t eat too fast or you’ll puke again,” Chiyo warns. “Take it easy and we’ll try to catch up with each other. Oboro?” She addresses the man who stands three times taller than her small stature. “Would you like to join us or head out?”

Blue eyes cut toward Shouta, then Oboro shakes his head and sits down slowly on one of the chairs. Chiyo takes a seat, too, but Shouta remains in bed, sipping broth from the creamy stew.

“Well, young man,” she says gently. “What were you doing in the mountains so far from home? And so far from any main routes at that.”

Shouta regards them both, not sure how much he should divulge. He’ll have to skip the bit about being an accused warlock sentenced to execution, but what about the past six weeks spent living with a dragon? Will they believe him? Probably not. If Shouta was in their position he’d assume the skinny stranger was a hermit from the woods, incapable of human interaction. If Shouta tells them about Shirakumo, he’ll definitely be giving credence to that sort of theory. 

And yet…Oboro has seen and fought drakes, apparently, so maybe these two have a broader knowledge of the beasts here than Shouta’s hometown.

“I was…found by a dragon,” he says carefully, trying to gauge their reactions. Oboro’s expression is unchanging, his gaze unsettling, as if he’s deeply studying Shouta. Chiyo’s eyes light up, however.

“You’ve seen him?” she asks in wonder. “Shirakumo of the Skies?”

Shouta nods slowly, then takes his time trying to chew through a carrot before speaking again. “Believe me or don’t believe me, I don’t care. The dragon saved my life and held me in the ruins on top of the mountain for over a month.”

“I believe you,” Chiyo says with a laugh. “Ah, yes, that does sound like him. Wily old lizard, that one.”

Shouta holds the bowl down on his lap, now intrigued. “You’ve seen him, too?”

“Oh, yes,” she nods sagely. “This entire region once served the sky god. When I was a little girl, my parents used to take me on pilgrimages once a year up to the dragon church where I’d watch him soar through the sky with all the grace of a dancer. That was over sixty years ago now, I’m afraid. It’s been a long time since anyone has made the pilgrimage, and the mountains have been overrun by drakes and wyrms. Nor does Shirakumo come down to the village to play with the children or terrorize the pets anymore.”

“Where I come from,” Shouta says slowly, “dragons are feared and hated.”

“Yes,” she says with a wistful sigh. “It’s too much to get into, but I’m sure you know. The past three decades of war and politics have sought to rid our world of magic. And nothing is quite as magical and mysterious as a dragon.” She winks. “On this side of the mountain range, we remember the old days a little more clearly.”

Shouta nods in understanding, sips the stew, then speaks again. “Shirakumo…he kept me there for weeks. He refused to take me back to human society, but he cared for me, too. Is that…normal?”

Chiyo shakes her head. “I can’t pretend to know the inner workings of a dragon’s mind. I don’t think anyone can, right Oboro?”

The big man grunts and shakes his head, never once looking away from Shouta.

“I can say that I doubt he meant you any harm.”

Shouta withholds a scoff. “Yes, well. He was a terrible caretaker. He tried to protect me from the blizzard and went into hibernation instead, which is how I ended up with the drakes.”

Chiyo gives a hearty laugh. “I’m not surprised. Legend calls him the most foolish among dragons.”

“I see. You’re saying I happened to get the dumb one? Would a smarter dragon have built me a home and farm instead of making me freeze and starve on blackened meat?”

Chiyo’s friendly laugh fills the room. “Maybe,” she says. “But he’s also known as the dragon of purest heart. Perhaps a smarter one would have eaten you.”

This offers him no comfort.

He finishes his stew in silence. It’s not “comfortable” silence, because while Chiyo is humming to herself and stoking the fire, Oboro continues to stare. The intense, unreadable expression settles under Shouta’s skin.

A mercenary, huh? I hope I’m not on his hit list . Though, he supposes that’s unlikely, given that the man saved his life.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to get home as soon as you can?” Chiyo asks when Shouta finishes his meal. She takes his bowl and stands by the door.

“Yes,” he confirms. “The sooner, the better.”

She nods in understanding. “I recommend you stay until you’re all healed up. Then, you’ll want to travel with a trade caravan around the mountains. There’s one that always passes through here this time of year. It’s only a three day journey through the mountain range, but as you’ve seen, it’s simply not possible without a dragon there to cart you around. You’ll have to take the long way, which is about a two week journey south and over the river.”

Two more weeks? Plus the amount of time it takes him to heal. Add that to the six he spent in the ruins, and it will be well over two months since he last saw home. And everyone there thinks I’m dead .

“Get some rest, Shouta,” she says. “The inn is yours. Baths and toilets are at the end of the hall, the kitchen is open to you at any time. You can stay as long as you need.”

Shouta lets out a slow, relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

She opens the door, pauses, then looks over her shoulder at the mountain of a man still sitting near the fireplace. “Oboro, why don’t you take one of the other rooms now? Your charge is awake and healthy, there’s no need to monitor him any longer, and I’m sure he could use some privacy.”

Her words imply that Oboro has been here every night for the past three days. Has he really been watching over Shouta this entire time? But why?

Oboro’s eyes narrow and he gives a curt shake of the head before crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t intend to move.

Chiyo sighs. “Shouta, you can be stern with him. Tell him you’d rather—”

“It’s fine,” Shouta interrupts. “He’s not bothering me.”

Chiyo shrugs. “Alright, then. Breakfast will be on just after dawn, so do try to get some good rest.” With this, she finally excuses herself, shutting the door gently behind her.

That leaves Shouta and his rescuer. A strained silence fills the air between them.

“I…appreciate you coming to my aid,” Shouta says. “I really am okay now.”

Oboro doesn’t respond.

“Are you going to sit there all night?”

The man nods.

“Alright, then.” Shouta rolls over, turning his back on him. He’s only been awake a short time, and yet exhaustion overwhelms him.

He finds that he doesn’t mind knowing that Oboro is seated not far from him, steely eyes boring through skin and bone. He knows why, but admitting it to himself is difficult. He tried not to let his thoughts linger, yet his mind is a loop, replaying nights spent in Shirakumo’s nest. For six weeks, Shouta never slept alone. There was always someone beside him, always watchful eyes gazing at him, always the promise of protection and devotion. The dragon’s attention had horrified him at first, but…well, as irrational as it is, the human brain has a tendency to adapt to anything. Shouta’s adapted to the constant presence of a dragon companion.

Oboro is no dragon, yet his vigilance fills Shouta with a sense of ease. He’s grateful for his refusal to leave.

Idly, Shouta wonders if Shirakumo is still asleep. How long will he be in hibernation? What will he do when he wakes to find his human pet gone? Shouta thinks of his melodic wails, the ones he made when he couldn’t find Shouta in the ruins. Is he crying now? Is he singing sorrowfully into the night as he circles the mountain again and again, searching for the man he’s grown attached to?

For some reason, the thought of this makes something ache in Shouta’s chest. Suddenly, he feels like crying. Shirakumo is a divine creature, but a creature nonetheless. Shouta has no business grieving the loss of him, missing his fur and feathers and cloudy eyes. Yet…he knows these are the things he’s feeling. They’re heavy in his chest, turning his heart to a lump of stone that weighs too hard on his fragile ribs. He feels guilty for leaving so abruptly, despaired that he’ll never see the dragon again.

It’s irrational, illogical, foolish. But Shouta finds tears welling in his eyes anyway.

He adjusts on the bed, taking one of the two pillows and placing it against his back. It’s no substitute for the chest and beating heart of a dragon, but the light touch brings him just enough comfort to usher him into sleep.

Chapter Text

In the morning, he wakes to find that Oboro hasn’t moved from the chair. He’s asleep, head bowed forward, eyes closed, arms still crossed. Shouta doesn’t want to wake him, but as soon as he sits up, Oboro’s head snaps upright and his eyes land instantly on Shouta.

“…Morning,” Shouta says, attempting a friendly greeting but letting out a tired and irritable rasp instead. 

The other man stands and crosses the room in only two strides. Shouta instinctively flinches at the sudden approach, but then a large and calloused hand is reaching down to him.

“Thanks…” Shouta takes it, noting with wonder the way his hand is engulfed by the sheer size of Oboro’s hand.

The man pulls him to his feet, then silently opens the door for him. Shouta nods in appreciation before leaving to seek the wash room. A shiver climbs his spine when he realizes he’s being tailed. Oboro follows him all the way to the bathroom and even looks as though he intends to go inside.

“I think I can manage to take a piss on my own,” Shouta says when the man’s boot jars the door open. Oboro shakes his head, then gestures to Shouta’s legs. “What?” Shouta asks. “You think I’m going to fall standing up?”

The man’s expression is completely deadpan as he nods again.

A spark of irritation lights in Shouta’s throat. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not a doe-legged fawn. Nor are you my keeper. I am grateful that you rescued me from the drakes, but your obligation to ensure my safety stops here.”

Oboro doesn’t respond to this. He ignores him and shoulders the door open, stepping past Shouta like it’s nothing, just to lean against the bathroom wall and pin his gaze on him again.

“This is harassment,” Shouta informs him, though he honestly doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight on this. He’s tired, mentally and physically deficient, and he can’t be bothered to care if a grown-ass man wants to stare at his back while he takes a piss. It’s not as though he’s had any privacy for weeks anyway. And once you grow accustomed to having a massive predator stare at you while you take shits, nothing can faze you anymore.

After this, they find the dining hall, where Chiyo is already waiting with plates of eggs and steak. Shouta has never felt more ravenous in his life, and is asking for seconds moments after clearing his plate.

Chiyo strikes up conversation, and Shouta nods along, not really listening. He’s focused instead on the lull of voices from other patrons, the quiet chatter of human voices wafting over him. He never thought the simple presence of other people and the sound of their voices was something he could take for granted. Yet, here he is, relishing the feeling of belonging to the point of tears. This place isn’t home, and these faces are all strange to him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s with people again, and it restores a sense of humanity he didn’t realize he’d lost.

Most of his day is spent taking medicinal poultices and sleeping. Chiyo checks and cleans the stitches on his back, then checks the splint on his broken arm. Occasionally, Oboro fetches the salve for his cuts and soothes it onto his skin. He’s always at Shouta’s beck and call, bringing him water and keeping the fire lit. The dedication is…nice, but he still can’t quite fathom the man’s motivation. Any rational-minded person would leave Shouta alone after rescuing him, wouldn’t they? It’s what Shouta would do. Surely Oboro has better things to do than babysit another adult.

He’s…peculiar. His silence and strange looks, unreadable expressions and fixation on Shouta. This may be just the way he is. A loner with a bizarre personality. That’s fine with Shouta, at least for now. Oboro’s not bothering him.

When evening comes, Shouta is roused by someone poking him with the handle of a broom. Chiyo tugs the blanket away from him and raps her knuckles on his head. “Come on. Up with you. It’s time you bathed. Sponge baths aren’t going to cut it forever, you know? You reek like dragon piss and body odor. I’m surprised Oboro can stand to be in here with you. You’ll scare away my other patrons, go on! Git!”

Shouta groans and rolls out of the bed. Is his stench really that awful? And what exactly does dragon piss smell like?

She ushers him out the door and hands him a towel. “Use soap,” she directs. “I’ll be cleaning your sheets.”

Shouta rolls his shoulders, then heads toward the baths. He shouldn’t be surprised when he hears the thud of heavy feet behind him, but he jolts anyway.

“Oboro, really I’m—” The glare he receives from the other man tells him this isn’t up for debate, so Shouta clams up immediately. He does his best to ignore the bulky man following him into the bath house, where hot steam rises from natural springs kept warm by the volcanic earth beneath the mountain range.

It’s not unusual for men to bathe together. Especially in Shouta’s village, where hot water doesn’t simply pool in sulfuric holes in the ground. He’s never had an issue with sharing soap with Hizashi or having casual conversation with his apprentice while cleaning away the sweat and dirt from the forge. But for some reason, as soon as he’s alone with Oboro in the humid room, a sense of unease blooms in his stomach.

Is it because of the way Oboro watches his every move? Or could it have more to do with the idea of seeing this muscular, threatening beast of a man strip down and join him in the water? Doubtful. The twisting in Shouta’s gut doesn’t feel like the telltale sparks of arousal. Instead, he finds himself nauseous again, trembling as he stares at the steam curling in the air as it rises from the water.

A grunt from behind him reminds him that Oboro is standing there, waiting. The man’s eyes flicker with concern as Shouta meets his gaze.

“I’m fine,” he assures him. “I just…forgot how to bathe. It’s been a while.”

He must be imagining it, but he swears he sees the tiniest hint of a smile tease the man’s lips.

Shouta strips, back turned toward Oboro. His hands linger on his underwear and he tries to work up the courage to bend and drop them to his ankles. His hands start to shake and that rising sense of nausea creeps up his throat again. He decides against full nudity and slips into the water like this, wincing as the heat licks some of his wounds.

His eyes pinch shut as the other man begins to toss his clothes onto the ground, too. Anxiety twists and bubbles in his stomach. He really might puke again. He peeks through one eye in time to see Oboro lowering himself into the water. Unlike Shouta, he’s chosen full nakedness. Shouta’s eyes flick away quickly but not before he gets a glimpse of curly white chest hair that trails all the way down to the base of something he chooses not to look at.

Time passes in stillness. Shouta knows he should be washing his hair, but he can’t seem to move. He feels dizzy and uncomfortable, and is desperate for something to ease the sick feeling that’s overtaken him.

“Was it difficult?” he asks, fishing for a distraction. “Fighting the drakes?”

Oboro stares at him and slowly shakes his head.

“Really?” This is hard for Shouta to believe. “They took me down so easily.”

Oboro’s head cocks and a frown touches his lips. He raises a hand to point at Shouta, then streaks his own cheeks. It’s then that Shouta realizes he’s crying.

“Sorry,” he wipes his eyes in futility, wetting his cheeks further with his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just…” Suddenly, a question springs from his lips, one that he didn’t know was waiting there on the tip of his tongue. “When you found me, were they… When I blacked out, one had me pinned and was about to…” He closes his eyes and breathes out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid to ask. I should be able to tell, but…”

He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head. “Never mind.” There’s no way he can bring himself to say it. Helplessness, shame, and disgust lodge in his throat like tar. If the drakes had violated him, he would be able to tell, wouldn’t he? He’d feel it deep inside of his guts, there would be no way not to know. Then again, he slept for three days after his rescue. Maybe his insides had healed by then. Or maybe he’s ignoring the pain because it’s too horrific to think about. Maybe—

“No.”

The word makes him suck in a sharp breath and hold it there. At first, he thinks he must be imagining it. It must be delusional, wishful thinking. But then, Oboro speaks a second time.

“I killed them before they could get their filthy little dicks inside of you.”

Shouta is taken aback. Not just by Oboro’s deep, gruff tone, but by the fact that he’s speaking at all and by the nature of the words he’s spewing with such vitriol.

“You…killed them?” he repeats. He knew Oboro had fought them, but not that he’d…what? Slaughtered all five of them? “How?”

“Ripped their heads off,” Oboro says seriously. “With my hands.”

Shouta blinks in disbelief. Is that possible? No human could accomplish such a feat, could they? Maybe Oboro is something else, something not quite human. Shouta’s heard of half-giants living in the distant west, but those are all just myths and legends. Or so he thought. Oboro certainly has the build of a giant. Or maybe he’s using a magic enchantment. Hizashi has shown Shouta spells that can bolster physical abilities in a pinch. There are items that passively apply the effect as well. Either way, to hear that one man tore the heads off a gang of monsters…it’s too much to wrap his mind around.

“They didn’t steal you,” the man continues. “I wouldn’t let them.”

The choice of words is strange and has Shouta re-examining the other man. “You’re a foreigner, aren’t you? That’s why you don’t speak much.”

Oboro hesitates a moment, then finally nods.

“I see.” Shouta lets out a slow sigh and sinks further into the water. The nauseous feeling he had is fading now. All along it was related to the drake attack. But it sounds like Oboro saved him in the nick of time. “I had no idea…” he mutters, “that creatures like that could want… that from a human.”

Oboro regards him for a long time. “Warm,” he says finally.

“Warm?”

“You.” He points at Shouta. “Humans are warm, especially on the inside.”

Again…odd phrasing, but Shouta thinks he understands. “They’re cold blooded,” he guesses, “so they seek human warmth?”

Oboro nods.

Shouta tries to digest this information. It makes sense for the drakes, he supposes. But they’re not the only oversized lizard with an inexplicable attachment to Shouta. “Do you know of any other reason a drake or…dragon…might target a human?”

The other man takes a long time to answer. Finally, he looks away, and says a simple, “No, I don’t.”

Conversation fades to the wayside after this. Shouta soaks in the water a while longer, contemplating Oboro’s words. The drakes didn’t violate him. That…is such a huge weight off his shoulders that it feels unreal, as if he’s floating effortlessly like Oboro’s white hair on the surface of the hot water. He still can’t stomach the memory of that creature’s claws on his scalp or its tongue around his throat, or the pulse of its sickening cock on his back. But it could have been worse. It could have been so much worse if not for…

Him.

Shouta tries to keep himself from glancing over too many times. It’s not easy, now that he’s appreciating the man in a new light. He’s Shouta’s savior. He might as well be his guardian spirit, swooping in to save him at the last moment. Shouta knows nothing about him beyond his name and possible occupation, and yet…Shouta feels safe with him here.

He’s not unpleasant to look at either, not that Shouta has the time nor energy to waste on thoughts like that. Besides, there’s a high chance that after six weeks of no human interaction, Shouta is susceptible to being enchanted by the first dick-wielding person he crosses paths with. There were many indulgences that Shouta was denied while living under the watchful eye of a dragon. He’s admittedly a bit keyed up by the scarred and muscular and naked man across from him.

Not the time,  Shouta thinks. He looks away and reaches out of the bath for the canisters of soap on a shelf behind him. He curses silently under his breath when he realizes there’s a problem. He can’t scrub his hair with one useless arm in a wet sling. He’ll just have to do the best he can for now and—

There’s a slosh in the water behind him. He tenses and tries to twist around to see what’s happening, but it’s too late. There are hands in his hair, thick fingers kneading his scalp. He pulls away from the touch with a startled yelp and nearly hoists himself out of the water just to create distance between himself and Oboro.

“What are you doing?!”

The man cups water in his hands and dumps it back down before pointing to the soap still in Shouta’s hand. “Helping.”

Shouta feels a dizzying wave of heat rise over his face. “That won’t be necessary,” he snaps. “I’m not sure what it’s like in your kingdom, but here, men don’t wash each other’s hair unless they’re fucking.”

Oboro doesn’t even flinch . No, instead, his eyes drag unabashedly down Shouta’s torso to the rippling surface of the water.

“ No ,” Shouta says, immediately dropping low into the bath again. “I just met you yesterday .”

Oboro’s expression remains completely unreadable. He opens his palm and holds it out. “Helping.”

Shouta shudders and clears his throat. “I…” Up close, it’s even harder to focus. He’s starkly aware of every individual curl of white hair on Oboro’s chest, of the way his dark nipples stand rigid in the snowy landscape, like the peaks of mountains rising over wispy clouds. He can’t look away from the definition of his broad chest and the lines of his abdomen, nor the scars that carve his skin. There’s a particularly nasty one below his stomach near his side, bright and red, as though he got it recently. “Fine,” Shouta sputters, desperate to stop noticing things about him. “Do it quickly and don’t pull anything weird.”

Oboro merely grunts in response, then sets to work pouring water over Shouta’s dark hair and washing the ratty ends.

“How is it?” Shouta asks nervously, too awkward to sit in complete silence as big hands massage his scalp and neck. “Do I really smell like dragon piss?”

He’s absolutely not expecting Oboro’s hands to pause, nor for him to lean forward until he’s so close that his breath is brushing Shouta’s cheek. Oboro breathes in and lets out a slow breath. “No,” he says, face still far too close to Shouta’s. “You smell like something else.”

“I…what?” Shouta looks incredulously up at him. “What do I smell like?”

Oboro doesn’t answer. Instead, without any preamble or warning, he suddenly grips Shouta’s shoulders and shoves him down below the water. Luckily, Shouta wasn’t inhaling at the time, but he still thrashes frantically while the other man swishes his hair in the water as if to rinse out the soap. Shouta surfaces a moment later and shoves the other man back by the chest. “What are you doing?! You could have drowned me!”

Oboro looks genuinely surprised by this statement.

“Go stand over there!” Shouta snaps. “I’ll finish on my own.”

The other man grits his teeth before finally relenting. He returns to his side of the bath, then spends time scrubbing through his own cascading white hair while Shouta finishes washing up.

Thankfully, the uncomfortable encounters end after this. Oboro leaves Shouta alone, physically at least. He goes back to trailing after Shouta, following him back to the room and making himself comfortable in the same chair facing Shouta’s bed.

How long is he going to keep this up? he wonders. More importantly…how long will it be before Shouta can finally go home? Will he even make it? Somewhere out there is an abandoned dragon who’s sure to lose it when he realizes Shouta is gone. Will he hunt him? Will Shouta need to stay out of the open to prevent a dragon swooping him up like a hawk with a shrew?

It’s unsettling and unnatural, but the smallest sliver of Shouta’s mind thinks, loudly and distinctly, that seeing Shirakumo dive from the sky to retrieve him would be…exhilarating.

Fuck, I need to sleep. These last few weeks have ruined me .

He can only pray that some time spent in human company will right his thoughts again. Although… he peeks through one eye at the man still sitting in the flickering light of the fire, eyes on him. It would help if my human company was normal .

Chapter Text

During the next few days, Shouta explores the village at the foot of the mountains. He’s still healing and stranded until he can find reliable transport back to his own home. But he’s comfortable here. Chiyo keeps him well fed and living in comfort. The villagers are friendly and sociable. Some even bring him gifts, though apparently this is mostly due to the growing rumors about his involvement with the sky god.

They call him “god-touched.” The bard wrote a song about him since no one in the village can remember a time when the dragon took a human home. Children approach him daily to ask questions about Shirakumo. “Was he scary?” “Can he breathe fire?” “Did he kill you?”

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times Shouta tells them that there was nothing particularly mystical about the experience apart from the absurdity of it. Long ago, this village prided itself on the stalwart worship of their dragon god. The village itself is named “Dragon’s Gate,” since it’s stationed at the base of the long winding path up to the old ruins. It seems as though the people here were just waiting, hoping for the day when their god touched down to land again. And while the dragon hasn’t visited them in decades, Shouta is a close-enough vessel.

He can only hope that his own village and the paladins will be just as wonderstruck when he returns home. Is there any chance that the knights will exonerate him of his “crimes” if they learn that the dragon spared him? Surely there’s a clause in the law about divine intervention. By the way the villagers speak about Shouta here, he’s some kind of demigod.

The most uncomfortable conjecture is the suggestion from some of the villagers that Shouta is the dragon’s lover. The first time he hears this theory, he spits mead onto a tavern table. The burly man sitting next to him gives a hearty guffaw and pats him on the back. “You mean you don’t know? That was part of the ritual ceremonies way back in the day, or so it goes. They say Shirakumo had shrine maidens and monks who worshiped with more than just prayer.”

“Well, I’m not a worshiper or a monk,” he says, clearing his throat. “And I’m perfectly certain that he viewed me as a child, not a mate.”

“You sure about that?” the man gibes.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Shouta says back, trying not to put too much snarl in his words. “I think I would have been more than aware of a giant dragon dick trying to perform a religious ritual with my asshole.”

Across the table, Oboro snorts. Shouta looks up to find him with an expression he’s never seen on him before. A smile.

On the subject of Oboro, the man still continues to follow Shouta at virtually all times. For the most part, it doesn’t bother him. His protective presence is comforting in a way, and Shouta is well aware that it’s a matter of unhealthy projection related to having constant dragon company for weeks, but he tries not to think about that.

There are rare moments when he does leave Shouta’s side. It’s never unprompted, though. It’s always when someone needs something from him. Once, it’s an old village farmer who finds Oboro in the tavern and begs him to help move the farmer’s cart, which has a broken wheel. Oboro contemplates for a moment, looks at Shouta, and finally nods his agreement.

Next, it’s a group of young men who are hard at work building an addition to the local seamstress shop. They catch sight of Oboro hovering over Shouta’s shoulder while he peruses the vegetables of marketplace stands alongside Chiyo. The old woman is making Shouta carry the basket of groceries with his one good arm, even though there’s a perfectly good giant of a man who could carry three times as many baskets as Shouta.

“Oboro!” A voice calls out. “You’re back in town? Can we get your help over here?! We could use some of your muscle!”

Oboro turns to face them, seeing several teens hoisting bricks up onto a front wall. His gaze turns back to Shouta, appraises him for a moment, then he finally nods. Shouta watches curiously as he crosses the street and sets to work in perfect silence before the other man is even finished giving him instructions.

Suddenly, Shouta’s arm is swatted with a carrot, pulling his attention away from the dark skin and rippling muscles of his savior.

“I know that look,” Chiyo says with a ‘tsk.’ “That is not the meal you should be preparing for right now!”

Shouta feels some heat touch his cheeks against the winter chill. “You’re off the mark,” he says. “I’m merely trying to understand him. He’s…unusual. And irrational. What do you know about him? What kingdom is he from? Why does he return to this village? Does he have a home here? Family?”

Chiyo gives him a mischievous smirk. “Quite a few questions about ingredients for someone not interested in a meal.”

Shouta’s eyebrow twitches in irritation and he turns his back on her, opting to watch Oboro again instead. “Did you forget he’s got an unreasonable devotion to me? And I’m supposed to simply accept that without knowing anything about him?”

“You’re overthinking it,” she says gently as she fills a basket on her own. “That’s just the way he is. He’s a bit odd and not always the brightest, easily excited to the point of seeming childish at times, but…I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as loyal and devoted as he is. He selflessly serves the people of this village every time he pays us a visit. He never asks for payment or recognition. He has a spirit that simply wants to help . That’s why he saved you from those monsters, and it’s why he won’t leave your side, even now. You’ll have a hard time casting him off until he’s well and decided that you’ll be fine on your own.”

Shouta sighs, but her words crawl and settle under his skin as he watches the other man steadily work with the construction team.

“As for your other questions, no, I don’t know where he’s from or why he left, or why he comes back here once or twice a year. He’s been doing it for the past seven years. What I’ve learned with old age is that there are three reasons why people run. Do you know what they are?”

Shouta frowns. “You either run to get away from something or to go toward something.” He knows this well. After all, he’s technically both on the run from paladins and running toward home at the same time.

“Yes,” she agrees. “But some run simply because they’re lonely.”

Shouta’s frown deepens. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

She shrugs. “Just an observation from a wise old woman. She starts down the street with her basket. “If that’s the reason Oboro runs to and fro, then…well, maybe you’ll be the reason he stays.”

“That’s—”

“After all, he’s spoken to you more than I’ve ever seen him speak at all.”

Shouta’s not sure he likes these statements or their implications. He finds himself at a loss for words as he follows her back towards the inn.

“Shouta, wait!”

He stops dead in his tracks and turns to see Oboro staring at him with a panicked look on his face. He glances at the other builders, then back at Shouta, his expression turned pleading.

“Stay.”

Chiyo laughs, then takes the bags of vegetables from Shouta’s arm. “What did I tell you? Go ahead, take a seat and watch him work for a while. I can get these home on my own.”

Shouta isn’t so sure, but she’s already got the baskets slung on both arms and is humming to herself as she walks away.

He lets out another sigh, then finally turns and joins Oboro on the other side of the street, taking a seat on the bench near the building. When he looks at Oboro again, he sees relief written on his features, and then a bright grin spreads over his face.

“Fine,” Shouta says, trying to control the twitching corner of his own lips. “I’ll stay.”

At last, the news is delivered. A trade caravan will be arriving in Dragon’s Gate in three days' time, ultimate destination: the capital. It will pass by Yuei village during the journey. It’s Shouta’s best and safest chance to get home. He’ll have the protection of a large group, the luxury of plenty of food and fires to offer security during the early winter chill. His arm won’t be healed by then, since he broke it again during the assault by the drakes, but his stitches will be out, and his body has had the time to regain weight.

Anticipation and anxiety make him restless. It’s a sleepless night when he rolls over and finds Oboro asleep for once, lying on the rug in front of the fire using his arm for a pillow. The man’s ever-seeing eyes are closed and his breaths are deep. For once, he doesn’t stir when Shouta quietly slips out of bed.

He needs the space and the stillness to clear his head.

Silently, he sneaks from the room and through the dark halls of the inn to the door. He dons a coat and boots, then walks into the frigid night air. The village is asleep, no torchlight to illuminate the paths. It wouldn’t be necessary anyway. The moon and starspread sky are light enough to guide his steps.

He walks to a nearby hill and turns his gaze up toward the mountaintops. A strange sensation tugs at his chest. Something like… wistfulness. When he gazes at the constellations, it’s easy to imagine that certain shimmers of glittery stars are actually scales.

“Are you still sleeping, lazy dragon?” he muses quietly. He must be, or Shouta’s sure he would have seen him by now, circling in the sky like a vulture, wailing that despaired sound as he searches for him.

Soon, Shouta will leave this village, and any searching Shirakumo does afterward will be in vain.

He sits on the cold grass and crosses his legs as he stares in the direction of the ruins, too far to make out their shape.

“I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye,” he says, the sorrow in his own words surprising him. “You saved my life and gave me a second chance. For that, I’ll always be grateful.”

It’s absurd and illogical, but he starts to see the stars wavering and distorting themselves through unshed tears. All of this…over a beast? “What sort of magic did you cast on me, dragon?” He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and lets out a weary sigh. “When I get back to Yuei…I’ll tell the students of your kindness. Maybe I’ll even set up an altar to pray at. It’s the least I can do.”

He’ll never know what possessed Shirakumo to extend a wing in friendship on that mountaintop, among countless other mysteries that will never be solved. This is simply the reality of their fated meaning. For only a fraction of a second, Shouta stood alongside a god. It was like something out of a legend, and—like an old fable—the tale ended immediately after the brief encounter with a greater power. Although his time in the ruins was brief, Shouta will tell his students and their children and onward all about Shirakumo of the Skies. He’ll tell them about dragons chasing their tails and pouting—about the magic of electric teeth and spheres of warmth. He’ll impart at least a sliver of the reverence he felt at times toward the dragon god.

“Shouta.”

The unexpected voice makes him jolt. Shouta quickly wipes the tears from his eyes and counts on the darkness to disguise his red cheeks and puffy eyes. He looks over his shoulder at Oboro, who, naturally, came looking for him as soon as he realized Shouta was gone. He must have run out here immediately. He’s not wearing a coat or shoes .

“Oboro,” he greets awkwardly.

“Dangerous,” the man chastises lowly. “Not safe for you to wander alone.”

“I’m not wandering,” Shouta argues. “I just…” He can’t tell him he was musing over that dragon again. “I needed to clear my head.”

Oboro doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he sits on the grass next to Shouta, seemingly unbothered by the cold air on his bare extremities. He follows Shouta’s line of sight up into the sky.

“Shirakumo,” he says. “Do you…miss him?”

Shouta tenses at the question. “You’re asking if I miss the beast who held me prisoner for weeks?” He scoffs. “You’re asking a hare if it misses the wolf.”

“You still think you’re prey,” Oboro says quietly.

“Of course, I was. That’s nature. Predators hunt prey.” Even as he says this, he knows he doesn’t believe the words.

“No,” Oboro argues. “Humans are predators,” he points out. “But do they hunt every bird they see?”

Shouta frowns. “No, but—”

“Do birds hunt every mouse they see?”

“Obviously not all—”

“Do mice eat every grain they see?”

Shouta bristles. “No!” he snaps. “Obviously not. Whether I was on the menu or not, it’s the principal of the thing. I can’t miss something that was a threat to me by its existence.”

Honestly, he’s not sure why he’s arguing like this. It’s in direct opposition to his feelings, yet he finds himself defensive anyway.

“Maybe…” Oboro continues, looking at Shouta and cocking his head slightly as he studies him, “the hare sees a wolf, while the wolf sees a fox.”

Yet again, Oboro’s bizarre way of thinking and phrasing things leaves Shouta at a loss. “You’re suggesting what? That Shirakumo, great dragon god of the skies, saw me as an equal somehow?” Shouta groans. “Enough with the useless metaphors. Since when do you have so much to say, anyway?”

Oboro doesn’t respond. He looks away from Shouta, and it’s difficult to tell in the dark, but his expression looks slightly…wounded.

“Fine…” Shouta sighs, guilt softening his tone. “Yes, I… As ridiculous as it may seem, I miss him. I miss the dragon.” He glances up at Oboro again, afraid of receiving a judgmental stare for this. For some reason, this man’s opinion of him holds value. Fortunately, there are no negative feelings written on Oboro’s face. Shouta mostly can’t see his face behind flowing waves of white hair that have fallen to shield it from his view. “That’s why I came out here,” he relents. “To say goodbye.”

Now, Oboro lifts his head again. He mouths the word in silent repetition, and Shouta is temporarily fixated on the shine of light on his white facial hair beneath his moving lips. “Goodbye?”

“That’s right,” Shouta says slowly. “Haven’t you been listening? You follow me everywhere, you’d think you’d have…” he swallows the words, remembering Oboro’s earlier dejected look. “In a few days, I’ll be traveling with a trade caravan back to my own village.” He rises to his feet and tugs the coat tighter around his body as a breeze sweeps over them. “I guess that means I’ll be saying goodbye to you, too, Oboro.”

Oboro stands abruptly—so suddenly, in fact, that his hulking form leaping directly in front of Shouta makes him gasp and stumble backward, just to be caught at the last moment by Oboro’s hand wrapping around the upper part of his good arm. “Stay,” he says, helping Shouta regain his balance.

“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I have to get home.”

“Stay,” Oboro repeats, fingers gripping Shouta’s arm a little too tightly now.

“ No ,” he snaps. “I want to go—”

“You don’t understand,” Oboro interrupts. He shakes his head slowly and gives Shouta’s arm a tender squeeze. “ I will stay. With you. You’ll stay. By me.”

Shouta finds that processing these words is next to impossible. It’s the seriousness of Oboro’s gruff tone and the way his hand feels, wrapped so tightly around his arm. He’s trapped in a silvery midnight gaze and suddenly his skin feels hot despite the cold weather.

“You…” he wets his lips nervously as his brain tries to wrap around the strange declaration. “You want to… Are you saying you want to go with me?”

Oboro nods seriously.

Shouta’s too flabbergasted to find any other word but, “Why?”

“It’s not safe,” Oboro says, “for you to wander alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” he argues weakly. “There will be plenty of others with me.”

This doesn’t pacify him. Rather, Oboro’s gaze turns steely and he takes a step closer, shadowing Shouta completely. “They can’t protect you like I can.”

He’s sure this is true. He’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone else who can tear off drake heads with his bare hands. Still… “I understand your concern, but you can’t keep neglecting your own life to be my personal bodyguard. Don’t you have a home or job to get back to? A family?”

Oboro’s expression shifts into something unreadable, something Shouta wishes he could decipher. “It will be a long time before I can go home,” he answers cryptically.

Shouta wants to press for more information, but he’s not sure what to ask. “Regardless,” he tries, neck starting to strain from tilting it back to look up at the other man, “there’s no reason for you to go with me.”

“To protect you,” the man insists. His grip on Shouta’s arm hasn’t loosened this entire time. “From anything that wants to hurt or steal you.”

Steal me? He’s used this phrase before when talking about the drakes. It’s such odd wording, and the new implication makes his head spin. “You’re worried I’ll be beaten and raped during a trip to my own village? Oboro, I don’t understand your paranoia or obsession with protecting my honor, but I’ll be safe with human traveling companions. They’re not a group of drakes ‘seeking warmth,’ and I’m not some damsel at risk of being deflowered. I promise you, no humans are interested in ‘stealing’ me.”

“You’re wrong,” he says in a low rumble. “To them, you are the hare.”

Shouta feels a shiver go down his spine. God, if he was a weaker man…or maybe ten years younger, then he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from pressing forward against this man’s sturdy frame and running his fingers up his chest. He knows better than that now, though. He knows that Oboro is still some man he’s only just met, with a problematic interest in Shouta that belongs in women’s romance tales, not reality.

“You care an unusual amount about what happens to my body,” Shouta muses, unable to withhold the slightest teasing edge to his tone, despite himself. “I can’t see any reason why you’d be so invested, but…” He pulls gently out of Oboro’s hold at last. “If you’re determined to come with me on this journey, then… I won’t mind the company.”

Oboro grunts in approval. “No goodbyes.”

“Well…” Shouta looks up toward the mountains again. “One less goodbye at least.” With this, he takes Oboro’s hand and gives a gentle tug. “Come on. Before you get frostbite.”

“I’m fine,” Oboro says. “I’m used to the cold.” Still, his big hand closes around Shouta’s, warm and calloused, and he lets the smaller man lead him back into the inn.

Chapter Text

Chiyo cries the morning they leave. She claims she’s catching a cold even as she blubbers into the hats and scarves she’s made for them.

“It’s going to be cold,” she says as she loads their arms for the third time with supplies. “This winter is going to be colder than any other, so you boys have to take care of each other, understand?”

“We’ll stay warm and safe,” Shouta promises.

“I mean it!” she says, grabbing Oboro by the shirt and pulling him down to her level, which is hilarious given the several feet of difference in their heights. “That one is stubborn as a mule, Oboro. He might even rival you there, so you keep an eye on him and don’t let him do anything stupid. You protect him until you come home, hear me?”

Oboro nods seriously. “He’s safe with me.”

“Good,” the old woman says, grabbing Oboro’s face in her hands and looking up at him through teary lashes. “And you’d better come home, got it? I know you like this boy, but I’ll worry my tail off if you don’t come back to the village.”

“Promise,” Oboro says. “I’ll bring Shouta home with me.” He sends Shouta a dazzling grin which Shouta does his best to ignore. Now’s not the time to point out that Yuei is actually his home and if he comes back here one day, it will be as a brief visit.

“Hey, Oboro!” A voice calls. “Come help me load this wagon, will ya?”

Oboro straightens up and nods in response, hesitating to look at Shouta for permission first.

“Don’t worry,” Shouta says with an eye roll. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Satisfied, Oboro bounds away quickly to help with the packing for their journey.

Shouta watches as Chiyo wipes away a new onslaught of tears. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “He’s special, that one. Don’t ever forget that, Shouta. He’s a good boy with a heart the size of a dragon’s. That means I’m counting on you to protect him, too.”

Shouta lifts his arm, still bound in a sling. “Not much I can do in that department.”

“You’ve already done more than you know,” she says before throwing her arms around him in an embrace too crushing for a woman her age.

Once the tearful goodbyes are over, Shouta and Oboro are introduced to the company they’ll be traveling with. The caravan is small, with just over a hundred travelers total, half that many horses and a dozen or so loaded carriages of goods. Neither Shouta nor Oboro have a horse. Shouta, for obvious reasons involving being flown over a mountain range by a dragon. And Oboro because…well, because apparently he makes a habit of traveling on foot and alone all over the kingdom.

Fortunately, there were traders willing to offer room on their carriage for the meager belongings the two men are taking with them. The journey will be slow anyway with all of the baggage being taken along. It would have saved them days of travel if Shouta and Oboro had been given horses and traveled alone, but it would also have been much more perilous.

“Let me introduce you boys to the guild.” The speaker is the caravan’s official liaison and translator. An older man with gristly stubble, a missing tooth, and a cloud of smoke around his face from the pipe he keeps in his mouth at all times. He calls himself “Giran.”

He leads Oboro and Shouta to a group of travelers with a carriage. Most of them eye the two strangers wearily as they approach. A young blonde woman narrows her eyes at them as she polishes a dagger. A masked man dressed as some sort of performer stares at them as they walk by. A man currently loading the carriage with cages of reptiles shoots them a nervous glance before skittering away with a huge lizard tucked in his arms. Three of the company remain, and these are the ones who greet Shouta and Oboro near the two horses now hooked to the carriage.

“Hey, there! Nice to meet ya, the name’s Jin!” says a jittery man wearing what looks to be a potato sack with holes cut out for the eyes. Shouta recoils slightly when the man gets uncomfortably close, bouncing around him and Oboro like an excitable puppy.

“Don’t mind him,” Giran laughs as he grabs Jin by the collar and restrains him. “He got into a bad magic accident a few years back, really scrambled his brain, but he’s good people.”

Shouta nods, sending Oboro a glance. His big companion looks on-edge, clearly untrusting of these strangers.

“What’d you bring us this time, Giran?” Another voice asks. “New guild members?” The speaker this time is a tall, gangly man with black hair and horrific burn scars all over his body, including the bottom part of his face. Scars aren’t unusual features, especially for warriors or travelers. As a knight, Shouta saw deformities far worse than this. Still, the severity of the burns is startling, and he has to force himself to keep his gaze up on cerulean eyes.

“Not this time, Dabi,” Giran says with another amused chuckle. “Meet Shouta and Oboro. They’ll be mooching off you for half of the journey, but Oboro here’s offered to do all of the heavy lifting in exchange.”

Dabi’s eyes rake up Oboro’s large torso. “Yeah? Well, I’m not complaining.” His gaze flicks back to Shouta and a smirk creeps up above his burns. “I’ll tell you because it’s obvious you’re interested.” He gestures to his smiling face. “Fire dragon. Fried me to a crisp when I tried to steal from his treasure hoard.”

Shouta’s eyes widen and he can’t stop himself from speaking. “You’ve met a dragon? What was it like?”

Dabi’s smile grows impossibly wider. “A beast. Big and blood-red. Caught it gnashing human bones into dust.”

Shouta frowns at this. “It didn’t swallow prey whole and regurgitate the bones?”

Now, Dabi’s eyes are the ones that widen, and Shouta suddenly feels foolish for asking. Maybe Shirakumo wasn’t like other dragons, and maybe Shouta shouldn’t be broadcasting his time spent in a dragon’s nest.

“He’s lying.” A final voice makes itself heard. This comes from a man who Shouta didn’t even realize was standing off to the right in the shadow of the carriage. He looks to be about ten years younger than Shouta, with wily ashen hair that rests messily around a gaunt face. His skin is scarred too, under his eyes and on his neck especially, but these aren’t burns. They look like a collection of small abrasions, as if the skin has been rubbed raw and scraped for years. This is confirmed when the young man scratches beneath his chin fervently while he regards Shouta. “Dabi’s never seen a dragon. He got those scars because he wanted daddy’s attention and set a barn on fire when he was a kid. With himself inside.”

“Some fun you are, Shigaraki,” Dabi says with a scoff.

The man named Shigaraki rolls his eyes. “Haven't you been paying attention, dumb ass? Rumor has it in this town that the scruffy one spent two years living on a mountain with a dragon. If anyone can see through your bullshit, it’s him.”

Shouta chooses against correcting the statement about how long he spent with Shirakumo. A fabrication like this will benefit him, especially once they’ve crossed into his home region of the kingdom. He is still an escaped convict, after all, which is an issue he’s keeping in the back of the queue at the moment.

Shigaraki appraises Shouta for a long time, in a cold, calculating way that peels him to the bone. Almost instinctively, he steps closer to Oboro. Perhaps as equally instinctively, Oboro places a large hand on Shouta’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Finally, Shigaraki extends a hand. “I’m the guild leader, despite how Dabi acts. If you need anything…anything at all…just come to me.”

Shouta nods in understanding, then shakes Shigaraki’s hand. “It’s nice to meet all of you. Giran already introduced us, but I’ll repeat it. I’m Shouta and this is Oboro. He doesn’t talk much but he’s strong. We’ll do our best to keep to ourselves, and we appreciate you letting us use your storage space.”

“My pleasure,” Shigaraki says with a cool smile. And it might be Shouta’s imagination, but he thinks the man’s fingers linger in the handshake a beat longer than normal.

The caravan departs shortly after. As expected, the pace is slow but steady. On the one hand, it makes Shouta antsy, wishing he could get home faster. On the other, he’s grateful for the pace because he’s still nowhere close to the physical condition he was in before being captured by Shirakumo. Taking things slow and easy will be something he appreciates after walking miles upon miles every day.

Oboro is his only company for the long trek. He walks beside Shouta, perfectly in step, silent but comforting. They stay behind the carriage, separate from the rest of the odd guild members. Shouta prefers it this way. He’s not particularly social or interested in casual chat with his companions. He would rather stick to what’s familiar—what’s safe. And Oboro is safe.

Shouta has been learning that Oboro is also a big, glorified child. He’s amused easily, excitable, and takes delight in the most absurd things. Just this morning, Shouta caught him staring wide-eyed at the wares of one of the traders. He was absolutely captivated by a wooden sculpture of an unbuckled shoe. He couldn’t stop laughing—this deep-bellied, joyous laugh—and he refused to give the trader back his product until Shouta acknowledged the “little man shoe.”

There was also last night, when Shouta was too anxious about the journey to sleep, so he rolled over and found Oboro laying on the wooden floor and making shadow puppets with the light from the fire. He kept it up for a solid twenty minutes, enacting some kind of detailed story until he realized Shouta was watching him. His hands flopped to the floor and he sent him a sheepish grin before rolling over, embarrassed.

Today, when the wagons pause and the sun hangs at the highest point in the sky, they break for lunch. Shouta and Oboro find a patch of dried grass roadside and select food from their pouches. Shouta takes a loaf of sweet bread from Chiyo’s tavern and an apple that reminds him of the time Shirakumo fetched him sacks of food and waited for praise. Oboro reclines with an entire container of dried meat and only dried meat. I guess with a body that size, he needs the fuel.

Shouta watches him eat with mild amusement. He’s ravenous, wipes drool away from the white strands of his facial hair every so often, and spends so little time chewing that he chokes on coughs every few minutes.

He’s so odd , Shouta thinks as he tears off another piece of bread.

His playful side comes out in force when a few little birds land on the grass between the two men. They must be a regional variant, more common on this side of the mountain range, because Shouta had never seen one before his stay in the ruins, when the plump little yellow bird hopped around on a dragon’s snout. As then, the birds seem to have no concept of caution now, either. They hop and peck crumbs of bread from the grass between Shouta’s fingers.

“Shouta!” Oboro says through a gasp that startles him and makes two of the birds fly off. “Birds!”

“Yes, Oboro…” Shouta raises a bemused brow. “They are birds.”

Oboro grins from ear to ear, then pulls a strip of dried meat from his pouch and dangles it out toward the birds. They hop away in disinterest, sticking to the crumbled pieces of bread in Shouta’s palm. Oboro’s bottom lip juts out in a pout when the birds ignore his offering for the fifth time.

“What are you doing?” Shouta laughs. “You can’t possibly think they’ll eat that.”

Now, Oboro looks affronted. He narrows his eyes at the meat, sniffs it, then tosses it into his mouth. “It’s good meat.”

“And they’re birds ,” Shouta says. “They don’t eat meat.”

Oboro’s pout grows more pronounced. “Many birds eat meat.”

“Do you really look at these small wrens with their shallow beaks and think they’re capable of scavenging for meat and bones? For someone so mysterious and powerful, you really are stupid.” He hopes the affectionate melody of his words is getting through. He doesn’t want to actually wound Oboro’s pride.

“They’re birds,” Oboro insists with a whine. “They should be grateful.”

“No,” Shouta argues. “They should be smart . See, you aren’t providing them with the food they need, so they come to me instead. It’s merely survival.”

Oboro leans forward on his palms, his expression turning severe now as he studies the hopping creatures. “They leave…because I can’t give them what they need?”

“That’s right,” Shouta nods. “Open your hand, let me see your palm.”

Oboro obeys, resting a hand on the grass with his palm upturned. Shouta tears off another piece of bread, then crumbles it in the center of Oboro’s large hand. “Hold it there perfectly still.”

He does, eyes narrowed in absolute concentration. Shouta sets aside his own bread so as not to be a distraction, then watches as the birds creep closer to Oboro’s palm. At last, they peck at the bread, and one hops onto his wrist to get a better angle. Oboro’s eyes light up and he looks at Shouta with an absolutely giddy expression. “Birds!” he declares in an urgent whisper. “They stay!”

Shouta laughs. “Yes. As it turns out, it’s not all that difficult to make something stay.” He takes another scrap of bread and rests it in Oboro’s palm. He’s not sure what prompts him, but he hesitates and gives the other man’s fingers a pulse, as if encouraging him to continue. Realizing this action is…unsolicited, he moves to pull away, but Oboro’s fingers lock with his, pinning him there.

“Stay,” Oboro commands, not for the first time. And how can Shouta disobey when he’s smiling like that—like the moon and sun both spin around him?

“Fine,” Shouta sighs, “but this is a waste of food.” He puts another piece on his own hand, and they watch happily as the birds hop back and forth between them.

The caravan comes to a stop in the fiery breath of twilight. Practiced traders set up fires and tents in mere minutes. It takes Shouta and Oboro longer and with more fumbling until Dabi comes to the rescue with a handheld combustion device, starting the fire instantly.

The tent they erect is hastily constructed, open on one side to face the fire. The other walls keep in the heat that drifts from the open flames without trapping smoke. It should keep the brisk autumn nights bearable so long as someone keeps the fires stoked.

Shouta settles in the tent once the curtain of night has fallen. He shivers pitifully as he tucks himself beneath blankets, already missing the warmth of Chiyo’s tavern. Something about this chill and about the knowledge that he’ll have to endure it all night long, makes prickling fingers of dread weave between the spaces of his ribs and squeeze his heart. Like so many of Shouta’s feelings these days, the sensation is completely irrational. He won’t die here in front of a fire, enclosed by a tent, wrapped in real blankets. He knows this mentally, yet the unsettling grip of anxiety twitches in his stomach anyway.

He sits up and looks at the fire. Oboro sits cross-legged on the ground next to it, eyes unseeing as he gazes into the flames. Above him, a starless sky is spread like smoke through the gaps in the trees, dark and intimidating, with heavy clouds that block the sparkle beyond. This shakes Shouta even further, until the anxiety unfolds into panic and he finds himself trembling so violently that he can’t control it.

Why ? he wonders as a tight ache clamps his throat and makes his eyes spring with tears. Why do I feel like this? What’s happening to me?

There’s no sense to it at all, but Shouta’s guts twist and curl and his heart beats so fast that he’s sure it will rupture under the icy fingers still wrapped around it. He’s absolutely sure that he’s going to die .

“Shouta?” Oboro’s voice calls, pulling his gaze back up. Firelight flickers on dark skin as Oboro looks concernedly at him, blue eyes colored yellow in the reflection of flames. “What’s wrong?”

He tries to lie. Nothing , he means to say. His tongue shapes to form the word, but that tight ache on his throat clamps harder, so hard that his jaw starts to throb. He can’t speak. He can barely breathe.

Oboro moves, crouching and leaning forward into the tent, face falling to shadow with the fire now behind him. “Shouta…?” He takes in the sight of Shouta’s shaking body. Tentatively, he reaches forward and places a hand on Shouta’s trembling knee. “You’re…cold?”

A choked sob rips from Shouta’s throat. He nods and whimpers out the most pathetic repetition of the word imaginable. “C-Cold.”

It’s not quite right, but saying it is the best he can do, and it’s a relief to feel the freedom to speak again. It’s like Oboro has given his throat permission to let go of his voice at last.

Oboro beckons him with a flick of the wrist. “Come closer. By the fire.”

“N-No, I…” He what ? What’s wrong with him? “The cold, I—”

It hits him suddenly, like the crash of his head on stone when the drakes assaulted him, or like the sudden grip of a dragon’s talons around his body after a fall. He thinks of shivering in Shirakumo’s nest, tucked against his body as it slowly lost its warmth. He thinks about the dread of knowing he would freeze if he stayed any longer. The fear. The guilt. The merciless and unrelenting cold that left his protector in a state of immovable slumber.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t move.” How ironic, too. Considering that the last time he was stricken by the cold, it was so easy to move. To leave the side of his dragon ward. To move on .

In an instant, Oboro moves instead. He jostles Shouta’s body away from the blankets, temporarily exposing him to more of the traumatizing cold. But then, the cold suddenly dissipates as he’s pulled into the radiating heat of the fire. Oboro has pulled him against him, ensnaring him between his thighs, curving his body around Shouta’s so his chest presses against Shouta’s back and his thick arms are wrapped around his torso. Now, Shouta is in front of the fire, enveloped in its warmth while Oboro’s heat wraps around him from behind.

It’s another sudden hit, because this feels so familiar. He instantly remembers when Shirakumo used his magic and created the orb of heat around them. That sudden feeling of honeyed warmth, of safety, of relief. That’s what he feels the moment Oboro’s arms tuck around him and the heat of the fire brushes his nose and cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers like a child, humiliated and ashamed of his reactions. “It’s just…the last time I slept in the cold, I… I thought I was going to die.”

Oboro doesn’t say anything for a moment. He rests his chin on Shouta’s head and breathes out a slow breath. “…I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Shouta lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s not your fault I was on that mountain.”

Again, Oboro is silent for several beats. “I’m sorry…that you were scared.”

Shouta cries quietly and shakes his head. “It’s not just that, I… It’s stupid.”

“You can tell me,” Oboro says gently.

Shouta stares at the yellow center of the flames, remembering the sparking electricity in Shirakumo’s mouth on the night he returned to Shouta wounded. “It’s… I…” Despite himself, his hands are suddenly clinging to Oboro’s forearms, holding them tighter against his own chest. “I…left him there. In the cold, I—Shirakumo, he… What if he froze up there, alone? What if it’s my fault? If he used all of his magic to keep me warm and then… But, I—what was I supposed to do?! If I’d stayed, then…” He trails off, unable to continue the thought.

“You’re worried…about Shirakumo?”

“I told you it was stupid,” Shouta breathes shakily.

“Not stupid,” Oboro argues sharply. “He was worried about you, too. I’m sure of it.”

“I know he’s just a dragon, and it doesn’t make sense, but… I wish…I could have kept him warm, too.”

Oboro’s head lowers, and if Shouta didn’t know better, he’d think the man was nuzzling against his hair and breathing him in. “He’s fine,” he says finally. “He’s lived on the mountain for centuries, Shouta. He’s withstood colder winters. He’s made for it.”

“You can’t know that,” Shouta argues. “There’s no way to know that for sure.”

“I can,” Oboro insists.

“How?!” Shouta snaps back, not sure why he’s getting so defensive again. “How can you possibly know that my dragon is alive?”

Oboro breathes in sharply through his nose, then lets it out in a slow breath. Shouta turns in his grip and looks up at his face, noting the way his eyes carefully stay trained onto the fire, refusing to meet Shouta’s gaze.

“How can you know that, Oboro?”

The man’s eyes close and his nostrils flare. He doesn’t speak for a while, until Shouta thinks he’s not going to answer after all. Finally, his eyes open and he looks down at Shouta with a guarded expression. “I…saw him.”

Shouta blinks in disbelief. “You…what? When?!”

Oboro’s lips pinch together. “After I…rescued you. While you were asleep. I…saw him flying.”

Shouta’s heart thumps loud and hard against his ribs. “You… Why didn’t you tell me?”

Oboro tilts his head as if trying to stretch a knot in his neck. “I thought you might not want to know. You might think…he was looking for you. And you might be scared.”

“I wouldn’t have…” Shouta trails off again. Suddenly, he can feel his body relaxing and a wave of relief washing over him. “He’s okay. God…he’s…he’s okay.”

Oboro nods. “He’s okay. And you’re safe. I won’t let you feel cold ever again.”

The absoluteness of this statement makes something swell in Shouta’s chest. Ever again? Does Oboro have any idea how these grandiose statements sound when he says them? As if he truly intends to be shackled to Shouta for the rest of his life.

“Oh, yeah?” Shouta asks, hoping his voice sounds teasing and not raspy from crying. “What are you going to do? Keep me in your lap in front of the fire all night?”

“No,” Oboro answers. “I’ll sleep with you.”

Shouta’s breathing hitches and he can’t seem to do anything other than stare with his jaw slack. “Y-You what?”

“I’ll hold you,” Oboro clarifies. “Until morning. Every night.”

“That’s…” He tries to imagine the guild waking them up in the morning to continue the journey east. How embarrassing would it be for Dabi or Shigaraki to find him bundled in Oboro’s arms? He tends to avoid broadcasting to strangers that he enjoys the company of men—not that he and Oboro are the type of men in company , but…

Fuck it, he thinks, lips twitching in a smile. He doesn’t care what the others might think. He’s already got a reputation of being “god-touched” and “the dragon’s lover.” Besides, with the way Oboro follows him around, they’ve probably already given the impression of being a pair. Additionally, well… it would be nice to be held against someone’s chest in the cold again.

“Fine,” he relents. “For warmth.” He remembers the way Oboro appraised him in the bath and adds, “And I’m not having sex with you.”

Oboro chuckles. “Let it be known that you’re the one who’s mentioned sex. Twice.”

Shouta feels a very different heat than that of the fire touching his cheeks. He doesn’t get the chance to fire back, though, because Oboro is suddenly dragging him back into the tent and under the blankets. Moments later, his arms are wrapped around Shouta again, broad chest pressed against his back and thighs tucked beneath his own so the two of them are slotted together in a comforting curve.

Immediately, Shouta feels more at ease. The touch isn’t akin to being held by a dragon, but Oboro’s body is warm, and he’s certainly a better substitute than a pillow.

Shouta’s fear of the cold and his overburdening guilt are forgotten. His dragon is okay, and Shouta is warm, and those are the only assurances he needs in order to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

They reach the first waypoint three days into the journey. It’s a small fishing village, not much larger than Dragon’s Gate, on the west bank of the grand river that winds south from the mountain range. Some of the traders, including the West League Merchant Guild that Shouta and Oboro are traveling with, are here to drop off wares and pick up more for the next phase of the journey. For others, this is a final destination, and for some fishermen, the beginning of their own route. For the rest of the caravan, the stop is an opportunity to rest, maybe sleep in a tavern, and eat fresh food.

Shouta and Oboro are no exceptions here. It feels like it’s been years since Shouta last had fish, and he’s nearly as ravenous as his companion when they’re served plates of fried salmon with white wine and vinegar sauce.

“Ease up, you two,” a high, drawling voice teases from the next table over. “At this rate, there won’t be any salmon left in the river,” Shigaraki says.

Shouta slows down, but only a little. “Not my fault my dragon never thought to bring me anything but burnt deer meat.” Normally he avoids talking about his time spent with Shirakumo, because he realizes how it makes him sound like a crazy person, and also because he wants to avoid being asked too many questions. But he feels relaxed after having a break from traveling, and an abundance of mead makes him more loose-lipped than usual.

“Maybe you should have asked for fish,” Oboro says, eyes sparkling as he looks at Shouta over his own mug of alcohol.

Shouta laughs at this. “I’ll be sure to give him a menu of my preferred dishes next time.”

He can just imagine how ridiculous that would have been. He can picture Shirakumo perched at the side of the river, eyes tunneled on the surface of the water before he flails uselessly trying to capture salmon with his claws. 

He’s smiling at this thought when Toga, a member of the guild, hops and seats herself on the table, legs kicking beneath her. She digs the tip of one of her daggers into the splintering wood and grins at him. “I have a question, Shouta,” she says, leaning in with a wicked smirk. “How’d you end up living with a dragon, anyway? We’ve traveled all over the kingdom and I’ve never heard of anything like that. Fights and dragon slaughtering, sure. But I’ve never heard of a dragon keeping a toy.”

Shouta frowns, not particularly keen on revealing anything leading up to his capture.

“Yes, do share,” Atsuhiro, the performer, joins in and sits on the opposite side of Shouta. “Surely there’s a grand story to be told. How does one become ‘god-touched?’”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Shouta says with a noncommittal shrug. He has no idea why Shirakumo rescued him and kept him there.

“I’m curious, too,” Shigaraki says, though he doesn’t join the table like the others. He remains where he’s sitting, red eyes bathed in shadow as he stares at Shouta with an intrigued expression. “Why don’t you let us in on your secrets? We’re all friends now, right?”

“It’s the least you could do,” Dabi’s voice calls over. He’s turned away from the group, and until now it didn’t seem like he was interested in the conversation at all. “You know, since we agreed to take you and your bodyguard on with us.”

Shouta takes another swallow of mead and sends Oboro an uncertain look. The responding expression seems neutral, as if he has no opinion on the subject matter.

“He…” Shouta swishes his drink in the tankard. “He rescued me,” he says carefully. “I…fell off a cliff and he caught me. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Toga groans in complaint. “That’s so boring!”

“And a bit sleight of hand, isn’t it?” Atsuhiro says. “Your expression gives you away, dear boy. You’re hiding cards from us.”

“Bet it has something to do with that real pretty paladin crest he’s hiding on the back of his neck,” Dabi says, still not bothering to look over at them.

Shouta’s hand goes immediately to cup his neck, so hurriedly that he drops his mead. “How…” he starts. He’s sure he’s kept it covered. There’s a reason he grew out his hair. But Dabi’s been suspicious of him since the beginning, it’s no wonder he noticed…

“Be honest,” finally Dabi turns to cut a sharp look at him, “you’re a knight, aren’t you? Trying to infiltrate our guild and expose whatever dirty laundry you can find.”

The rest of the table goes dead silent. He watches as his companions all tense. Toga’s grip tightens on the hilt of her blade. Shigaraki’s gaze darkens and his nails dig into the table surface. Atsuhiro’s muscles tense as if ready to flee.

“No,” Shouta says quickly, raising both hands in a show of innocence. “I was a knight. For six years. I was discharged after getting injured. I haven’t served in over seven.”

“And we’re supposed to take your word?” Toga asks.

“Difficult, when you’re keeping secrets,” Atsuhiro adds.

Four sets of wolf-like eyes cut at him from every angle. He gets the disjointed, confusing sensation of familiarity, and envisions the drakes circling him in the canyon. As he thinks this, a big hand comes up to the back of his neck, warm fingers spreading out to give a comforting squeeze. Oboro’s reminding him that he’s here, too, and that gives him far more comfort than it probably should given the circumstances. Losing the guild’s support for this journey will leave them both stranded—more than that, it could be dangerous. Most guilds are cutthroat, and if they truly suspect Shouta of being undercover or stealing information from them, his life could be on the line. That threat is abundantly clear at this exact moment.

“I’m no knight,” Shouta insists. “I’ll…tell you the truth.”

The others relax but only slightly, suspicion still plain on their faces.

“I was accused, charged, and sentenced to death for a crime I didn’t commit,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I was supposed to be executed by way of dragon or falling. Old paladins that I once stood beside in battle were the ones who ushered me to a cliff side and pushed me toward my death. Shirakumo caught me, but for some reason, he didn’t eat me. He kept me in his nest instead. That’s the truth.”

The guild members share surprised looks.

“You’re…an escaped convict?” Shigaraki asks, his head cocked slightly and gaze calculating.

“I’m not sure ‘escaped’ is the right word. My executioner spared me, so am I really a convict now?”

This comment causes Shigaraki’s lips to curl into a smile. Even Dabi gives an amused chuckle. “Why didn’t you lead with that, dumbass?” he asks.

“Clearly because he doesn’t want us to turn him in to the authorities,” Atsuhiro answers. “To be expected. How many of our guild have been on the run at various stages in our lives?”

“Is no one going to ask the question?!” Toga leans forward with an excited hop. “What did you do? Or what do they think you did?”

He hesitates, thinking of Hizashi’s face and the beautiful spells he used to craft. “Magic,” he says finally. “They thought I was a warlock.”

At last, the tension breaks. The guild members break into booming and raucous laughter that draws looks from other tavern patrons. “You?!” Dabi mocks, “A warlock? You can’t even start a fire on your own.”

“I’m sorry, but the mere concept of you as a warlock is an insult to anyone who’s dabbled in the dark arts,” Atsuhiro laughs. “I should know.”

Shouta gives his own uncomfortable laugh. He’s considering how to respond, when Oboro’s voice speaks up. “What’s wrong with magic?”

Again, silence cuts through the air, instant and tangible.

“He can’t be serious, right?” Shigaraki asks in a seething tone, looking at Shouta rather than the man who spoke.

Oboro’s hand slides down from Shouta’s neck and finds a new home on the small of his back. He has half the mind to complain about the intimate gesture, but…well, he’s been cradled to sleep by this man every night now, there are some physical boundaries that have simply ceased to exist. Besides, he’s too preoccupied with the sudden spike of defensiveness he feels on Oboro’s behalf.

“He’s a foreigner,” Shouta says quickly. “He doesn’t know some of these things.”

Oboro ignores them, fingers twitching on Shouta’s back. “What’s wrong with magic, Shouta?”

“The use of it is forbidden here,” Shouta explains. “It has been for the past thirty years.”

“Why?”

“Politics,” Dabi answers. “Some big guys at the top got worried about little commoners like us taking their power away. So, they did the only logical thing and took ours away first.”

Oboro makes a gruff sound. “Magic is good. It can heal, light, warm, and grow things.”

“Yeah, and it can also make them bleed, ” Toga adds.

Abruptly, Oboro rises to his feet, nearly knocking the table over.

“Where are you going?” Shouta asks when the man uncharacteristically starts to walk away.

“Outside.”

Shouta watches in disbelief as he goes out the door. “Wait! Oboro—”

Fingers wrap around his wrist. “Why don’t you stay here and chat with us a while?” Shigaraki’s voice is low and drawling. “I’ll buy another round of drinks.”

“You haven’t finished the fish you were so excited about,” Dabi comments.

Shouta carefully pries Shigaraki’s fingers away from his arm. “I’m sorry. I have to make sure he’s okay.”

The expression in Shigaraki’s sunken eyes seems to darken, a bitterness touching the corners of his cracked lips that makes Shouta’s stomach twist with discomfort. He knows he has to be careful not to cross these people, but he can’t sit here like this when something’s on Oboro’s mind. He ignores the glares and starts toward the door.

“Shouta,” Shigaraki calls smoothly behind him. He hesitates for a moment. “Thank you for opening up to us.”

Shouta gives a small nod of acknowledgment, then hurries out the door.

He finds Oboro fairly quickly, sitting on the shore of the river with his head down and shoulders hunched. Shouta goes to him instantly. “Oboro?” He sits beside him, much like Oboro did for him on the night he found him outside, lamenting his loss of Shirakumo. “What’s wrong?”

Oboro lifts his head and runs his hands down his face with a hefty sigh. “I didn’t know.”

Shouta waits for something further, but the man falls silent, glaring blue daggers at the swirling water in front of them.

“About…magic being illegal here?” Shouta guesses, trying to pinpoint where exactly the conversation went awry.

“Any of it!” Oboro answers. “I didn’t know the law, or that you were a knight, or that you were convicted of a crime and sentenced to death. I didn’t know. ”

Shouta frowns. Uneasily, he places his palm on Oboro’s thigh in what he hopes is conveyed as a comforting gesture. “You can’t have known. You’re not from here and you didn’t know anything about me before we met.” What doesn’t make sense is why this lack of information is so upsetting to Oboro.

“Is that why…” Oboro sighs again, “people here don’t worship dragons anymore? Because of the magic?”

Shouta wasn’t expecting dragons to be brought into the conversation, but he reminds himself that Oboro is a foreigner and has spent time in Dragon’s Gate, possibly the most dragon friendly village in the kingdom, at least from Shouta’s experience. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I was a baby when the law changed. I imagine it has something to do with it. Is it different in your homeland?”

Oboro doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, he gives a small nod. “Where I came from…humans and dragons loved each other. And they shared magic. They grew crops with it, healed wounds, even used it for fun. It was peaceful and happy and never lonely.”

Shouta leans his head against Oboro’s shoulder. “That sounds like paradise.” He’s tried to imagine scenarios like this before, when he lived in the ruins and looked at the engravings on the wall. He tried to picture a world in the past where people traveled to the mountaintop to play merrily with the child-like dragon who lived there. His heart had ached for the forgotten god of the skies. “Where is this magical mystery kingdom?”

“…Far.” There’s reluctance in Oboro’s tone. The word is strained as it leaves his lips. This subject is troubling for him. Shouta wishes he knew why. 

He wants to pry for answers, to dig into his companion’s background, his association with magic, and the reason behind his knowledge of dragons and drakes. He wants to know why Oboro pays sporadic visits to Dragon’s Gate, and where he goes in the in-between. In so many ways, the man is still a complete mystery to Shouta. Despite that, and despite his nagging curiosity, Shouta decides against pressing him too hard.

“That’s a shame,” he says instead, “I’d love to visit your home and see it for myself.”

Oboro’s hand goes to the back of Shouta’s, still resting on his thigh. He squeezes it. “I’d take you there. Show you. Keep you.”

Shouta shudders slightly, even though he doesn’t know exactly what the man means by this. “Doesn’t that sound nice?” he says in a lilting tone. Sure, it’s a little flirty, but mostly he just wants to redirect Oboro’s attention from the homesickness he’s feeling.

Suddenly, Oboro moves. A grunt is forced from Shouta’s lungs when the man’s big hands shove him down into the ground. In an instant, Oboro has him pinned there, long white hair cascading down like a curtain of water around them, blocking anything but Oboro’s face and the intense emotion in his eyes. He looks panicked, flustered, wild.

“Come home with me,” he demands. “I’ll take you there. You can stay with me.”

“Wha-” Shouta tries to catch his breath through parted lips, but his heart is pounding and he realizes he can’t move because Oboro’s body is pressed down on him, muscular thighs straddling him and palms pressing so hard onto his shoulders that Shouta feels like he might sink into the earth. “N-No, I… Oboro, I’m trying to get back to my home.”

A ferocious scowl stretches across Oboro’s lips. It almost looks like he’s snarling, drawing Shouta’s attention to his exposed canines. Have they always been that sharp? Did he file them like that or is it natural? “You can’t,” he says. “You said the knights hunted you, they want you dead. You’re not safe! If I’d known…I wouldn’t have let you get this far already.”

Indignation burns in Shouta’s throat. “It’s not your choice,” he seethes. “I know the danger, but the knights think I’m dead, and I have to go home.”

“You don’t,” Oboro argues. “Your home is… It can be with me.” 

“Stop it,” Shouta says, detecting a tremble in his own voice. “You can’t keep talking like that. I appreciate your loyalty but I’m not your…your lover, and you’re not my keeper. I hardly know you, Oboro, I’m not going to abandon my village to go live in your homeland.”

Oboro’s brows narrow and there’s a trace of pain in his eyes. Shouta tries to look away from them, focused instead on the scar across the bridge of his nose from the drake attacks. He can’t handle that look of betrayal. It doesn’t make sense. He knows that the things he’s saying are true. He doesn’t know Oboro well, they’re not some matrimonial pair. Yet…seeing that look in his eyes hurts.

“Stay with me,” Oboro commands again. “I’ll take care of you. Feed you the right food. Keep you warm.” His face lowers until his forehead is pressed against Shouta’s and his breath brushes across Shouta’s lips. “I’ll protect you. From drakes. From men.”

Shouta inhales sharply as one of the man’s hands slips under his head, finger threading through Shouta’s hair and hoisting his head higher until their lips touch, just barely.

“…boro,” he breathes, unable to form the whole word. His voice has retreated to a pit in the back of his throat. He can hardly breathe, his whole body is on edge, paused as if waiting for something.

“I can take care of you,” he says, and Shouta can feel the shape of the words planted on his own lips. “I can make you my…” Whatever word was supposed to follow doesn’t quite make it past his tongue. Or maybe it does, but its form is lost the moment Oboro seals his mouth on Shouta’s.

It’s so sudden and unexpected that it draws a surprised moan from the cavity of Shouta’s chest. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but close his eyes as Oboro’s mouth crushes down on him and moves with intent, with passion. His fingers pull hard on the locks of Shouta’s hair wound around them. His tongue charts Shouta’s lips and then his teeth because it wants inside.

It’s too much, too overwhelming in the midst of their dispute.

Abruptly, Shouta turns his head and sucks in a gulp of air, breaking the kiss. “S-Stop,” he pants. “You can’t convince me to go home with you even…with that.” He shudders, body burning, tongue dancing with desperation. “I’m going home. To Hizashi. To Hitoshi. To my children. I’m sorry.”

Oboro’s silvery blue eyes register something like hurt or indignance, maybe a hybrid mixture of the two. His head drops like he wants to try to kiss Shouta again, but he buries his face against his hair instead. “Me…” he says in a quiet groan. “You only need me.”

Shouta pushes weakly against him, trying to shove him off with one hand. “No, Oboro. I… I like you, but I…need my home and my family. Let me go.”

Finally, Oboro lifts his head again. Now, his eyes are wild, full of so many charged emotions that Shouta can’t decipher any of them.

“Then, I’ll stay,” the man says, voice so serious and resolute that it sends a shiver through Shouta’s whole body. “Stay. Protect you until you want to come home with me.”

“Oboro…”

“I’ll stay,” he repeats, leaving no room for argument.

Shouta breathes out a slow breath. “Okay. You…can stay with me.” He reaches up with his good arm and brushes his knuckles across Oboro’s cheek, feeling the soft waves of white hair drape over his arm with the movement. He tries for a smile when Oboro leans into the touch. “I’d like that.”

Oboro’s eyes close and he lets out an almost imperceptible sigh. When he opens them, some of the flurry of emotions from before has dissipated. He begins to pull away, but now Shouta’s fingers are the ones tugging on hair.

“I can always visit your home,” he whispers. “I can see it with you. I want to…” He can feel the embarrassing flutter of his own eyelashes. “I want to see this place with dragons and humans living in harmony. And I want to…” He hesitates, not sure if he should say the words lying in wait. What pride is there to be had, though? This man has seen him at his weakest, he knows his shame, he knows his doubts. So… “I want to get closer to you.”

These words visibly affect Oboro. He lets out a shaky exhale, then his jaw clenches so hard that Shouta can feel the twitch of a vein beneath his fingertips. It’s like he’s holding back, like there’s a tidal force bearing down on his back and Oboro is fighting it with his entire body.

Shouta can’t help it. He wants to shoulder a bit of that pressure. Not all of it. He can’t be whatever it is that Oboro wants him to be right now. His objective is to get home, and he’s trying not to indulge in thoughts of anything else, despite the impossible to ignore attraction between him and his companion. But…he does want Oboro to know that Shouta feels it, too. There is something between them, a growing bond that he does cherish—that he does want to explore. “Just…give me time,” he whispers. Time to go home. Time to distance himself from the odd circumstances that have led him here—from the weeks in dragon captivity. Time to trust that these abrupt feelings are healthy, not rushed or irrational.

And in the meantime…he doesn’t want to see that look of rejection pass over Oboro’s features ever again. So, he lifts himself up on one elbow, digs his nails into his scalp, and pulls him down for a proper kiss.

A growl rattles against Shouta’s teeth, hot breath blooms across his cheeks from Oboro’s flaring nostrils. Shouta’s mouth parts in invitation this time, and Oboro is quick to take advantage. His tongue slips inside, his mouth presses hard and desperate against Shouta’s. He kisses him roughly, with rumbling groans and nipping teeth, as if…as if Oboro’s been wanting to do this since Shouta first woke up in Chiyo’s tavern.

This…could be bad. It might be too soon, too bizarre, too codependent. Shouta should be more restrained. He’s not usually like this. It’s not rational, there’s absolutely no good reason to emotionally invest himself in this man, especially considering his troubling obsession with Shouta, but there’s no denying their connection, and… god… his lips taste divine.

“That’s enough,” he whispers when they break to catch their breath.

Oboro is breathless, his lips still parted with thirst, but his expression…joyous. Like a child who just won a prize. “Are you sure?” he asks. He pulls back with shining eyes and a growing smirk. “I can set up our tent and give you more.”

A flash of heat lights in Shouta’s stomach. He pushes the man aside and finally sits up. “No. I only kissed you because you were upset. I still don’t want to have sex with you.”

“I didn’t say anything about sex,” Oboro chuckles. “That’s the third time for you.”

“It was clearly implied,” Shouta huffs as he rises to his feet.

“Implied?” Oboro muses. He meets Shouta’s gaze with a hungry, devious expression. “No implication. I want you.”

Shouta nearly chokes on his own saliva as soon as the brash words escape the other man’s mouth. “That’s…too forward. I’m not trying to suggest to you that I want to—”

“I know,” Oboro interrupts. “I’ll stay. I’ll wait. Until you’re ready to come home.”

Chapter Text

It’s six days into the journey. The caravan is making good time. They’re already halfway to Shouta’s final destination and he’s so close that he can almost taste it. It tastes like Nemuri’s signature fish stew and a fresh cup of squeezed apple juice, kept cold by Shouto’s magic ice abilities.

He tells Oboro this as they trail behind the guild’s carriage and the sun begins to set behind them. “You’ll love them. They’re good kids. Smart, funny. You know, Eijiro is a lot like you. A little stupid but he lives to help others.”

He glances over to find Oboro pouting, which is exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. He laughs and nudges the man in the side. “I’m teasing.” Oboro perks up with a grin. “I like that you’re stupid,” he adds.

Oboro puts a big hand on top of his head and ruffles his hair with a huff. “You’re mean.” The hand slides down to Shouta’s neck and gives a long squeeze that sends pinpricks of pleasure down to his toes.

“Yes, and you like that, too,” Shouta retorts, earning a loud laugh.

“I like you, little wingless raven.”

“Wingless…what?”

He doesn’t get an explanation for the obscure term of endearment because, at that exact moment, Oboro’s hand tightens around his neck and he pulls Shouta abruptly back. Shouta’s reeling from the unwarranted action, about to question him when he realizes he was a step away from colliding into the carriage in front of them. “Why did we stop?”

The caravan has come to a halt, there’s murmuring and people stepping down and away from their horses. It seems a bit early to be stopping for the night. Sure, the company usually begins to set up camp around dusk, but it was his understanding that they would be crossing the great bridge that binds the eastern and western regions tonight, then resting in the town on the opposite bank of the river. Additionally, the stops are never this sudden. Something is going on.

“Fuck,” a familiar voice rings out ahead of them. A moment later, Dabi approaches from the front of the carriage. “You two!” He jumps into the cart and frantically begins to untie bundles of goods. “You got anything illegal in here? Contraband? Slaves?”

Shouta’s expression sours at this. “Of course not.”

“Well, we do,” Dabi says. “Contraband, I mean. Oboro, help me! There’s a compartment under the cart, I need you to move these crates into it. What the fuck are you waiting for?! Now. ”

“Dabi!” Another voice joins in. It’s that of Spinner, the reclusive young man who spends most of his time in the company of reptiles. Unlike Shouta, not the dragon type. “What about my lizards?” His face is panicked. “They’ll throw them into the river!”

“No, they won’t,” Dabi snaps. “You remember the plan! Go find Giran!”

The rising tension makes a knot of anxiety form in Shouta’s stomach. It’s worsened when Oboro leaves his side to follow Dabi’s instructions without a word of complaint.

“What’s going on?” Shouta demands. He tries to see beyond the scurrying crowd of traders buzzing around in torchlight like drunken moths. He can’t make out anything in front of them besides the line of horses and carts, though.

“Inspection,” Dabi says. “Dammit, there’s not supposed to be a checkpoint here!”

Inspection? Shouta’s muscles relax. Of course. The knights do like to hold surprise inspections of large groups of travelers on main roads. Shouta performed many of them when he was part of the knighthood. Though, Dabi’s right, they shouldn’t be holding one here. The last he knew, it was illegal for the knights to stop traffic across the bridge because it conflicts with trade laws. No matter. Shouta and Oboro haven’t been up to any criminal activity that he knows of, so…

Wait. That’s not entirely true, is it?

A sinking feeling of dread drops in his stomach.

Shouta’s an escaped convict. If he’s recognized…

No, that won’t happen. The knights don’t know he’s not dead. They have no reason to be looking for him. His wanted poster isn’t plastered on every sign in every town. So long as the knights doing the inspection don’t know him personally, he’ll be fine. And the chances of that happening are close to none. He’s been out of the service for years, the only ones who might recognize would be his captors and maybe some of his old squadron mates. Back then, his hair was short and his stubble shaved, too. There’s no chance he’ll be recognized.

The loud clop of horse hooves and the rattle of armor draw his attention forward. Traders scurry out of the way to make room for the tall, chestnut red horse and its armored rider. “Alright, you lot!” A booming voice shouts over the din. “Line up! Here on this side of the road!”

No. Oh no. Oh fuck.

He knows that voice. He knows that scarlet painted breastplate and silver boots and gauntlets. He knows the spiky gray hair, furrowed brows, and protruding underbite. He knows that this can’t be real. 

There’s no way. Of all the knights in the entire fucking kingdom… There’s no way it’s him. And yet, Shouta can’t deny the clarity of his own vision as the bulky man approaches on his steed. It is him.

Sekijiro Kan.

Or, as his subordinates call him: Lieutenant Vlad.

“Dabi!” Shouta hisses urgently. “You have to get me out of here!”

Sekijiro more than just knows Shouta. They have a long and tumultuous history. They were knighted on the same day, assigned to the same squadron, rose through the ranks together until they were each assigned their own squads to lead. They fought alongside each other in battle, they cut down enemies with their backs pressed against one another, they bandaged each other’s wounds and drank from the same tankards on nights when they wanted to forget the bitterness of the world and the names of the mages they’d killed. They were comrades, friends, brothers…

And…

Sekijiro is the one who executed him. 

He remembers it as vividly as some of the haunting, recurring memories of battle—as if it’s happening in front of his eyes right now. Sekijiro slapping the cuffs onto his wrists, red eyes as hard as rubies and face drawn in a scowl that exposed some of his bottom teeth.

“Look at you, Shouta. Look at what you’ve become. A traitor to your kingdom. A traitor to the blood of our oath.”

And then…that gleam. The sharp cut of red crystal as a smug smirk curled on his lips.

“Finally. At last, your legend will die, and mine will live on.”

Until that point, Shouta had known Sekijiro saw him as a rival. He hadn’t been blind to the fervor with which the other knight was always trying to show off and outdo him. He remembered how angry the man had been when Shouta was discharged from the knights before Sekijiro had gotten the chance to outrank him. But to Shouta…this friendly rivalry served to enunciate a bond he thought mattered. To “Lieutenant Vlad,” that rivalry masked hatred.

“Dabi!” He grabs the younger man’s arm and pulls, eyes still fixed on Sekijiro as he stops to rifle through crates in a carriage ahead of them. “I need a place to hide!”

“Why—” Dabi meets his gaze and understanding dawns on him. “Oh, I see. Feeling a little heat from Sir Knight over there?” He wrenches his arm away. “Don’t know what to tell you. Our only extra storage space is for Spinner’s pets.” His smile is sick, taunting.

Shouta looks desperately on the other side of the cart, wondering if he can make it into the trees to–no. Young members of the squadron are already patrolling down the line.

Oboro stands, his eyes narrowed with concern. Shouta responds with a look of panic, and in an instant, Oboro is hoisting Dabi into the air by his throat. “Hide him or I’ll snap your neck.”

Dabi’s eyes widen and he scratches at Oboro’s forearms. “F-Fine!” he sputters. “Put me down!”

Oboro drops him and Dabi immediately opens a chest on the ground, digging through clothes. He throws a feminine, decorated cloak at Shouta. It looks to be one of Toga’s. “Put this on. Wear the hood and pull your hair in front of your face.”

“A disguise? You can’t be serious!”

“Do you see any other options?” Dabi gestures and Shouta swallows dryly at the sight of Sekijiro jumping back onto his horse.

Shouta shivers and takes the cloak, draping it over his shoulders and pulling the hood down over his face.

“Go on, big guy,” Dabi says, giving Oboro a shove. “Go line up with your pretty little wife.”

Oh, so that’s the game we’re playing.

Oboro seems confused, silently mouthing the word “wife” with a perplexed expression. Shouta slips a hand into Oboro’s and gives his fingers a quick pulse. “Put your arm around me. If they talk to you, pretend I’m your wife.”

“But you’re not a woman,” Oboro says as Shouta pulls him to the line.

“ Obviously, ” Shouta huffs. “But they don’t know that.”

“But if you speak, they’ll know. Why pretend to be female?”

Shouta’s teeth grit as he watches Sekijiro come closer. “I won’t speak, and for the love of all known gods, you shouldn’t either unless you have to. Now put. Your. Arm. Around me.”

Oboro obeys, sliding his arm around Shouta’s waist and pulling him snug against his side. A moment later, the guild members join them, lining up side by side and waiting for the knights to pass. If they’re lucky, Sekijiro will glance at their cart and continue on.

Luck isn’t on Shouta’s side tonight, however.

Red eyes peel apart everything they land on, stripping down person after person, fileting them to the bone. They’re calculating, cold, and they’ve always had a knack for scoping out trouble. Sekijiro’s instincts were always second to none, and that hasn’t changed. That much is clear when he locks eyes with Shigaraki and pulls the reins on his horse.

“Search the carriage, Neito,” he orders. A young, blond knight about Hitoshi’s age gives a salute, shoves past Jin, and begins tearing open crates. Meanwhile, Sekijiro jumps from his steed, boots thunking with a loud clang in the short grass. He walks down the line, inspecting the guild members. Shouta lowers his head, grateful that his cloak covers his trembling extremities. “Leader?”

“Tomura Shigaraki,” Shigaraki speaks up smoothly. “Leader of the Western Traders Guild.”

“Product?” Sekijiro asks.

Shouta keeps his head bowed, eyes trained on silver boots, breath held captive in his throat.

“A little of this and a little of that,” Shigaraki says slyly. “Interested in buying?”

“Don’t. Mock. Me.”

Shigaraki bites back a retort and the knight moves on. “Name?”

“Himiko Toga, Mr. Knight, Sir!”

Another step down the line. “You?”

“Jin Bubaigawara!”

Shouta feels sick. Dabi is next, and then Shouta, and it looks like Sekijiro is intent on addressing everyone personally. When he does…he’ll recognize him instantly, and Shouta has a feeling that “divine intervention” won’t sit well with him.

What do I do? Run? Lie? Turn myself in?

He’s made it so far… That day on the cliff, he was supposed to die. Since then, every day of life has been a blessing. For weeks, he counted every day as his possible last. But he survived. He survived and he hoped. He believed in reclaiming a future he was never supposed to have. And he was so close…

“I asked you for your name.”

Shouta sucks in a sharp breath. He was so caught up in his dread that he didn’t realize Sekijiro had moved on to him.

He freezes, refusing to lift his head. This is it. This is the end of the line. Were the extra weeks of life worth it? Did he take them for granted? Should he have stayed in Dragon’s Gate and lived out his stolen time there? Could he have lived with himself if he’d listened to Oboro a few nights ago and decided to give up the journey home in favor of a life with the man at his side?

I’m sorry, Oboro, he thinks as he clings a little tighter to his side. I’m sorry I can’t get closer to you after all. He shudders as he hears Sekijiro step closer. I’m sorry, Shirakumo. You gave me new life and I squandered it. For some reason, this is what breaks him. This is what causes him to turn and bury his face into Oboro’s side, hand clutching weakly onto his sturdy frame as tears burn his eyes. It’s the sudden realization that he’ll never see them again. Not Oboro. Not Shirakumo. This is where he really does say goodbye.

“Raven,” Oboro says suddenly. “My wife.”

“That’s cute,” Sekijiro says. “But I asked her. ”

Oboro’s grip around Shouta tightens, and it suddenly occurs to him that, if Sekijiro does try to capture him, Oboro will fight. He’ll fight with the strength of a half-giant who ripped off the heads of Shouta’s attackers once already. He will fight, and he might be able to overpower Sekijiro, but he won’t be able to take on the whole of the squadron or the heat of an entire army. Oboro will fight, and he’ll die, and it will be all Shouta’s fault.

He can’t let that happen. He won’t. Just like before, when Hizashi was staring down the length of a sword, Shouta will lay down his life if it means protecting him.

He straightens up, hand reaching for the hood to pull it down. But then…

“She can’t speak.” Shigaraki’s lilting tone drifts over to them. “Can’t you see her husband? They’re not like us. Foreigners from the far west beyond our borders. In their culture, the women don’t speak or show their faces to anyone but their husbands. I thought this was common knowledge, but maybe not to eastern knights who’ve never stepped past the river.”

It’s a risky play, poking Sekijiro so blatantly. It could turn sour in a moment’s time. The knight could grow indignant and rip the cloak off himself. Or, he could redirect his ire toward the guild and Shigaraki. He could arrest all of them, leaving Shouta in an even worse predicament.

He’s quiet for a long time, as if contemplating these same possibilities. Finally, he takes a step to the right, out of Shouta’s line of vision. “Foreigners, huh? What are you doing here?”

“Work,” Oboro lies. “We need money.”

“It’s true,” Dabi adds. “Why else would a trading guild take them on? We pay the big guy for the grunt work and he totes the little lady around with him. It’s a win for everyone.”

Sekijiro taps a gauntleted finger on his breastplate as he considers this information. Again, an unsettling silence looms on them, and a sense of fear rides with it. “Neito!” he yells suddenly. “Did you find anything?”

“No, sir!” The blond boy answers. “Only tacky clothes and moldy food.”

“Hm.”

Shouta is shaking now. He pushes his face against Oboro’s side and breathes in the scent he’s been getting familiar with. An earthy, yet crisp smell that is decidedly Oboro in every way. It soothes him, providing the only sliver of hope that Shouta can afford at the moment.

“Fine,” the knight says at long last. “But tread carefully, giant. There are others who won’t care who you are or where you came from. I recommend keeping your bride close.”

“I will,” Oboro says seriously.

“Come on, Neito!” Sekijiro shouts. “Moving to the next cart!” They walk away, leading the horse to the next group and allowing Shouta to breathe at last.

Almost immediately, Oboro turns and pulls Shouta hard against his chest. And Shouta can’t help it. He keeps crying, keeps clinging helplessly to Oboro and slurring out words of thanks mixed unintelligibly with apologies.

“Sh, my wingless raven,” he says, using that strange term of endearment again. “You’re safe with me.”

Shouta melts into his comforting touch and Dabi’s voice reaches his ears. “Don’t forget, Raven, ” he says, “you owe some gratitude toward me and the boss for stepping in, too.”

Oboro sniffles and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “Of course,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Thank you for helping.”

“No need to thank us,” Shigaraki sings. “We’ll just say you owe us a favor. Deal?”

Shouta faces him directly and nods. “Deal.”

The caravan inspection drags on for over an hour. No one dares attempt to set up a campfire or tent until after the knights have given them permission, so Shouta waits, sitting on the edge of the cart with the coat bundled around him and Oboro at his side. They sit in silence, Oboro not uttering a single word since “You’re safe with me.” That’s fine by Shouta. It takes an inordinately long time for his nerves to finally settle, though it does nothing to ease the weight of the existential crisis he had in the heat of danger. The same questions about his life, its meaning, and whether he’s wasting it continue to mix and swirl like smoke in his head. He’s relieved when their group finally gets the signal that it’s okay to set up camp.

Fifteen minutes later, their tent is set up in the forest and a fire lit. Shouta is exhausted, physically drained from travel and mentally withered after the close call with Sekijiro. He wants to sleep, and is already under the roof of their tent, sitting with blankets pulled over him, waiting for Oboro to join him. But, even after the fire is crackling and wood set out to replenish it later, Oboro doesn’t crawl into the tent. Instead, he stands there, arms crossed over his broad chest, face hard as firelight plays on his features.

Shouta waits for a long time, studying the shape of his companion in the shadows. There’s something about his posture or maybe the depth of concentration in his eyes that seems familiar. Shouta spends a long time meandering through formless feelings, trying to assign them meaning. He realizes, eventually, that watching him gaze up at the stars feels the same as the morning he watched Shirakumo perched on top of the ruins, body rigid as he tested the winds. It’s…nonsensical, but Oboro evokes a sense of nostalgia that reminds him of the dragon. He wonders why that is. Perhaps because both Oboro and Shirakumo sought to protect him? Or maybe because Oboro hails from a land of human and dragon companionship, and his behavior and way of speech seem influenced by this upbringing. Whatever the case, Shouta has come to find himself relishing it.

“Shouta.” His voice breaks Shouta’s musings. His shadow-cloaked eyes don’t flick over to meet his gaze. They remain latched on the dark sky, lassoed around the rising moon as if it holds answers he can’t quite reach. “Tomorrow, we go back to Dragon’s Gate.”

Shouta stares incredulously at him, not able to find his voice for a moment. “What? Oboro, you can’t just decide that on your own.”

At last, those eyes fall on Shouta, and he wishes they hadn’t. They’re steel-gray and sharper than any blade Shouta has ever crafted in the forge. “I’m taking you back. I’ll carry you there if I have to.”

Hot indignation sparks in Shouta’s chest and he scrambles to get out of the tent. “That’s not your call to make!”

Oboro turns on him with what could only be described as a snarl. “I warned you that it was too dangerous to go to your home. You knew the knights would kill you. That knight earlier reeked of bloodlust. I thought I was going to have to kill him.” He says this with an absolutely serious expression, as if the feat of killing an experienced paladin didn’t faze him in the slightest. As if he counted it as a necessary deed under the right circumstances.

“I know,” Shouta retorts, “but we can be more careful now. We can—”

“You still want to go to your village?!” Oboro interrupts him, voice booming in his chest. His features are twisted into an expression of shock and frustration. “You would still risk your life, your precious life, to get back to that place?”

“That ‘place’ is my home,” Shouta snaps. “I’ll admit that I was too hasty and unprepared to return, but I do still want to see the people I love.”

This was not the response Oboro wanted to hear. He spits out a curse in a language Shouta doesn’t know, then paces in front of the fire. His shoulders roll again and again, his fingers twitch and knuckles crack. “Would it be so bad?” he asks. “To stay with me?”

Shouta blinks at him in surprise. “No, it’s not… That’s not the issue. Oboro, I care for you, but—”

“But you don’t know me,” he interrupts in a scathing tone. “You don’t know me and you’ve known them for years and they’re your family.” He scoffs. “But you do know me, and no one can protect you like I can.”

Shouta’s hands curl into fists. “I didn’t ask you to be my guard, Oboro! I didn’t even ask you to come with me!”

Oboro groans and begins to scratch at his scalp with painfully rough motions, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Ungrateful as always, ” he spits. “You’re the most frustrating h—” He bites off the rest of the sentence with a guttural sound of frustration. “You can flail and peck and whine all you’d like. Tomorrow, I’m taking you home. ”

“You are not entitled to me, Oboro,” he retaliates. “I will not go with you.”

Oboro is suddenly right in front of him, both hands gripping his shoulders hard. Up close, with that snarl on his face, he seems animal, and it’s terrifying.

“You need me,” he says, eyes softening slightly, now reflecting a silent plea. “You need me to take care of you.” One hand lifts to cup Shouta’s face. “You need me.”

Shouta turns his head sharply away from the touch. “I don’t.”

All at once, the argument is over. Oboro’s hands drop. All expression drains from his face in an instant. He takes a step back and Shouta watches as a shiver spreads over his body that he shakes off with a quiet sigh. “You don’t need me,” he states plainly. Without another word, he turns on his heels, sparing Shouta from even a glance, and walks into the tree line.

Shouta watches his visage disappear from view. This is only the second time Oboro has walked away from him. This time, Shouta doesn’t follow.

The night suddenly feels cold.

“Well, would you look at that.”

Shouta spins around with a gasp, then eases up when he sees Dabi step into the light. A breeze blows the smoke from the fire in his direction, dark tendrils parting to let him emerge.

“Looks like the loyal dog went to pout because he can’t eat from the table.” A wicked smirk spreads across his lips.

“I’m not in the mood,” Shouta warns. “Please, let me get some rest.”

“Sorry,” Dabi shrugs, “can’t do that. The boss is asking for you.”

Shouta releases a weary sigh. “Now’s not the time. I can see him in the morning.”

Dabi doesn’t budge. “No, you see…you made a deal. You owe us a favor for saving your skin back there, and Shigaraki’s keen on cashing in on that favor now.”

“What can I possibly do for him at this time of night?” Shouta snaps.

Cerulean eyes rake up and down Shouta’s body, appraising him in a way that makes his stomach flip and unease spread to his fingertips. “You’ve got exactly what he needs. You won’t have to do anything at all.”

That sick, clammy sense of unease burrows deeper. Shouta takes a half-step back in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“Aw, don’t play coy.” Dabi’s smirk seems to grow impossibly wider. “You were so pretty in your girly coat earlier, and you’ve been driving the boss-man crazy with jealousy by hanging onto your big dog all the time. Don’t you think it’s about time to pay up for all the kind things we’ve done for you?”

“You’re insane,” Shouta says, vitriol and disgust dripping from his tone. “I won’t pay him back with sexual favors. I’m not interested.”

“Shame,” Dabi says with a shrug. Suddenly, something wraps around Shouta’s bad arm and the slicing edge of a blade presses against his throat. “You seem to think you have a choice.”

Chapter Text

“Can I cut him?” Toga’s voice snakes across Shouta’s ear. “I really wanna cut him.”

“Not yet,” Dabi says, flicking his wrist so the girl will usher Shouta to follow him. “Not until Shigaraki’s done with him.”

Shouta digs his heels into the ground once, thinking that it might be possible to overpower the girl. But her blade sinks into the tender skin of his neck and her hand twists his broken arm without mercy. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” she mocks. “And don’t even think about crying out to your dog for help. I’ll cut your jugular and he’ll find nothing but scraps leftover.”

Shouta’s throat clamps shut and he unwillingly lets her goad him into the forest toward the guild’s tent. His eyes skitter past every tree trunk, desperately hoping to see Oboro burst through the vines and branches. I shouldn’t have argued with him. I shouldn’t have said I don’t need him. I’m sorry, please come back.

His silent pleas aren’t heard. He’s shoved roughly by Toga through the flaps of the guild’s large tent. Then, she kicks behind his knees, forcing him to the ground. Her knife stays pressed against his throat as Dabi binds his wrists, making him cry out in pain as his wounded arm is yanked backward.

“Now, now,” a slippery voice coos. “Be gentle with him. We don’t want to mistreat our guest.”

Shigaraki sits before him on a high-backed chair, one leg propped over the other as he leisurely reclines there. “I take it he didn’t come willingly. Too bad.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Shouta rasps when Toga finally steps away from him.

“We haven’t done anything, Shouta,” Shigaraki says coolly. “I just want to talk and negotiate our deal.”

Shouta can feel himself sweating despite the cold night air. Worse than this, he can feel tears welling in his eyes, and he doesn’t want them to see how weak and frightened he is. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing extreme,” their leader answers. “And nothing you haven’t already given to your pet giant.” He licks his chapped lips, sending another shiver down Shouta’s spine.

“You’re wrong,” he says, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “I’ve never had sex with Oboro.”

Toga cackles like a hyena as she drapes herself over the arm of Shigaraki’s chair. “Then he really is a neglected doggy, huh?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Shigaraki’s red eyes gleam wickedly in the dim torchlight. “It’s the dragon you’ve got a hard-on for, god-touched whore. ”

“No…” Shouta whispers pathetically. “I never—”

“No need to lie to us, dear boy,” Atsuhiro says. The man is sitting cross-legged on a sleeping mat, not wearing his mask for once. “Spinner has an affection for reptiles as well, though I suppose his tastes aren’t quite so crude.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shigaraki says, waving them off. “Either way, my request is the same. Now, you can make this easy and we can all benefit from it, or you can force my hand to collect payment. It’s up to you.”

Shouta swallows the nauseous ball in his throat. “Fuck you,” he spits onto the ground, though the scared rasp of his tone makes it through.

“That’s the idea,” Shigaraki says smoothly. “And I’m not sure you’re grasping the situation you’re in, Shouta. You’ll give us what we want, or…” he idly picks at a cuticle, “we’ll turn you over to that friendly knight we met earlier.”

Shouta’s stomach twists with dread. Blackmail . He should have known better. He should have never told them he was a convict. This entire situation, the position he’s in…it’s all his own fault.

He chokes on a sob, despite himself. This is all my fault. Since that morning…the day he chose to leave Shirakumo’s side, every single choice he’s made has been wrong. There’s no one to blame but himself, and no one to catch his fall or battle his drakes this time.

“Only if…you leave Oboro out of this. It’s my debt that has to be paid, right? If you swear not to tell him about this…” He can’t imagine Oboro’s rage or betrayal.. He can’t…he can’t hurt him again. And he can’t deal with the shame of admitting that Oboro was right. He was right all along. “Then…” he whispers, voice broken with defeat. “What…do you want me to do?”

Shigaraki uncrosses his legs and leans forward, a twisted grin exposing his teeth. “All I want,” he unclasps his belt, “is for you to lay there and take it.”

There’s the rustling of clothes and movement. They’re all standing now, Shigaraki, Atsuhiro, Dabi, Toga. They’re standing and their clothes are thumping onto the dirt, and Shouta realizes with horror that this was never about what Shigaraki wants. This is about the guild, almost the entire guild, crushing him under their boots just because they can.

Everything starts to spin. He’s in the center of moving, hungry animals. Salivating. Wicked. Exposing themselves and the tools they’re going to use to maim and disassemble him.

He gags as the memory rushes in. Disorienting dizziness fogs his vision and his head sinks into the pits of black murk. His predators are human, but for a moment, all he can see are the vicious, reptilian faces of drakes.

“ No! ” He flails, scrambling to his feet as sheer terror rips through him. Nothing makes sense anymore. He can hear Toga laughing but it sounds like the grating roar of a beast. He can see Dabi shedding his shirt and he swears his back is lined with sharp quills. Shigaraki’s hands stroke up and down along his stiffening cock and all Shouta can see is a slit opening to reveal two slimy appendages. He’s cold, hot, it’s windy, it’s stuffy, he needs help, he needs Shirakumo, he needs Oboro. He doesn’t know where he is in time, or what he’s looking at. All he knows is that he needs to flee.

“They always make it difficult,” Shigaraki sighs.

“Maybe because no one wants to fuck your crusty ass,” Dabi goads as he grabs Shouta by the hair and slams his body hard onto the ground. Instantly, he’s pinned by hands and knees. He can’t even tell who’s touching him where, nor can he differentiate the feeling of human fingers from the claws of beasts.

Shirakumo…Oboro….please, come back! Please! Oboro!

“No use,” Dabi says, and then some fabric both foul and coarse is being shoved so far into the back of his throat that he gags. “Oboro’s busy.”

Had he called his name out loud? Shouta can’t remember. Has he been screaming? Is he crying? His face is numb and he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

“Jin’s playing keep-away tonight~” Toga says. She’s slithering on him like a snake, fingers and blades rendering his clothes useless. “Your dog is too stupid. One little lie is all it takes to keep him far away from here. ‘ Oboro, Shouta’s missing! We went by your tent and he was gone! We think he ran toward the river!’ ”

They planned this. They knew exactly how to take advantage of Shouta and Oboro if they were ever separated. How long have they been biding their time? How worthless is Shouta for pushing Oboro away and causing this?

“Atsuhiro, stop him from kicking. Spread him open so I can see.”

He’s not sure what gets said in response to this. He’s aware only of the tearing of his pants and the icy sensation of hands on his thighs. He does try to kick, but he’s restrained, completely on display.

“So much hair…” Shigaraki sings, fingers skittering over Shouta’s abs and down, down . “And I’ll bet this cock fills out pretty thick, doesn’t it?”

Shouta retches, stomach acid rising in his throat just to get trapped in the gag in his mouth. The acrid fumes burn his nose and it’s getting hard to breathe through snot and tears. Shigaraki’s hand is cradling his flaccid cock, stroking slowly, almost lovingly . The violation makes him scream into the gag as he tries to beg them to let him go.

“It doesn’t make sense…” Shigaraki’s nails drag down over the loose flesh of his balls. “You’re a big guy, a knight, plenty masculine. But you act like such a girl around Oboro. What’s that about, huh? What will it take to turn you into my cute whore instead?”

Shouta’s body spasms involuntarily when Shigaraki’s fingers squeeze around his balls painfully tight. Everywhere he touches feels tainted, like he’s deteriorating Shouta’s body, turning his skin to ash beneath his fingertips. He swears he can feel himself cracking, dirty, poisoned. And meanwhile, Toga’s knife is leaving streaks of red on his chest and Dabi’s pierced cock is slapping his cheek, smearing precum on his lip and eyelids.

“You don’t need to cry, Shouta,” Shigaraki mocks. He spits onto his fingers and even though Shouta knows what’s coming, he still lurches at the sensation of those digits slipping and pushing against his rim. “Just imagine I’m your precious dragon god. If you want, Dabi and I can fuck you at the same time so you can replicate that two-dick sensation.”

“Take out his gag so I can ride his face,” Toga demands.

“Careful not to make him cum, Shigaraki. I want a turn with him first,” Atsuhiro comments.

“Uh-uh,” Dabi hisses before spitting directly onto Shouta’s face, “stay conscious there, Shouta. We want you to feel every second of this.”

Shigaraki’s fingers are probing. His hand is tugging and twisting Shouta’s cock and even though he hates it, even though he wants to die, he’s powerless against his own nervous system, unable to fight the flow of blood to his cockhead.

This is all my fault. I deserve this.

He stops resisting.

I should have listened to Oboro.

His muscles go slack.

I shouldn’t have left Shirakumo.

His brain begins to empty. He can feel himself retreating somewhere deep inside of it. Farther, deeper into an underground cavern where he can’t hear the noises from above. None of the squelches or moans or grunts. They can’t reach him down here, far beneath the soil where it’s quiet, where it’s empty, where he’s alone.

Something is seeking entrance, eager to ruin him. He can’t feel it but he has a sense of it. Heat. Throbbing. It’s going to hurt him, cut him, leave scars that go as deep as the farthest reaches of this safe cavern of thoughts. When this is over, he’ll never want heat or throbbing from anyone, ever. He knows this, without even fully understanding what he’s thinking. He’s too far gone.

Then…

Cold.

There’s a rush of it, so sharp that it jolts Shouta from his fog. Partially, at least. Enough to make sense of shouting, flickering light, and…fire?

“You’ve got the wrong idea!” Shigaraki is saying, his voice muffled as if Shouta is hearing from underwater. “He wanted it, it’s all consensual, it—”

There’s a sound, a sickening crunch, a scream.

“What the fuck are you?! ” Dabi yells. He’s moving, running, cursing…and then gurgling and slumping to the ground.

There’s more screaming. Shouta closes his eyes because nothing makes sense. The images are distorted like reflections in a rippling pool. They’re registering in disconnected parts of his brain. How is it so hot and cold at the same time? Why is it so bright? Why can’t he feel his body? Did they do it? Did they rape him? Is it over?

Suddenly he’s being lifted up, and he gets the strangest image in his mind of being slowly raised on a bed of clouds, toward the depthless sky.

“—safe with me,” a voice says. “You’re safe now.”

Shouta looks up at a familiar face, framed in white hair, spattered with blood. But the past and present are still overlapping in his mind and he can’t make sense of what or who he’s looking at. He tries to reach up to touch his face but his arm doesn’t quite make it. “Shira…kumo,” he whispers. That’s it. That’s the right name, he’s sure of it.

“Sh, my wingless raven,” his low voice is a melody breathed into Shouta’s hair. “My night sky. Sh. I’ve got you.”

He’s got him. And while Shouta might not be fully aware of himself right now, there is one thing his body seems to understand instinctively.

That voice…means he’s safe.

Chapter Text

His body is jostled, jarred, moved. He’s aware of it, but just barely. He’s not unconscious, but this might as well be a hazy, scattered dream. He thinks he’s on a horse except that’s not possible. Or is it? He can’t remember.

There’s no sense of time or distance. He’s trapped in a haze for an eternity, yet it feels like only seconds have passed before he’s in his rescuer’s arms again. He’s vaguely aware of voices, light, and then warmth.

Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe he’s right where it all started, or ended. Perhaps this tender heat is that of his dragon’s magic and he’s still there, held against a furry chest in a sphere of magic. Where he should have stayed. Where he belonged.

“Shouta,” that familiar voice calls. “Sit up. Look at me.”

He tries, but his eyelids are so heavy. And he knows that if he does…if he lets himself return to the waking world, he won’t have the numbing safety of this dark cavern anymore.

“Need to see your eyes,” the voice insists. “Did you hit your head? Did they?”

He struggles to focus through sluggish blinks. He wants to find his voice to respond, but he can’t yet.

“Shou…” the voice pleads. “Look at me. You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you. I’m here.”

Shouta’s eyes adjust and readjust, blurring and pulling in and out of focus. He lets them shake on the foggy image of the man crouched in front of him. “O…ro…”

“It’s me,” he croons softly. “Oboro.”

Fingers brush his skin, pushing hair away from his eyes. A thumb smoothes across his cheek and Shouta can remember the feeling of Dabi’s cock dragging across the same area. Panic bubbles in his chest and he lashes out, nails swiping across the face of his attacker.

Except…it’s not his attacker. It’s his savior. Oboro.

Suddenly, everything is in crystal clarity.

“Oboro!” he gasps, hand flying to cup the man’s face. “I’m sorry, s-sorry, I’m sorry…” He chokes on tears as he rubs the fresh scratches on his cheek.

Oboro clutches his wrist, draws his hand to his lips, and delicately kisses every knuckle and every fingertip, one by one. “It’s okay,” he says, breath warm on his skin. “Scared animals lash out. Even the foxes.”

Shouta starts to sob. “I’m sorry,” he weeps. “You were right, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault…”

Oboro’s arms wrap around him and he pulls Shouta’s head against his chest. “No, I did this,” he says, holding Shouta there and running his hands through his hair as if he’s a child. “I left you alone and they hunted you. My fault. Mine.”

Sobbing, weeping, wailing… He cries in Oboro’s arms until a feeling of disgust overwhelms even that of his fear and despair. He can feel them everywhere, skin burning as if branded by hands and breasts and cocks. He wants to peel it from the bones and burn it—burn up all evidence and all memory of their revolting touches. He can still feel the dry crackle of Dabi’s precum on his face, and the sting of the cuts from Toga’s knife on his chest, and the uncomfortable twitching of reflexive muscles in his hole from trying to stave off Shigaraki’s hands. His whole body has been soiled by them, and just like that he’s panicking again, shoving Oboro away from him.

“Don’t touch me!” he yells. “I’m dirty .”

“That’s why we’re here, Shouta,” Oboro says softly. Without further explanation, he steps away from Shouta, leaving him with further panic. He doesn’t leave the room though, he simply…

The room.

Shouta looks around him at enclosed walls, a fireplace that’s already been lit, the wooden frame of the bed he’s sitting on. But… how? They were with the caravan, they had their own tent… “Where are we?”

“A town. Other side of the river.” He’s doing something by the fire, but Shouta can’t see what.

“How did we get here?” Shouta asks.

“By horse.”

“We don’t have horses.”

Oboro grunts. “We do now.”

The man steps away from the fireplace, using a hook to lift an iron pot away from the flames. He sets it on the stone tabletop in the corner, then dips a rag inside of it. Shouta thinks he might faintly smell the scent of soap.

He returns to Shouta’s side with the rag. “What are you doing?” Shouta whispers as he lifts the cloth to his cheek and tilts his chin up with his fingers. 

“Cleaning.”

As soon as the fabric wipes across his cheek, removing the remnants of Dabi from his skin, a tight bubble locked behind Shouta’s ribs pops. Pressure releases, and relief soothes the trembling of his body. He can’t do anything but cry silently as Oboro scrubs away his shame with the hot cloth. The bigger man pushes the cloak from his shoulders, and Shouta can’t remember when he was dressed. Now, Oboro exposes his naked flesh to the air again, and Shouta starts to whimper like a beaten dog.

“It’s okay,” Oboro says as he runs the cloth over the cuts on Shouta’s chest. “I’ll wash them off of you. I’ll make you clean.”

His touches are gentle, but sure. His brows are narrowed and face set with concentration, like he’s working a craft, not cloth-bathing his companion who’s too pathetic to wash himself. 

Shouta trembles. He doesn’t want to look at his own body. The thought of it makes bile rise in his throat. But…he can’t look away from Oboro either. Those blue-gray eyes, the scar across his nose, white eyelashes too long and pretty to belong on a man like him. And right now…the dried blood still spattered in his facial hair.

“Did you kill them…?” he asks in a whisper, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

Oboro looks up and meets his gaze, his expression contemplative. He’s trying to gauge the same thing Shouta is, trying to decide what he needs to hear. At last, he pauses with the washcloth balled up on Shouta’s knee. “I can, if you want me to. Do you want them dead? Ask, and I’ll do it.”

His response implies that he left Shouta’s attackers alive. For a moment, this makes Shouta simmer with rage. “You ripped off the heads of five drakes and you couldn’t kill four humans?”

Oboro frowns. “I needed to protect you, take you to safety. I didn’t have time to make sure they were all dead. If it will make you feel safe, I’ll check. I’ll hunt down any that escaped the fire and rip them to pieces.”

“Fire…?” Shouta repeats. “You…”

“Broke them,” Oboro answers. “Burned them.” His lip suddenly pulls back in a snarl. “For trying to steal what’s mine.”

Shouta’s head lowers as a strange shudder of—pleasure?—works up his spine. “You still…after the things I said to you… When I said I don’t need you… After that, and after what they did to me, you…still want me? You still think I’m…yours?”

A low, rumbling sound rises from Oboro’s chest, almost like a growl. He drops the rag, letting it slump across Shouta’s thigh, then leans forward and grabs his face in both hands. His lips move, as if trying to shape a coherent sentence, but for some reason, the words don’t come. Instead, Oboro’s thumbs swipe lines over Shouta’s cheekbones, he draws his face so close that Shouta can feel his breath on his lips, and he mutters, “ Mine. ”

The sob Shouta issues at this doesn’t make it far. It’s caught in Oboro’s mouth, tasted, swallowed—returned as a moan when their lips connect. Oboro hums into the kiss, still holding Shouta’s face so tenderly, so dearly, in a way no one’s ever touched him before. In a way so jarring and different from the harsh hands of the guild members. He kisses him deep and slow, tongue charting every inch of the space in a way that has Shouta weeping and trembling in his hands.

He drinks Oboro in, relishing the love he pours so passionately into Shouta’s mouth.

It’s unsteadying. Alarming. Shouta shouldn’t feel this kind of pleasure and longing, so soon after what he experienced. Yet his heart and body crave each second of it.

Then, Oboro pulls softly away, lips still barely touching his. “Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me where they touched you. I’ll wash away every trace of them.” As he says this, he draws his tongue languidly up Shouta’s cheek, painting the area where Dabi’s precum had stained his skin.

“Everywhere,” Shouta answers quietly. “Shigaraki, he…” He can’t say the words, but he doesn’t have to. Oboro is moving the soapy rag again, drawing it tenderly along the insides of Shouta’s thighs. He pushes on his knees, forcing Shouta to spread his bare legs wider. Shouta keens at the sensation of the cloth being dragged through dark hair along his soft cock. He’s sobbing again as Oboro massages and cleans his balls, then hoists him up a little higher so he can smooth the cloth over and around his rim, too.

Meanwhile, Oboro’s lips trail down his neck, his tongue continuing with slow, flitting licks on its descent. He reaches Shouta’s chest and drags his tongue up each of the shallow cuts, making Shouta’s abs twitch and the hairs on his arms rise. When the man’s tongue flicks over a dark nipple, Shouta sucks in such a sharp gasp that it gives Oboro pause.

“W-What are you doing?” Shouta asks again, even though Oboro has given an answer already.

“Cleaning,” he repeats, then strokes his tongue up and rolls Shouta’s pebbled nipple with the flat of it.

“Y-You can stop now,” Shouta says, as confusing sensations clash and mix in his stomach.

Oboro drops the rag onto the floor, but doesn’t stop kissing and licking everywhere on Shouta’s torso, moving lower and lower. His hands settle on Shouta’s thighs and push them open wider as he works his way down until his tongue is smoothing down the dark trail of hair leading to other things.

“O-Oboro, wait, stop—what are you…” Shouta’s breaths come out quick and shallow as he watches the man settle on the floor completely and lean back to unabashedly look at Shouta’s body. “What are you going to do?”

Oboro’s gaze flicks up to his, eyes holding an unreadable expression. He doesn’t look away as he slides his bare fingers beneath Shouta’s flaccid cock and lifts it. “I’m going to wash their scent from you,” his thumb strokes softly along the length, “and leave my mark instead.”

Shouta’s heart pounds against his ribs. His stomach flips and supercharged heat ignites deep inside of him. He can’t help the twitch of his cock in Oboro’s hand. “Wait, I—” He bites back a moan as Oboro tucks his head down and runs his tongue back and forth along every side of Shouta’s slowly hardening cock. “I don’t know how I feel about this, p-please-ah-I was almost raped tonight, I don’t—” He shudders as Oboro closes his mouth around Shouta’s entire cock, suckling and goading him into growing, into filling the warm space until Oboro’s tongue is rolling back foreskin from a swollen cockhead.

His stomach is churning, his nerves are firing everywhere all at once. It feels good. Oboro feels so good —he’s warm and wet and sexy and he knows exactly how to do it, how to make every stroke of his tongue count and every bob of his head send electricity ricocheting through Shouta’s body. But… fuck, less than two hours ago, or one hour, or thirty minutes—he has no concept of time—Shigaraki’s dry and rough hands were jerking on the same cock now being pleasured by his companion’s mouth.

“I don’t know if I want this,” he says through a gross sniffle. He does. He doesn’t. He’s disgusted, humiliated, scared. But he’s also warm, loved, safe. And the sight of Oboro on his knees, long strands of moonlight hair sticking to his face and eyelashes fluttering with pleasure as he sucks Shouta’s cock is… fuck, it’s gorgeous.

He pulls back and paints his lips with the wet tip of Shouta’s cock, looking up at him with a serious expression. “I’m going to take care of you,” he promises. “I’m going to show you that I can. Show you…that you need me.”

He releases Shouta’s length, which has no problem standing erect on its own now. Then, his mouth travels lower and his tongue follows the seam of Shouta’s balls. Every lick and suck and breath against his delicate skin serves to erase the lingering memory of Shigaraki’s touch. It’s soothing, healing, confusing, disorienting, and Shouta is sobbing again.

Hands push on his thighs, thumbs spread his cheeks, and hot breath tickles his puckered hole.

“Did he touch you here?” Oboro asks in a low tone.

“Y-Yes,” Shouta cries. “I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry. I don’t know if he put his—I-I blacked out, I don’t—”

“He didn’t,” Oboro soothes. “I got there in time.”

It’s insane, but Shouta laughs. He’s laughing and crying and stuttering out, “You always seem to-to do that. Too bad you’re n-never a little sooner.”

Oboro pauses, holding his breath and going completely still for a long moment, as Shouta realizes with horror what he just said.

“I’m sorry!” Shouta chokes out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—‘s my fault. It’s all my fault, I—”

“No,” Oboro cuts him off. “You’re right. I never do enough for you.”

“N-No! That’s not true, I—”

The sentence is cut off with a high moan as Oboro’s tongue suddenly presses and drags along his hole, all the way up his taint and to his balls. Without further warning, the slick muscle dips back down and inside of him, circling, wriggling and eager. “Relax, little raven,” he breathes through a short pause. “I’ve got you.”

Shouta’s breathing hitches as he does what he’s told, loosening the muscles that have been clamped shut ever since he was dragged into that tent. Oboro hums in approval and tries again, this time sliding his tongue deep.

“You don’t have to,” Shouta whimpers. “You shouldn’t— I’m…dirty.” Dirty. Soiled. Wrong.

Oboro pays him no heed. He licks and kisses and moans and eats until Shouta is squirming and panting. Until beads of clear pre are dribbling down his cock.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Oboro pulls away before climbing onto the bed with him. He pulls Shouta into his arms for a long moment, chest pressed against his back and lips lovingly kissing his shoulders, collar, and the insignia dyed on the back of his neck. Wordlessly, the man lays him down on his stomach and hoists his hips up before dropping his head to continue eating him out from this position. Shouta cries into a pillow, embarrassed, disgusted, turned on by the way his cock bobs and drips onto the bedsheets.

Oboro straightens up. One hand reaches between Shouta’s thighs and wraps around his cock, tugging and pumping while the other glides up his ass. He hears the man spit, feels the thick drip of saliva running between his cheeks, then…one of Oboro’s fingers pressing inside.

Instantly, Shouta remembers Shigaraki’s fingers inside of him and he cries out, bucking to get away from the intrusion. Oboro’s arms wrap around his waist, holding him there firmly. 

“I can’t!” Shouta cries. “O-Oboro, I don’t think I can—”

“Sh,” the man soothes. “It’s me, Shouta. Let me take care of you. Let me take him away.”

Shouta’s wailing now. Sobbing, weeping but also relaxing, pushing back into Oboro’s touch.

“Good,” Oboro praises. “You’re safe with me.”

Shouta’s eyes pinch shut. He gasps, pants, whines and moans into the pillow as Oboro works him with a thick finger. He spits again, and another finger pushes slowly inside. All the while, his other hand fondles and massages his balls and gives lazy strokes to his swollen cock.

Shouta’s body is a disaster. So many screaming, wild emotions and sensations are battling for dominance. He hates this. He loves this. He’s disgusted, but the thick, full feeling of Oboro’s fingers stuffing him is so much better, leaving more of an imprint on him than Shigaraki’s fingers ever could. He’s molding around those fingers, wishing he could pull them even deeper, feel them stretch him even more.

Oboro is thrusting, twisting, curling those digits inside of him and Shouta’s head is emptying again. Not the way it did in the tent, though. He’s not recoiling to hide in a numb part of his brain. Rather, his thoughts are moving out of the way to let something else take over. Something primitive, desperate, and overwhelming. It’s rising inside of him, parting all other thoughts, feelings, or instincts. It rides the waves of each thrust of Oboro’s fingers. It makes its home in Shouta’s core and wraps around his cock like a living, breathing thing. It’s far stronger, far more insistent than anything he’s ever felt in this type of setting. He’s had sex before. He’s been brought to orgasms, but never like this. Never with a conductor like Oboro, nor the loud and all consuming melody that vibrates him to the bones.

He thinks he might be saying something, but he’s sure it’s all just gibberish. There’s no room for speech with this force occupying every cell of his brain.

“Go ahead,” Oboro’s voice says through the hum of the melody. “I’ve got you.”

This is what brings Shouta’s world to a sudden and brilliant stop. The hum in his brain is a deafening roar, yet still not louder than the gasping moans he’s howling. His fingers hurt from gripping the sheets, which he didn’t know he was doing. His whole body is wound tight until it’s not. Until everything is spasming and loosening and melting like candle wax. He’s spraying white onto the sheets and Oboro’s hand. He’s fluttering around big fingers, clenching tight and letting go. He’s cumming. He’s cumming and it’s simultaneously the most wonderful and awful climax of his life. So powerful that it feels like his whole body is going to unwind and leave nothing but a pulsating, hot core.

“See?” Oboro’s gruff voice is in his ear. “I told you I can take care of you. Me. Only me.”

Shouta whimpers and sobs into the pillow. “I know,” he cries. “I know you can! I’m sorry, Oboro, I…” He curls his knees up to his chest with a hiccuping cry. “I need you.”

Oboro makes a gruff sound, then Shouta can hear shuffling on the bed behind him and manages to turn his head just enough to find the other man’s face pressed against the sheets where Shouta came. His face looks…red and blissed out and ravenous as he licks and eats every drop of Shouta’s essence from the bed.

“Shouta…” he says as he lifts his head, a string of cum dangling from his scruffy chin. “Again,” he commands as he straightens up and suddenly grips Shouta by the hips. “Say it again.”

Shouta’s head is spinning. “I need you,” he mumbles. “Need you, Oboro.”

“Again,” he begs, and Shouta can hear his clothes rustling and feel his nails digging into his hips.

“I need you,” he repeats. “I always…need you.”

Oboro lets out a long groan of pleasure at these words. One of his hands fists in Shouta’s hair, and the other… The other is guiding something hot and hard to the rim of Shouta’s loosened hole.

He wants to fuck me , Shouta realizes. No, he’s going to fuck me.

Instantly, panic explodes in Shouta’s chest. He tries to buck away, tries to lift his head, but Oboro pushes down harder, crushing his face against the pillow and trying to gain access to Shouta’s hole. But his cock—it must be huge—keeps slipping, clipping only briefly on his rim before being misdirected each time.

“Stop!” Shouta screams. “Oboro! Stop!”

He’s not listening. He’s grunting, growling, bucking against Shouta as his free hand drags down Shouta’s back, nails carving into skin and scratching him from his neck to his waist.

It’s familiar. It’s too familiar. He’s been held down like this before, face pressed to cold earth, claws digging in his skin and leaving gaping wounds, slimy cocks seeking access to his insides, to his warmth.

The drake was just like this.

Drakes tried to rape him. The guild tried to rape him. And now, Oboro…

“Please, stop!” Shouta cries. “Oboro! You’re hurting me! You’re scaring me, please !”

Immediately, Oboro lets him go.

Overwhelmed, helpless, and broken, Shouta curls up into a ball and starts to weep.

“Shouta, I’m sorry,” Oboro frantically whispers. “I’m…” he reaches out to brush Shouta’s hair away from his face, but his fingers hesitate and he pulls back.

“Why did you do that?” Shouta cries, body beginning to shake. “I told you I didn’t think I could take it! I told you and you kept going anyway! Were you going to rape me, too?”

“No!” Oboro says. “I…wanted to take care of you. Want you to need me. I don’t want to hurt you, Shouta. Never.”

“Are you sure?” Shouta accuses through hyperventilating sobs. “Or are you more concerned with ‘leaving your mark’ and making me ‘yours?’”

“I…” Oboro trails off. Minutes seem to pass with Shouta curled in on himself, crying until his throat hurts and his eyes burn. At last, a sheet is being pulled up over his trembling form and he feels the mattress rise as Oboro stands up. His back is turned toward Shouta while he confines his cock. “I’m sorry.”

He starts to walk away, hair brushing his waist and swaying with each step toward the door.

No… No, I did it again. He’s walking away again!

“Don’t,” Shouta says in a whimpering plea. “Don’t leave me again, please… I need you.”

Oboro pauses, lets out a long sigh, then turns to face him. Distress colors his face. “Maybe you don’t,” Oboro says. “I try to take care of you… I do it wrong every time. I hurt you. I scare you. I don’t… I’m not good at…” He rolls his shoulders and scratches the top of his head. “It’s hard,” he says at last. “Being human.”

Shouta has never heard a more accurate statement in his life. Everything about this is hard. His emotions, his body, his wants, his goals. None of it makes sense, none of it seems to mesh together. Being human…is a lot like being an iron blade full of impurities. And even though Shouta has been a blacksmith for years, he still doesn’t know the first thing about working the flaws out of human steel.

“Oboro,” he whispers. “Just hold me.”

His companion hesitates for a long time. Then, he returns to him, climbing onto the bed and under the sheet. His arms wrap around Shouta and pull him tightly against his chest.

“You’re always…so warm.” Shouta mumbles, exhaustion and a fair amount of dissociation pulling him rapidly under.

“I try…” Oboro whispers, lips pressed into his hair. “I try to be warm for you, my wingless little raven.”

The last thought Shouta has as he’s pulled into the embrace of sleep is that he still hasn’t asked him where the term of endearment came from.

All he knows…is that he likes it.

Chapter Text

Shouta awakes abruptly to a sensation of emptiness. There are no arms tucked around him, only a thin sheet. He rubs his eyes in a panic, willing them to adjust properly so he can confirm that…

Oboro is gone.

He lurches from the bed, stumbling on the sheets. This can’t be happening… Shouta’s stupid choices, his stubbornness, his stupid clinging and whining and crying last night have driven his only companion away. Did Oboro decide he was disgusting after all? Or did he lose interest because Shouta wouldn’t put out? Or maybe Shouta’s rejection had wounded him. If he’d known Oboro would leave then… I could have slept with him. It’s just sex. I can’t lose him, I can’t, I don’t have anyone else, I need him.

In his head he knows he’s being irrational. He knows this isn’t healthy. But…these days, nothing is rational. Nothing has made sense to him since the day he met Shirakumo. Unhealthy attachments, a chain of traumatic events, being stranded far from home where he’s nothing but a ghost… He’s floating in a sea of uncertainty and the only raft he’s had in weeks has been Oboro.

“Oboro!” he cries as he trips toward the door. His hand lifts toward the handle just as it turns. An instant later, the door opens and Oboro steps swiftly inside.

“Shouta?” His eyes widen in surprise at the sight of him. Shouta ignores the perplexed expression and throws his arm around him in as much of an embrace as he can manage with his broken arm.

“You can’t…keep walking away from me,” Shouta breathes out shakily.

Oboro slides a hand into Shouta’s hair and pulls his head against his chest so he can plant a kiss on the top of his head. “Not leaving,” he promises. “Went to get clothes.”

Shouta suddenly remembers that he’s naked. He steps away with heat on his cheeks and swiftly covers himself with his hands. This earns a raised brow from Oboro, as if to say ‘nothing I haven’t seen and touched and tasted before.’ Thankfully, the man makes no further comment, just hands Shouta a stack of folded clothes and ruffles his hair with an affectionate smile.

“Swiftly, little one,” Oboro says as Shouta starts to pull on the unfamiliar clothing. “We can’t stay here long.”

Shouta hesitates, a small tremor working across his neck and shoulders. “What’s with the pet names? Wingless raven, night sky, little one? I think you called me a fox once?” He pulls a pant leg up awkwardly with one hand until Oboro crouches behind him to help.

“Pet?” Oboro tugs the waistband up to Shouta’s hips. “I’ve never seen you as a pet, Shouta.”

“No, that’s just a word for nicknames you’d give a partner or love— h-hey! ” He inhales sharply at the feeling of Oboro’s hands boldly and shamelessly stuffing his cock into the undergarments and pants. “I don’t need you to do everything for me!”

“We need to hurry,” Oboro says by way of explanation as he buttons the pants for him. “And…I say those names because they are what you are.”

“Communicate that in normal words, please,” Shouta huffs as the other man pulls a shirt over his head.

Oboro turns him to face him as he slides a coat over his arms and works on strapping it all together. “Your hair is feathery black like a raven,” he says, “but you can’t fly. You’re dark but your eyes sparkle like the night sky. You are little next to me. And you are a strong fox who mistakes himself for prey.”

Shouta doesn’t know how to react to these words. They’re said with such finality, as if these things are unchanging truths. As if Oboro put time and thought into them before he began slinging around what seemed like random terms of endearment.

“Come,” Oboro commands after sliding socks and boots into Shouta’s feet. “We have to leave.”

“Why the hurry?” Shouta asks, still a little dazed from sleep and Oboro’s attention.

“Knights,” Oboro says, tugging him through the door. “They’ll be searching for us.”

Shouta suddenly remembers what Oboro told him last night. “Because you set fire to a tent in the caravan.” He wonders how far that fire spread and if anyone knew that Oboro was the one to cause such destruction.

Oboro pulls him down the hall of the inn and through a back door. Behind the building there are horse stables and stakes for travelers to let their steeds rest. Oboro heads straight for the nearest stall, where a horse that Shouta recognizes whinnies at their approach. It’s one of the dark, large breed stallions that had shared responsibility for pulling the guild’s carriage.

He pummeled the guild members, burned their tent, and stole a horse.

The horse huffs as they approach, and Shouta can guess as to why. It might be the largest breed in the kingdom, but carting both Shouta and the largest man in the kingdom on its back must have left it with sour memories.

“We’ll need a second horse,” Shouta says. “Or we need to walk.”

“When we reach the next village,” Oboro says as he guides the animal out of the stall. “For now, we need speed.”

“The next village?” Shouta frowns as he tries to remember the map of the eastern region. “If we go north toward the mountains, we won’t reach a village for at least two days. We can’t go back across the bridge because we’ll pass the caravan. We could go south, but that will put us even farther from Dragon’s Gate.”

Oboro checks to make sure the saddle and the bag he no doubt also stole are secure. “We’re going east.”

“East? But that’s—”

Oboro straightens up and faces him, looking down from his higher vantage point. “Yuei. We’re going to your home.”

Shouta’s incredulous as Oboro hoists him onto the horse’s back. “Yuei? But I thought… After what happened, I thought you’d make me turn back. You were right about me not being safe. Not from the knights or…anyone else. Now they’ll be hunting us because of the fire, too. It’s even more dangerous.”

Oboro looks levelly at him. “I’ll protect you.”

Shouta blinks, still not comprehending. Oboro moves to climb onto the horse but Shouta puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Why?”

Oboro considers the question for a long moment. “Last night. You asked me if I want to take care of you or make you mine.”

Shouta feels heat brush the tips of his ears and cheeks. “Oboro, the things I said— I was just—”

“Both.”

Shouta stares at him, mouth agape. Oboro takes this as an opportunity and reaches up to drag his thumb along Shouta’s bottom lip, just barely dipping the tip inside of his mouth and making him shudder.

“The answer is both,” he reiterates. “Want you,” he murmurs, so seriously that Shouta thinks he might fall off the horse. “Want you to need me. But…” his hand pulls softly away. “How can you need me if I don’t give you the things you need?”

Baffled, Shouta continues to stare, trying to make sense of his companion and failing, like usual.

“To earn you…I have to take care of you.” He breaks eye contact and lets out a slow sigh, breathing a puff of white into the breeze as he gazes up at the morning sky. “Taking care of a person…isn’t as easy as giving them food or keeping them safe. It means…” His nose crinkles and his brows furrow, as if this is a puzzle he’s been stumped on for a long time. “It means letting them tell you what they need…and believing them.”

At last, he looks at Shouta again. This time, he’s smiling. It’s not quite his most charming Oboro grin, but it does look genuine. “You need your village. Hizashi. Hitoshi. You said you need them. I believe you, and I’ll make sure you get what you need. Then , I’ll leave my mark on you.”

Shouta lets out a slow breath as he processes these words. His mark? Is that a metaphor? With Oboro it’s impossible to tell. Maybe he’s implying that he won’t have sex with Shouta until he feels he’s earned the right to. Although this is a relief considering the traumatic events Shouta’s been through—even though he knows he’s nowhere near ready to sleep with him—looking at the expression on his face now has Shouta wishing he could drag him back inside of the inn to give him exactly what he wanted last night.

Instead, he lowers his head and tugs lightly on the collar of Oboro’s coat. “Thank you…” he murmurs.

Oboro lets out a low hum from the back of his throat, tilts Shouta’s head back up with his fingers, and kisses him. It’s swift, just the rough colliding of mouths and brush of stubble for a moment before Oboro officially joins him on the horse.

His large frame presses against Shouta’s back as he grabs the reins. “Lead the way, little one,” he says gruffly near Shouta’s ear, “and I’ll take you home.”

They have to stop frequently throughout the day to let the horse rest. It’s still faster than walking, but the animal can’t run at a gallop and wears out easily. Shouta feels terrible and profusely apologizes and pets its face each time he jumps down from its back.

Fortunately, they are making quicker progress than the caravan. Without the burden of carts and walking to slow them down, they’re not at risk of being caught by the group they left behind. Though, a paladin on a horse would be the exception here. Gods forbid Sekijiro is scouting the kingdom for them.

In the afternoon they veer off into the forest to get away from the main road, traveling slowly through trees and brush until they find a small clearing to stay for the night.

“We don’t have a tent,” Shouta realizes. “Or a fire or anything to protect us from the cold.”

The cold.

Shouta suddenly feels like crying.

“You don’t have enough faith in me, little raven,” Oboro says, unstrapping a bag from the saddle. In it are some food items, a bedroll and single blanket, and…

“That’s Dabi’s fire-maker,” Shouta says in awe.

“How do you think I burned down their tent?” Oboro asks with a chuckle as he starts to collect nearby firewood.

“A torch,” Shouta answers. “I thought you knocked down one of the torches.”

Oboro pauses for a moment. “Oh. That would have worked, too.”

Shouta laughs, because this man is simultaneously a complete fool at times, while also astoundingly astute at others.

He erects a small fire while Shouta lays out the bedroll and helps himself to some stale bread. “It will still be cold,” he notes passively, staring at Oboro’s broad back as he pokes at the fire.

“Shouta,” he croons in a low voice. “You don’t need to play. You know I’ll keep you warm.”

“P-Play?” Shouta huffs. “I wasn’t trying to hint at anything, you big oaf! I was just making an observation!”

“Mhm,” Oboro hums as if he doesn’t believe him. “Patience, my night sky. I’ll tend to you soon.”

Shouta huffs but chooses against a response. Oboro joins him shortly after, and they share a small meal by the firelight, sipping from a shared canteen, leaning against one another.

“We don’t have much food,” Shouta notes. “We’ll have to stop at least once. Hopefully, there are coins in that bag? If we have enough, we can get a second horse. Though, even with the one, we’ll make it to Yuei in…maybe three days’ time? That’s half the time it would take the caravan to pass by, and it’s not on any major roads. Thankfully I don’t think I told anyone in the caravan the name of the village. We should be safe there.”

He realizes he’s rambling and looks over to see Oboro watching him with a serene smile—as if he’s happy to sit and listen to Shouta talk all night.

Shouta clears his throat and lies down on the mat. “I’m tired.”

It isn’t until he says it that he realizes how true it is. Physically he’s drained but more than that…mentally and emotionally he’s completely exhausted. He hasn’t recovered from the trauma of what he endured yesterday. In some ways, he’s sure he never will. He’s scared, tense, uncertain about the future and about his feelings toward his companion. More than anything he just wants to get back home. He wants a return to normalcy. He wants the comfort of familiar faces and his own bed. He wants to pretend as though the past two months never happened.

Although…that’s not quite true, is it? There are some memories he doesn’t want to retire. His time spent with Shirakumo, his days in Dragon’s Gate, and, of course, meeting Oboro. He hopes he can reconcile all of it. Keep the good and shed the bad. He wants to bring his new treasures with him into his old world and show them off like loot he acquired on some grand journey. He wants it to blend seamlessly together. Wants the village to meet Oboro and love and accept him, wants them to listen in awe as he tells stories about his dragon friend. He wants to skip awkward introductions and explanations, past tears, and practicalities. He is so tired, and he wants his soul to finally get some rest.

Oboro shuffles next to him before lying down, too. As usual, he curves himself flush against him, pulls the blanket over them, and tucks his arm around Shouta. He’s so big that when he presses his lips to Shouta’s hair, it’s the top of his head that he kisses.

Even though they’ve slept like this for a week now, Shouta is suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of the man’s body that presses against him. His hips are beneath Shouta’s rear, and Shouta knows exactly what the bulge is that pushes against his thigh, not stiff, but still big.

I cannot be thinking about that right now. He pinches his eyes shut and wills off a shudder. He knows he’s reacting like this because of last night, but that’s the whole problem. Last night was…so overwhelming and good and sickening that he can barely stomach thinking about it. He still feels ashamed, dirty, and terrified at the prospect of anything or anyone ever penetrating him again.

And yet…he can’t deny that he also enjoyed it. Oboro is…attractive, and sexy, and damn he knows what he’s doing. Shouta can’t pretend that he’s not weak to him. There’s an ache in his body that craves the mountain of a man. That wants to feel the curl of his fingers pressing against his prostate again, and the blissful heat of his tongue. He felt good, and Shouta hates how good he felt, and he hates that he wants more.

If things were less complicated… If his life hadn’t been put on the line countless times in the past two months and if his body hadn’t been violated at every turn… If he wasn’t preoccupied with getting home and if his relationship with Oboro was natural in any way, then…perhaps he’d be doing something about the bulge against his thigh.

Is Oboro having similar thoughts? Last night, he was fully intent on having his way with Shouta. That’s not the objective anymore, but…that desire must still be there. Or perhaps not. If he was thinking about bedding Shouta, then surely his body would give evidence of such. Much the same way Shouta’s body is, unfortunately, reacting to these unbidden thoughts and even more unwanted desires.

Shouta suppresses a sigh. Despite his exhaustion, he’ll never get to sleep in this state. He’s stiff and jittery in Oboro’s hold, not to mention growing increasingly more uncomfortable below his waistline. He focuses on steadying his breathing and trying to think forward, toward home again.

Then, “Shouta,” Oboro says in little more than a whisper.

“Hm?” Shouta hums, not quite trusting himself to speak at the moment.

“I have a question,” the man says slowly, “about Shirakumo.”

Shouta’s eyes open, surprised by the statement. Shirakumo? Why? After everything else that has happened, what could possibly be on Oboro's mind related to the dragon? “Go ahead,” Shouta says, cautiously.

Oboro doesn’t speak for so long that Shouta wonders if he heard him. Or maybe the man has fallen asleep already. Eventually, though, he speaks again, voice barely a murmur in Shouta’s hair.

“Did you want him?”

Now, this is unexpected. Random. Jarring. He’s so stunned that he finds trouble forming an answer. “I told you,” he starts, “and everyone else. I didn’t have sex with the dragon. I’m not god-touched.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

This time Shouta does sigh. “For the last time, I was concerned with staying alive. I wasn’t thinking about losing my cross-species virginity.”

“It never crossed your mind?” Oboro presses. “Not once?”

Shouta’s beginning to feel irritated. There’s something else too. A feeling of helplessness that he can’t describe. He’s frustrated and defensive. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have. “Why are you asking me this? Have you had sex with a dragon?”

To his astonishment, Oboro doesn’t answer. It’s only then that Shouta remembers what he told him about his homeland. It’s a place where humans and dragons live in harmony, and love in harmony. He’s not sure why it never fully settled in his mind before. The possibility that Oboro has had an even deeper bond with a reptilian beast than Shouta.

“…Have you?” Shouta asks again, quieter.

“If I had…would that disgust you?” comes the cryptic answer. “Do you think it’s unnatural? Is it wrong?”

Shouta takes his time answering. He stares off into the dark forest, suddenly feeling stifled by Oboro’s embrace, though he’s not sure why. “I… Until I was in Dragon’s Gate, I didn’t know humans could or did have relationships of that nature with dragons. We don’t have that kind of lore in Yuei, or anywhere on this side of the river that I’m aware of.”

“Shouta…” Oboro sighs softly, “you’re not answering any of my questions.”

“I don’t care if you’ve fucked men, women, dragons, or rocks for that matter. I’m not disgusted by you.” He thinks he might have hit the nail on the head. Oboro must have asked out of a sense of insecurity, afraid that Shouta might reject him if he knew about his past endeavors. But the following sigh that Oboro issues tells him that maybe this was the wrong assumption.

Shouta’s eyes close again. “Look…Shirakumo was… is… a beautiful creature. I’ve never seen anything like him and I never will again. He’s majestic, powerful, graceful, and…stunning. I’m not sure what else you want me to say. I don’t know how he compares to other dragons, I don’t know the standard for attractiveness. But I can see how humans might have worshiped him and I don’t judge them for having developed some sort of unorthodox dragon kink. Can we go to sleep now?”

For some reason, Oboro doesn’t want to let this topic die. “If Shirakumo wanted you… If he kept you because you were special to him and if he wanted to be your mate. If you knew that, would you have stayed?”

Shouta is confused by the urgency and…desperation? in his tone. “Why are you asking me these things?” He squirms a bit in Oboro’s arms, resisting the urge to pull away from this strange confrontation. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with whether I want you ?”

Oboro’s arms squeeze tighter around him. “Answer me,” he huffs through gritted teeth. “Dammit, Shouta. Answer. ”

“I-I don’t know!” he finally snaps. “Oboro, I don’t know. ” He tucks his head, trying to pull away from the man’s lips and breath. “I promise you, I wasn’t thinking about sex with a dragon. Does that mean I haven’t considered what my life might have become if I’d chosen to stay with him? Oboro, I think about that every day. It’s stupid and irrational, but I bonded with that winged snake and I…sometimes I…” He feels tears stinging his eyes. “I regret abandoning him. If I hadn’t…then I wouldn’t have been attacked by the drakes or the guild, and I wouldn’t worry that I broke a beast’s heart.” He knows how ridiculous it all sounds. “But, if I hadn’t left, then I also wouldn’t have you. ”

“Shouta…” Oboro’s breath is shaky. His grip is crushing now, and he cants his hips in an odd way as if trying to make sure they’re not pressed against Shouta anymore. “I…have to tell you something.”

“…What?” Shouta asks, feeling anxiety rise in his stomach.

“I…” Oboro tries. “Shirakumo is…”

“Shirakumo is what?” Shouta turns in his grasp abruptly to force eye contact. “Did you lie to me about seeing him when I was asleep? What do you know, Oboro? Is he wounded? Is he dead?”

Oboro’s eyes widen. His lips pinch shut for a moment and he shakes his head. “No, that’s not…”

“Then, what?” Shouta snaps. “You were the one who wanted to talk about my dragon so badly, now you’re clamming up? Why were you pushing me so much about whether I wanted to be fucked by him? What are you hiding? Are you Shirakumo’s mate? Is that why you were on the mountain? Was he sneaking off to tend to his other human when he left for hours or days?”

Oboro grits his teeth and cuts his eyes away. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it?” Shouta searches his face, trying to understand this unusual man. “What are you trying to say about Shirakumo?”

Oboro suddenly moves, climbing to pin Shouta onto his back and shadow over him. “I’m trying to tell you that I…” His eyes seem to flash in the darkness. “Shirakumo and I…” his face contorts in an expression of frustration. “I’m… I…”

Shouta stares up with slightly parted lips. His heart is beating so heavily in his chest that he swears he can feel it thumping through his spine and against the ground below. “You’re…what?” he asks, watching Oboro’s lips move, trying to read the motions of his flicking tongue behind his teeth. It’s forming words, but they swish and swirl without voice to give them form.

“I…” he tries one more time. Finally, his eyes close and he drops his forehead against Shouta’s with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like defeat. “I…studied dragons back home. I never told you that…uh…his behavior meant that he did want you. That’s…That’s all. We both. Want. You.”

Shouta lets out a sigh of relief. “That’s all? You made it sound so serious.”

“Yeah…” Oboro lets out a strained chuckle. “I didn’t know if it was necessary to tell you. I didn’t know if you would want to know.”

“Such a silly thing to hold onto,” Shouta laughs. He reaches up and runs his fingers through Oboro’s hair. “And even sillier to fret about. Were you worried that if I knew, I’d want to go back?”

“No…” Oboro groans. “No, I…only wanted to know if you shared his feelings.”

Shouta runs his hand soothingly up and down Oboro’s back. He considers what Oboro told him. So…the gifts of food and excited ruffle of his feathers… Sharing a nest and offering Shouta his magic. Those were all signs of courtship? Something bittersweet settles in his chest. “I suppose my leaving must have broken his heart, then.”

Oboro doesn’t answer. Just shuffles slightly on top of him and presses his face into Shouta’s hair.

“Well…it doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t change that I left. Besides…” he turns his head and presses his lips against a stubbly cheek. “You make a decent substitute for a dragon lover.”

Oboro grunts, nuzzles down against Shouta’s neck and runs his tongue along the tender skin there. “Dragons are better lovers,” he grumbles.

“Not giving yourself much credit, are you?”

“It’s true,” Oboro insists. Again, his tongue flicks out, dragging along Shouta’s collar and sparking that excited and sick feeling in his gut again. “There’s nothing better than dragon tongue or a little bit of electricity.”

Shouta shudders. “Is that so?” He swallows hard, unable to stop himself from imagining this very thing with his own dragon. How might it have felt to have Shirakumo’s thick, slimy tongue wrapping around his cock, slicking his balls, and spreading him open? What kind of pleasure might he have received from the numbing static shock of electricity in the dragon’s maw? Why does the thought make him so…

“Yes,” Oboro says, voice husky. “A dragon can make you feel things no man ever could.”

A tremor works its way through Shouta’s body. Why is Oboro telling him this? Is he trying to get Shouta worked up? If so, it’s working. Though he was already worked up by Oboro, without the mention of dragon fornication. “Do dragons… Like drakes, do they have…” What am I saying? What the fuck is happening right now?

“Two cocks?” Oboro guesses. “Do you want to know if Shirakumo fucks his male lovers with two dragon dicks?”

“N-Not Shirakumo specifically, just…”

“Yes,” Oboro answers. “He could have ruined you for any boring human cock, if you’d wanted him to.”

Shouta is reeling. He has no idea how their conversation came to this. As usual, Oboro’s motives make no sense, nor his fixation on the topic at hand. He’s…he’s definitely flirting. His tongue is sharp, his words sultry, and his hips…Now they’re pressing down on Shouta’s thigh, and the bulge he felt earlier is more. Why talking about the concept of Shouta and Shirakumo having sexual relations is so exciting to his human lover is absolutely mind-boggling. What he does know is that the nature of this discussion has gone too far.

“Oboro…” Shouta squirms again, trying to avoid letting Oboro feel his own excitement. “That’s enough.”

Unlike last night, as soon as these words leave Shouta’s mouth, Oboro is off of him. He retreats in an instant, pulling away from Shouta so completely that there’s nothing but cold space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Shouta says quickly. “I… Listen, I know there’s something between us, and I’d like to explore it with you. But right now, I…” He lets out a long sigh. “I’m tired . After everything that’s happened…and especially after learning that my dragon ward was wooing me, I don’t… My body is too tired and too worn for this. My feelings are confusing, complex, and utterly in conflict with each other on the best of days. Please understand that I…can’t.”

“I know,” Oboro says quickly. “I wouldn’t have. I know I haven’t earned that right, yet.” His expression turns embarrassed. “I…was excited. I’m sorry.” He turns his back on Shouta, rolling to his side so he doesn’t have to look at him.

“Don’t pout,” Shouta sighs, this time being the one to wrap an arm around his large torso. “I’m not rejecting you. I just need time.”

“I know,” Oboro says quietly as he runs his fingertips along Shouta’s forearm. “And I promise to give you everything you need. Including time.”

Chapter Text

Talks of dragons and of sex cease for the rest of their journey. Nights are still awkward, but Shouta does his best to keep memories of Oboro’s touch in the farthest reaches of his mind.

They stop once in a small town but don’t have the coin needed to secure another horse. Instead, they stockpile food and a new tent, then continue their trek east.

At last—at long last—they crest a familiar hill in the full light of midday. Smoke from chimneys curl in the air, rooftops peek over trees.

“There it is!” Shouta exclaims. “Yuei! My home!”

“Easy, little one,” Oboro chuckles. “You’ll spook the horse. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Shortly after, the horse’s shoes click on the stones of the main street heading into town. Shouta can hear activity, doors closing, metal clanking, dogs barking, roosters crowing, and the distant sound of children laughing. The first person he sees is the village seamster. An old friend, Tsunagu, a tall and thin man with higher attention to detail and attunement to fabric than anyone else in the entire kingdom. His eyes widen when he sees Oboro and Shouta enter on their steed, though the lower part of his face is masked by cloth, Shouta can imagine the expression he wears clearly.

Oboro pulls the reins, bringing the horse to a stop. He helps Shouta get down, joining him to lead the horse by hand now.

“Shouta…” the man says in awe. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” Shouta confirms, a quaver in his voice. “I’m alive.”

Tsunagu arches an eyebrow so high up that it disappears behind straw-blond bangs. “I’m not so sure,” he says distastefully. “You look awful.”

Shouta laughs, and then he can’t stop laughing. Tears well in his eyes, his head is swimming under a current. He’s a pebble that has finally been deposited on the bank where it belongs, and the sound of the water rushes over him, and it’s so freeing, so uplifting, that he can’t do anything but laugh.

“Pull your seams back together,” his friend advises softly. “We can catch up later. Your priority should be seeing Hitoshi. He’s been a disaster since your arrest. I’ll spread word that you’re back.”

Shouta straightens up and wipes tears from his eyes. He clears his throat and nods, tightness bundling in his chest at the prospect of what’s to come. “Where is he?”

“The forge,” Tsunagu answers. “He never leaves.”

Shouta nods his thanks, already turning back onto the street. “Come on, Oboro. The forge is just around the corner.”

They pass other familiar faces on the way, but no one else calls out to him. This could be partially due to the shock of seeing a dead man walking, or maybe because Shouta is practically jogging—a man set on an objective without time to spare.

He sees the smoke from the forge, smells the iron, and hears the sound of a hammer striking. A little farther and he can finally see the back of wily purple hair. For some reason, his feet stop abruptly. For a moment he’s stunned, a knot of emotion swelling in his throat. Is this real? What are the chances this is a hopeful dream and when Hitoshi turns to see him, his face will disappear in a blur, forever out of Shouta’s reach? It’s too much to hope for. Too much to accept that he might finally see those lavender eyes light up before him as if nothing has changed.

“Hitoshi!”

Shouta isn’t the one who calls his name. It’s Oboro, standing at his side with a boyish expression of excitement as if he’s been eager to meet Shouta’s apprentice this whole time.

The repetitive strike of the hammer ceases. Hitoshi wipes his brow with the exposed part of his upper arm not stuffed in a sweltering glove. Then, at last, he turns around.

And it’s real. He doesn’t fade away and his amethyst eyes are exactly as Shouta remembers them.

The young man’s expression shifts so suddenly. His eyes widen, his lips part, his whole body seems to recoil. He wipes his eyes with a glove—bad move—curses and throws the gloves on the ground before trying again. “M-Master?”

Shouta doesn’t even try to respond, he knows his voice will fail him. All he can manage is a nod. It’s me. I’m here.

Hitoshi runs.

Like a child he throws himself into Shouta’s arms, nearly knocking the wind out of him. He’s choking on sobs, which is fine because so is Shouta. He clutches Hitoshi’s head against his chest and buries his face in a head of wild hair, crying into the dirty purple strands. He smells like the forge, like memories and closeness and him.

“Mast-ster,” he chokes, shaking in Shouta’s arms as he did when Shouta first found him, an abandoned orphan lost on city streets. Just like that, he’s a child again, small and quivering and lost in the embrace of his teacher, his father figure, his friend.

When Hitoshi finally pulls away, his expression is wide-eyed, baffled, and overjoyed. “How are you…? They said you were dead, it was even published in the castle news. Where have you been and…” his gaze shifts to the left, “who’s that?”

Shouta looks over at Oboro’s sparkling eyes and bright grin. “We can do introductions and catch up once we’re inside. It’s been a long journey and I’d like to rest.”

“Right, yeah,” Hitoshi starts. He turns toward the smithy, pauses, then sends Shouta a sheepish look over his shoulder. “Listen, I-uh… I’ve been… Well, I moved into your place after…”

“A rational choice,” Shouta observes. “You took on my job as blacksmith, and the forge is attached to my home.”

“That’s not why I did it,” Hitoshi remarks, almost resentfully. “I just…missed you.”

Shouta’s heart swells, though he feels a pang of remorse at the words. “I’m here now. Sorry for making you worry.”

He gestures for Oboro to bring the horse and tie it to the post outside the forge. Hitoshi holds the door wide, marveling up at Oboro when he has to duck to make it inside.

The familiarity Shouta feels when he crosses the threshold nearly makes his legs give out. The scents of the log cabin, of firewood, of himself still linger in the air. He thought he’d never see the table he built with his father when he was Hitoshi’s age again. Nor the kitchen or tattered curtains he’d been too lazy to replace. Or the small bookshelf next to his bedroom door or the chipped door frame he swore he’d fix one day.

I’m home.

“Sorry about the mess…” Hitoshi mutters as he swiftly cleans plates from the table and kicks some discarded clothes toward a corner. “I’ll make some tea.”

“That sounds nice,” Shouta says as he kicks off his boots and sits with a relieved huff at the table. Hitoshi scrambles in the kitchen, finding a kettle to hang over the fire, then crouches to light the logs. Shouta expects Oboro to sit down, too, but the man busies himself with inspecting the home instead, marveling at every inch of space as if he’d wandered into a holy temple for the first time.

“Hitoshi, this is Oboro, my traveling companion and…a man who’s saved my life twice.” He nods when Hitoshi looks at him with wide eyes. “Oboro, you know already but this is—”

“Hitoshi!” Oboro finishes for him, beaming his brilliant smile in the youth’s direction. “I know you!”

Hitoshi blinks, frowns, then shakes his head. “I’ve never met you before.”

“No, what he means is—”

“You’re the stubborn one!” Oboro exclaims. “And loyal, and you like stars, and you’re a crybaby!”

Shouta’s face heats and he gives Hitoshi what he hopes is an apologetic smile and not a grimace. “I may have…talked about you a bit.”

Hitoshi clears his throat, looking just as flustered for a moment. The expression shifts into uncertainty as he appraises Oboro once more. “How much does he…”

“All of it,” Shouta guesses the rest of the question. “He knows about you and the magic training, Hizashi, and the circumstances leading to my arrest.”

Hitoshi looks surprised. “You must really trust him,” he says as he pours water into the kettle. “That’s not like you, Master.”

“He’s trustworthy,” Shouta says with confidence. “He’s my…” Any word could have leapt from Shouta’s tongue at that moment. Companion. Friend. Bodyguard. Confidante. Instead, without reservation, his lips proudly and without permission blurt, “…hero.”

He looks over to find Oboro puffing his chest proudly, enunciating the embarrassment of having said the word in the first place.

Hitoshi sits down across from Shouta while the water heats. His face is still full of wonder and confusion, and he can’t stop tracing Shouta’s silhouette as if wondering if he’s an illusion. It wouldn’t be impossible. Illusory magic is actually the one type that Hitoshi has some proficiency in. Maybe he’s wondering if he’s finally lost it and is making fake versions of Shouta in his mind.

“Tell me,” the boy says quietly. “Everything. I want to know what happened to you.”

Shouta nods, clears his throat, and begins to weave his tale.

Unsurprisingly, Hitoshi stops him multiple times with exclamations of wonder.

“You were held hostage by a dragon?! ”

“Well, not held hostage, just—”

“The dragon wanted to keep him as his mate,” Oboro helpfully interjects.

“He doesn’t need every detail, Oboro.” This is a sentiment he has to repeat several times, particularly when he glosses over the drake attack and the assault by the trading guild. He’s also not keen on giving too much of an indication as to the nature of his relationship with the other man, not that it stops Oboro from shamelessly trying to tell Hitoshi anyway.

“I protected him,” Oboro proudly states. “No one could steal him.”

“Steal?”

“Please, ignore him, Hitoshi. He’s a foreigner, some of his speech doesn’t make much sense.”

“But I did protect you!” Oboro says. “And washed you and—”

“Anyway,” Shouta says quickly, “we evaded capture and came straight to the village.”

Hitoshi leans back in his chair and lets the information settle. They sit in silence for a while, sipping the tea he poured halfway through the story.

“Vlad…” Hitoshi finally says, bitterness edging his tone and a dark look in his eyes. “He’s the one who took you away. And he’s the one who came back to the village to proudly boast that you were dead.”

Shouta sighs. “Let’s hope it stays that way. Did he do anything else? The mages…Hizashi…is everyone safe?”

“The knights haven’t been back,” Hitoshi says, much to Shouta’s relief. “They couldn’t confirm anyone else used magic and I think they figured that killing you would make for a good scare tactic.” He laughs darkly. “It wasn’t. We’ve been training harder than ever.”

Shouta nods. “Where are they? I want to see everyone.”

Hitoshi rises to his feet, a look of determination spreading over his features. “They should be at the base today. It’s not in the basement of the church anymore, though. We had to relocate during the raids. Come with me, I’ll take you there.”

The young man leads them down the path beyond the forge, then out into the woods. They walk for a long time in silence, and it amazes Shouta that Hitoshi knows where he’s going without any apparent markers. He swears they’ve looped around and changed directions a dozen times before they finally reach the side of a steep hill. Hitoshi holds up a hand and sends Shouta a smirk before magically erasing an invisible barrier. The illusion served to cover a wooden door in the cliff side, affixed with the rebel mage symbol.

“Did you cast the illusion?” he asks in awe.

Hitoshi’s chest puffs proudly. “I can mask more than my voice now.”

Pride makes Shouta’s lips twitch in a smile. And here he always feared he wouldn’t measure up to the other wizards.

Hitoshi leads them inside, but Oboro hovers in front of the door, looking uncertain.

“Afraid you won’t fit?” Shouta teases, noting that Oboro will have to practically have to crouch to get under the low-hanging ceiling.

Oboro shakes his head. “Boy,” he calls. “Hitoshi!”

Hitoshi pivots to look back at him.

“What enchantments are on this door?” Oboro asks with a frown.

“Oh, that?” Hitoshi shrugs and contemplates for a moment. “Basic stuff, I guess. Hizashi’s the one who set them. Probably a power check, or an alert system when strangers walk in, hell if I know.”

Oboro’s brows furrow further. He seems even less inclined to join them.

“Oboro,” Shouta calls. He doesn’t understand the hesitance but assumes it comes from an abundance of caution. “Come. Don’t you want to meet everyone?”

The other man’s eyes light up when he sees Shouta gesture for him. Without another moment’s pause, he ducks down and follows them into the cave. Shouta’s not sure what does it, but he holds his hand back, fingers spread, an offering for Oboro to hold it if he chooses. And he does choose. Instantly, his fingers are slotted through Shouta’s and his breath is on his neck as he walks far too closely behind him.

They follow through winding tunnels that burrow deeper into the earth, lined with luminescent green stones on torch sconces, until Shouta can hear the echo of a din of voices. They’re too interwoven to make sense of any individual sounds, yet it feels familiar anyway. Excited, nervous, and overwhelmed, he squeezes Oboro’s hand a little tighter. His companion gives a strong and comforting squeeze in response. It’s the only burst of courage Shouta needs before walking through a stone archway, into the swarth of voices.

At first, no one notices them. And Shouta’s glad for it. He’s glad because walking into their normal environment and seeing them at work, laughing, smiling, arguing, and continuing life as usual is such a relief. He’d been terrified of what his death might do to them—afraid of the spirits it would crush. Hitoshi definitely took a heavy blow, but from what he can tell, everyone else is working as hard as always.

Plus…seeing them like this is a comfort, a reminder of normalcy, and a promise that Shouta’s life here isn’t over. He took a detour, but now, at long last, he’s home.

There’s Ochako in the corner, using wind magic to elevate off the ground while Momo summons new creations from a parallel dimension. Tsu is practicing transformation again, carrying more frog-like traits every day. The two biggest trouble children are sparring, swords clanking as they grunt, roll, slash and counter in a large ring in the center of the cave. Katsuki’s holding back, Shouta can tell right away. He could have imbued his sword with fire magic, but he chose not to. Perhaps they’d agreed to a test of raw strength, in which case, Izuku is bound to be the victor. He can see Shouto, too, sitting at a table trying to control the flow of water around a potted plant, careful not to freeze the delicate leaves or heat the water too much.

They’re here. They’re all here. And last, but certainly not least…

“Shou?”

A sudden coat of silence falls on the room. The only sound is the echo of Katsuki’s blade ringing after a hit to Izuku’s. All eyes turn on the newcomers, faces go slack, little gasps perforate the air. But Shouta’s gaze is fixed across the room at a man with his feet propped on a stool and a lyre in his hands, slacking off, as usual. Or so it might seem to the outsider, but Shouta knows him almost as well as he knows himself, and he knows that Hizashi was paying attention to the young mages, even as he strummed the instrument and sent ringing voice magic weaving through the air. He’s not paying attention to them now, though. Now, he’s looking at Shouta.

It’s nothing like the reunion with Hitoshi. Hizashi doesn’t hesitate longer than a moment before a bright smile graces his features. In an instant, he runs across the expanse of the cave and pulls Shouta into his arms, laughing. The impact makes Shouta grunt and let go of Oboro’s hand so he can return the crushing embrace.

“I knew it!” Hizashi laughs. His long blond hair is messy and his peridot eyes shine like jewels. “I knew you weren’t dead!”

In the next second, the room erupts with cheers and chatter, some of the girls are crying, and soon Shouta finds himself in a suffocating group hug. He laughs aloud and ruffles some hair and hugs as many of them as he can reach.

“I’m back,” he says, trying not to cry again. “I’m home.”

Shouta sits across from Hizashi in the alcove at the back of the large cave where he first saw him. There are bookshelves, chairs, blankets, a small table, and all of Hizashi’s instruments. It seems he spends most of his time here.

As with Hitoshi, he recounts the events leading up to his return. He expected Oboro to sit with him, hovering over his shoulder like the ever-present protector he’s become, but Oboro was more interested in watching the kids practice magic. He flits from group to group with a smile on his face and fascination sparking in his eyes like electricity. Already, the young mages seem taken by him, laughing at his antics and amazement as they show off their tricks.

“Your friend,” Hizashi says when he catches Shouta glancing at him, “you said you met him in Dragon’s Gate?”

Shouta nods while flipping idly through a text in front of him, written in a foreign language.

“Do you know what he is?”

Shouta blinks in confusion at the question. Hizashi looks unusually serious as he strokes the sides of his blond mustache, occasionally studying Oboro while he marvels at Shouto’s ice magic. “He’s a foreigner,” he answers. “And possibly half-giant, though we haven’t talked about his background much.”

“I see.” Hizashi’s brows furrow and he adjusts his spectacles.

“Why…?”

“His magical energy,” Hizashi explains carefully, “it’s…unusually strong.”

Shouta frowns in disbelief. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve never seen him cast a single spell.”

“That is…curious,” Hizashi muses, suspicion clear in his green eyes. “Considering that his well of magic runs deeper than anyone’s here. Myself included.”

Shouta shakes his head. A peculiar sense of frustration pricks in the back of his mind and he feels tension gather in his neck. He rubs the muscles and lets out a slow breath. “Maybe it’s innate,” he reasons. “He might not even be aware of it. In the realm he came from, his people are bonded with dragons and share magic with them. It’s possible that the magic-rich environment breeds a high proficiency for it.”

“Hm…” Hizashi’s gaze darkens for a fraction of a moment. “Perhaps.”

Shouta finds himself irritated with the topic of conversation. “What about you and the rest of the mages? How have things been?”

He expects this line of questioning to open Hizashi back up to his usual, cheerful self, but finds that his expression only darkens further. “I take it you haven’t had much access to news about current events. The political climate has gotten worse. Crusades against mages are at an all time high. You have your old pal Vlad to thank for that. They’re using him to spearhead the charge. There are few places left that are safe for wizards, and the boundaries of those places shrink every day.”

Shouta takes the knowledge in glumly. “Do you think there’s going to be a revolution soon?”

Hizashi doesn’t answer right away. He’s silent, eyes narrowed as he surveys the room. He seems to consider Oboro again, who’s talking animatedly to Hitoshi. The big man freezes suddenly, then looks over his shoulder, gaze locking briefly with Hizashi’s. An emotion passes between them, Shouta’s sure of it. Distrust, maybe? Or something more obscure. As soon as he senses it, though, the moment passes and Oboro is nodding at Hitoshi again.

Hizashi’s eyes close. When he opens them, his lopsided grin adorns his face once more. “Seems that way!” he says with a noncommittal shrug. “That’s what I’ve heard from other wizards, anyway. As for me and the students, we’re lying low. We haven’t had any unexpected visitors since your public execution.”

Relief settles on Shouta’s chest and he immediately forgets the tense air before this. “As long as all of you are safe, that’s what matters to me.”

“No need to worry about that,” Hizashi laughs boisterously. “We’re so safe that it’s boring. If only the rest of us could go on grand adventures with dragons and highly attractive companions.” He waggles an eyebrow at this and Shouta’s cheeks heat on cue.

“I’m glad my trials seem enviable to you,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What can I say?” Hizashi shrugs. “I like a good mountain to climb.”

Shouta’s cheeks flush even hotter. “It’s not as if… He and I aren’t…”

“Shou, the number of times he’s looked over here at us as if he wants to mount and breed you on the floor in front of me just to stake his claim is exceptionally high for a ‘not as if’ traveling companion.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Shouta protests.

“Then should I ask around the village to see who has a spare room for him to stay in during his stay, or will he be bedding with you? And on that note…how long does he intend to stay?”

Shouta chews his lip, thoroughly embarrassed. While it would save him a great deal of humiliation if Oboro slept elsewhere, he knows the man will object, maybe even cause a scene. “I…he’ll stay with me for the time being. I’m not sure when he plans to go back to Dragon’s Gate, but I’ll ask.”

He has a sneaking suspicion that Oboro has absolutely no intentions of returning anywhere without Shouta. It’s only a matter of time before they have another uncomfortable discussion about Oboro whisking him away. But Shouta is much too tired from the journey to think about that now. He wants to relax and bask in the joy of finally being home. 

“Fair, fair,” Hizashi chuckles. “I won’t press you about your relationship with him. Just…try not to get too invested, Shouta. Chance encounters with mysterious strangers are rarely as mysterious or fated as they seem.”

Shouta dismisses this with a wave of his hand. “I can take care of myself, you don’t need to worry. He’s trustworthy.”

Chapter Text

The rest of the day is a chaotic blur of catching up and celebration. Shouta is paraded through town, reuniting with friends who cheer or cry upon his return. The night ends in the tavern with drinking and music. Hizashi sings a new bard song, a tale about Shouta and his adventures.

It’s well into the night when he finally stumbles back to the smithy, his home, leaning on Oboro for support. He strips on the way to his room, earning an amused chuckle from Oboro before Shouta collapses, at long last, onto his own bed.

The pillow smells like Hitoshi’s hair and some of the youth’s belongings are still scattered about on the floor, but he doesn’t care. He’s finally home and there’s no better feeling than a familiar mattress and the security of being tucked away in his own village instead of in a tent on the road or a room in an inn.

The bed dips, reminding him through a bleary state that he’s not alone. “Boro…” he slurs, reaching in the dark for the other man as he tries to settle on Shouta’s bed with him.

“Patience, little raven,” the man laughs as he settles in and pulls a blanket over them. He doesn’t get the chance to wrap Shouta up in their usual night embrace because Shouta’s already crawling and clinging all over him, flopping down on his huge chest with his ear pressed against his heart. Oboro grunts and splays his fingers on Shouta’s scalp, shorts nails massaging skin as his knuckles rub strands of black between them.

Shouta’s too drunk to even notice the intimacy of their position or Oboro’s loving hands. All he knows is that this is how things should be. He’s home, and it’s another warm night with Oboro.

“D’you like my village?” he asks. With his good hand, he walks his fingers playfully along Oboro’s abs, pretending that the creases between them are little paths in a town.

Oboro considers for a moment, then hums in response. “It’s good,” he says. “Good people, like Dragon’s Gate. Good magic.”

“Magic…” Suddenly, Shouta smacks his abs, causing him to let out a surprised huff. “You didn’t tell me about your magic.”

Oboro doesn’t answer and Shouta almost forgets the question as he listens to his rapid heartbeat.

“Your wizard friend… Zashi. He told you?”

“He said you’re very magical,” Shouta confirms.

“Nothing else? He said…no secrets about me?”

“What secrets, big man?” Shouta asks, then laughs at what he thinks is a hilarious joke. “Secretly wanna mount and breed me on the floor?”

Oboro’s chest rumbles and a deep-throated sound of interest vibrates from it. “That’s no secret.”

“Wanna claim me?” Shouta asks, fingers skittering over twitching muscles.

“Yes,” Oboro says gruffly.

“Now?” Shouta asks with a smirk as he slips his hand lower, tracing the bulging vein next to Oboro’s hip and making the man’s nails suddenly dig hard into his scalp.

“Can’t,” he chokes out, one hand going to halt the progress of Shouta’s wandering touch. “Haven’t earned you. You don’t need me yet.”

“Maybe I do,” Shouta complains, tugging his hand out of Oboro’s grip. “Maybe I need you right now.”

Oboro growls , and it shakes the haze in Shouta’s mind, almost pulling him from it.

“Wicked fox,” the man breathes. “No treachery from your mead-wet voice.” He sighs, lips pressing into Shouta’s hair. “You do not want this, and if I give it, I will hurt and scare you again. Not for a third time. I will not.”

Third time? Shouta can’t remember that happening twice. Actually, he can’t remember it happening once at the moment.

Shouta relents, but only because his scattered brain picks a new path of thought to follow. “How long are you gonna stay here with me?”

“Until your needs are met and you are ready to return home with me.”

“‘m already home,” Shouta says. “Everything I like is…right here.”

Oboro doesn’t respond to this. Shouta busies himself with swirling the light colored hair that trails from his companion’s navel to his belt line. “Soft and light,” he murmurs, “not like hair at all. Like dragon fur.”

Through his stupor he can still remember the softness of Shirakumo’s fur pressed against his cheek or threaded through his fingers. He swears it felt just like this, soft and wispy like delicate fronds or the barely there touch of wind. Oboro doesn’t have the wiry curls that most men, including Shouta, sport on their chests and stomachs. It really is…like fur.

This realization makes something hot stir in Shouta’s gut. Suddenly, he needs to feel more. He wants to grab a fistful of bluish fur and hold it tight and never let go. Oboro’s hair is too short for that, but there are other things he can hold.

Brazenly, his hand rushes down, fingers immediately clutching around Oboro’s cock through the fabric of his pants. To the delight of the uncontainable fire in Shouta’s abdomen, he finds his companion thick, girthy, and hard.

The touch punches another growl out of Oboro’s chest, and Shouta can feel him throb under his hand.

“Enough,” Oboro warns, clutching Shouta’s hand and returning it to its previous location. “You are drunk and not ready to take my mark.”

Shouta rolls, moving to straddle him. He sits purposefully on his shielded cock and grinds down, which draws an absolutely lovely moan from his throat. Shouta drops down and trails kisses up his neck before rubbing his tongue through his facial hair, which is as deliciously soft as everywhere else.

“Minx…” Oboro groans. “Enough.”

Shouta doesn’t listen. He’s in a blissed out, foggy state of mind. His brain sloshes back and forth on a sea of pleasure and all he knows is that he’s burning. His hips rock, he bites Oboro’s bottom lip and pulls, and Oboro’s hands fly to his hips and grip hard. He pulls Shouta down and rocks up into him, meeting his own movement.

Oboro’s body is huge, so he has to lift his head to meet Shouta’s mouth in a desperate kiss. It’s rough, heady, and messy. He’s growling into Shouta’s mouth, tongue long and demanding. And it’s just the alcohol, but Shouta swears he feels the prick of static at the tips of their tongues when they meet. Sharp little jolts of electricity that make him tremble with desire.

Abruptly, Oboro turns his head to the side, breaking the kiss. “No more, raven. I don’t want to pluck your wings.”

Shouta whines in protest. “Please… I’m hard, Oboro. Hard…for you. Let me do something. L’mme…” he hesitates because he gets suddenly dizzy from rocking his hips, then rights himself again. “Lemme suck your cock.”

“ Spirits of my ancestors,” he groans out a foreign curse. “No!”

Shouta deflates, body heavy and eyelids drooping. “Please…” he mutters, slumped on top of Oboro. “I need you.”

Those are the key words. Always the key words, it would seem. Oboro flips him over and lays him on his back. “Do you need to be sated, Shouta? To finally go to sleep? You need ?”

“Yes, I need to cum,” he moans, bucking up against nothing.

“Sh,” Oboro commands. “Close your eyes, vicious little fox. “I will give you what you need.”

Shouta moans again, obeying with his eyes closed. He whimpers at the sensation of Oboro pulling his underwear down and fisting a hand around his cock. It’s not what he wanted, but Shouta can’t even remember that now. He’s fuzzy and swaying, only aware of the nerves sparking in his cockhead and Oboro teases and rolls the foreskin with his thumb. Once he begins to stroke, he’s fast and without mercy, though the touch isn’t rough. Shouta moans and buck and arches, squirming on the bed as pleasure churns beneath the haze of alcohol.

It doesn’t take long. Shouta has no ability to practice restraint at the moment, and Oboro’s strokes are targeted and purposeful, meant to drive him to a quick finish. His nerves are numbed by the alcohol, so the sensation of cumming feels muted, but he knows he’s done it when Oboro shifts and brings a big hand to his own face to lick up Shouta’s cum.

The following exhaustion combined with the heaviness of the mead crashing down on him render his body completely useless. He doesn’t just drift into sleep, he plummets before Oboro has even laid back down. He’s only vaguely aware of a kiss being pressed to his lips, and then the spinning world fades to black.

Shouta wakes with one of the worst hangovers of his life. Worse, he can’t remember anything that happened after his third drink at the tavern. Somehow he ended up home with Oboro’s arms around him. Nervously, he sits up and looks them over. He’s relieved to find that they’re both wearing clothes. Shouta’s only in his underwear, but Oboro’s got pants on. So, they didn’t have a drunk fuck. That’s a relief, partially because Shouta’s still not ready for that, but also because…he wants to remember it when they have their first time.

When.

Until now he didn’t realize that he’s actively expecting to have sex with him.

That’s too much to think about with a headache and the sluggish muck of a hangover. He slides his legs off the bed and carefully stands, groaning at the sensation of his body weighing twice as much as usual.

“Shouta?” Oboro’s rough voice calls to him. “You need help?”

Shouta shakes his head and sends him an appreciative smile. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”

Oboro stands up and stretches, so tall that he can’t extend his arm fully above his head. “I’ll make you food.”

Shouta arches an eyebrow. “I’m not sure you’re up to that task.” After all, he’s the same man who was trying to feed birds meat and who burned anything he tried to cook over a fire.

“I can,” Oboro says with determination. “You sit.”

After a much needed trip to the bathroom to piss away gallons of mead, and rifling through his wardrobe to wear some of his own clothes for the first time in months, Shouta joins him in the kitchen. He can’t help a chuckle and amused smile when he sees Oboro glaring at the wood stove as if his frustration will make it work.

“You’re hopeless,” Shouta says, pushing him playfully aside to help. “You lit the fire, that’s good, but now you have to control the airflow with the vents to get the right temperature. Have you really never cooked with a stove before?”

Oboro pouts as Shouta adjusts the temperature.

“What are you trying to cook?”

Oboro nods toward the basket on the counter. It was a gift from the villagers given to them yesterday, complete with fresh eggs, potatoes, carrots, and herbs.

“How about an omelet?” Shouta suggests. “You peel the potatoes and I’ll work on the eggs.”

Oboro picks up a potato with a scowl, then, honest-to-god, tries peeling it with a nail.

“Unbelievable,” Shouta laughs, then hands him a knife. “Cut the skin off like this, with the knife pointed away from you. Watch your thumbs. Have you really never cooked anything?”

“Dragons…use magic to cook,” Oboro mumbles defensively as he tries his hand at peeling.

“It’s no wonder you can’t gauge what good food tastes like if you only ever ate food prepped by dragons. From my experience, they’re not exactly gourmet chefs.”

Oboro huffs at this. “Show me,” he demands. “Teach me to make food you like. So I can take care of you.”

Shouta feels a tremble of pleasure go down his spine. That last sentence was completely unnecessary and now he’s acutely aware of how domestic this is. Cooking in the kitchen together, his hand on Oboro’s as he shows him the right motions to cube a potato… Warm sunlight pooling from the window on a day with no places to be or urgency of any tasks. It’s as if he left on a journey and came home with a husband.

“You can’t keep saying things like that,” he grumbles as he cracks an egg over the pan. “The villagers will get the wrong impression about us.”

Oboro puts the knife down and places his hands on Shouta’s hips, making him suck in a sharp breath. “Your villagers should know that you’re mine.”

“Enough,” Shouta elbows him in the side. “You’ve no right to claim me, Oboro. I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Oboro’s hands fall away, leaving Shouta with a strange feeling of regret. He shakes it off, then continues his instruction on the proper way to make an omelet.

After letting Oboro burn a couple of eggs and break omelets, they finally settle for a potato and egg scramble instead. It’s a simple meal, but better than anything they’ve had on the road. They sit next to each other at the kitchen table, since Oboro doesn’t grasp the social tradition of sitting across from one another to engage in easier conversation and eye contact. No, the only thing the man ever seems to care about is his proximity to Shouta. He gets the sense that his ideal position would be spoon-feeding Shouta while he sits on his lap. He settles for letting their arms touch while he shovels food.

“What are we doing today, Shou?” Oboro asks through a mouthful of food, messily spitting egg onto the table.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Shouta sighs. He picks up a rag and cleans the table, almost lifting it to clean the food from Oboro’s stubble. He might have done it, too, if the man wasn’t already licking it off his own face. “To answer your question,” Shouta sits the rag down and clears his throat, “I want to work in the forge for a bit and see how Hitoshi’s progress has come along. Also to see if I still remember what I’m doing.”

“I want to see!” Oboro says, eyes lighting up.

Shouta chuckles. “Well, you’re free to observe. Just try not to be a distraction. Hitoshi gets flustered easily.”

He gets a raised eyebrow at this, as if to say ‘ and you don’t?’ Shouta clears his throat again. “Also, you might get bored. If you do, I’m sure the other mages would love to keep showing you their magic.”

Oboro’s eyes light up and a boyish grin spreads across his face. “Magic! I like their magic.” His smile tugs down into a frown a moment later, his eyes gazing beyond Shouta into a distressing thought. “Don’t like… I don’t want to be alone with Hizashi.”

Something about this makes Shouta feel like he’s forgetting something important. A question he had, maybe? Something related to something Hizashi said yesterday? Whatever it is, it wasted away with the alcohol last night and he can’t recall it. “What’s wrong?” he teases, giving Oboro’s wrist a squeeze. “Jealous?”

Oboro’s expression darkens further, though something about the shock in his eyes tells Shouta he hadn’t considered Hizashi a threat before now.

“Relax,” Shouta sighs as he stands up to clear their plates. “Hizashi is my oldest and dearest friend, and we decided a long time ago that it didn’t work to be anything more than that.”

Oboro’s nostrils flare and he huffs. “Did you fuck?”

The blunt question makes Shouta choke on a cough. He clears his throat and averts his gaze as he rinses the dishes. “We were young and were a couple for a while,” he says evasively.

He hears a chair scrape the floor and suddenly big hands are gripping his wrists, making him drop the plate he was holding into the sink. “Has he been inside of you?” Oboro asks, and his voice sounds dangerous.

Shouta tenses as a trill of fear and pleasure works up his spine. “Why?” he mouths, realizing the word produces no sound before trying again. “Why does that matter?”

“Did he earn you?” Oboro’s grip tightens almost painfully. “Did he give you the things you need?”

Shouta swallows a lump in his throat before trying to snatch his wrists away, but it’s no use. Oboro’s grip is unrelenting. “We’ve had sex, yes,” he says, detecting a tremble in his own voice. “But that’s really none of your business.”

Oboro growls. It’s dark and followed by the snap of teeth next to Shouta’s ear. “He claimed you? Filled you?”

Shouta shivers again, but the fear is beginning to outweigh any pleasure he feels as a byproduct of Oboro’s possessiveness. This time, he wrenches his wrists away despite the pain of Oboro’s fingers practically bruising him. He turns around, back pressed to the counter, and gives Oboro’s chest a hard shove. He stumbles, less from Shouta’s strength and more from surprise.

“Enough!” Shouta snaps. “If you think you can come to my village and tell me who I’m allowed to be around, then you can leave. Hizashi and I were partners once, years ago. That has nothing to do with you, I didn’t even know you. And compared to the lifetime I’ve spent with him and everyone else in this town, I still don’t know you at all. If you threaten me, or try to give some kind of ultimatum, then I can assure you, I will choose them—I will choose him over you.”

Oboro’s face pales. Several emotions pass over his face in the span of seconds. Shock, disbelief, anger, confusion, defeat, and then shame. He breaks eye contact, expression turning meek in a way, almost like one of his adorable pouts but more forlorn. Shouta refuses to feel sorry for him, though.

“You don’t own me, Oboro,” he reminds him as he rubs his wrists, still sore from his companions hands. “I’m not your property. I’m not even your lover.”

Oboro’s expression turns frustrated and confused. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, runs his tongue along his teeth, then shakes his head. He scratches his scalp for a moment before sighing. “I know,” he finally relents.

“Besides…” Shouta’s voice softens a bit, “we’re adult men. We both have a sexual history, don’t we? Yet, you don’t see me asking if you’ve been ‘filled’ or ‘claimed.’ Because it’s not my business and doesn’t have anything to do with us right now.”

Oboro’s brows furrow like he hadn’t considered this.

“If it’s any consolation to you, I don’t currently have any other prospects besides…well, you. I wasn’t seeing anyone before I was captured. So, whatever it is that you and I are doing right now… We’re the only ones doing it.”

Oboro nods slowly. “I’m sorry…” he murmurs. “Your customs…are strange to me.”

Shouta frowns and leans against the counter. “ You’re strange to me, Oboro. It’s as if…” He chews his lip for a moment. “It’s as if you’ve never been told ‘no.’”

Oboro doesn’t respond and Shouta realizes with shock that he’s hit the nail on the head. “No one has ever rejected you?” Is that even possible? Oboro is attractive, but to have lived such an entitled life…

“Humans don’t tell a–” He bites the sentence off abruptly, leaving Shouta with no idea what he was planning to say. “…no. No one bit back before you, Shouta. Where I come from… Ownership is a right and the jealousy of a mate is a blessing.”

Mates, ownership. It’s all dragon stuff again, isn’t it? Just what kind of relationship do Oboro’s people have with the creatures and why? he wonders.

“Then, you expect me to feel flattered that you looked like you wanted to maul my closest friend?” Shouta deadpans.

“No,” Oboro huffs, nostrils flaring in indignation. “What I want…” Suddenly, his gaze is locked on Shouta’s and it’s as gray as steel and just as sharp. “I want to take you, burn you with my mark so no one ever tries to touch you again. I want to fuck you so good and so brainless that you forget ever needing anyone but me. ”

Shouta can do nothing but stare as waves of heat roll up and down his body. It’s not as though Oboro’s intentions weren’t clear before, but to hear them said like this, with such absolute passion and severity… “I—”

“Don’t,” Oboro interrupts. “Don’t say you don’t know me and I’m not your lover and you’re not ready.” He walks abruptly to the front door. “I know. ” He hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say more or maybe expects Shouta to counter. When he doesn’t, Oboro steps outside and slams the door behind him.