Archive of Our Own ^beta

The lantern-strung capital market is especially lively today, even as snow flurries all around its occupants; piled in high drifts from where it had been pushed out of the way. The most stalwart of stall-bearing merchants brave the cold, brightly hawking their wares, silks and tanghulu like brilliant gems along the wintry cityscape. Children’s laughter splits the air, too—small figures running amok between passerby’s legs, like songbirds through the trees; amidst carriage-horse hooves and ringing bells.

Semi takes it all in with a smile, breath puffing out in clouds before him—and hunches into his scarf to duck into a teahouse, where he can hear the sweet sound of a zither wafting from the eaves. He was here to buy something in particular, today—but he could only do so by not freezing to death! A detour for some snacks would hardly condemn him, and when a waiter greets him, Semi grins, cheeks ruddy apple red, and asks for a bowl of congee; ducking his head in thanks before turning to walk up wooden stairs, drawn to the sound of the zither.

Vibrant paintings of flowers line the walls, and when Semi seats himself at a window, shivering at how the window just across has been left open, his gaze is free to wander over the resident musician all he wants.

The player’s gaze is lowered, feather-spread lashes like sweeping ink, petal mouth upturned in a pout of concentration. Sat at a raised platform, rich outer robe spilling out around them like a blooming lotus, their slender fingers dance over the instrument’s strings, set on a low table before them.

Pretty, he thinks, and he doesn’t mean only the music. The player’s hands still, then, as if sensing his gaze—and Semi hurriedly turns his head away. …Respectful! He was being respectful!

Spilling caramel hair, features like a porcelain doll…Semi can hardly be blamed, when the man looks so much like his sweetheart.

But there was only one Kenjirou in his world, after all. The same waiter clatters up the stairs, steaming bowl of congee set on a wooden tray—and Semi hums in delight once it’s set before him, eyes crinkling in a beam as he ducks his head in thanks. He doesn’t study the musician again.

While he eats, his mind has time to wander. Ah, he missed Kenjirou’s playing. His lover—lover! Semi felt as if he was floating!—was so busy these days, any day really…but perhaps he would make some time, for him. There was only one way to find out. Semi’s paying at the counter before he knows it, a special handful of bills set aside for your wonderful musician—and is out in the cold again with a newfound determination in his eyes. The musician had his hair twined in a hairpin like starcaught silver, and while his Kenjirou had no shortage of ornaments to his name…

Well, a hairpin would be special, gifted from Semi’s own devoted hands.

…And if he didn’t like it!? Well, he’d only picked it up on the way! That brat could throw it out the window, for all he cared!

(Semi cared quite a lot. It was one of his best—and worst—qualities.)

The congee warms his belly. Gloves warm his hands, and when Semi braves the cold again, he is drawn immediately to a stall boasting bright colors, windchimes tinkling in the breeze.

Oh my, the old woman running the stall coos at him, sharp brown eyes tracing the fur collar of his outer cloak, sheathed sword resting at his hip. Her gaze lingers especially on the purple tassel at his sword hilt, a light shade most familiar as that of the palace—and when she meets Semi’s oblivious, inquiring gaze, her face breaks into a smile.

“How lucky you are, to be so loved,” she says, and Semi beams back, even if he doesn’t quite know what she means. He asks about her wares most befitting someone of noble bearing, and when the merchant’s expression lifts into exaggerated surprise, Semi hastily backtracks, one hand raised to the back of his neck.

“You know— since my beloved is so graceful!”

“Yes, yes, sir, I believe you,” she laughs—and then she is speaking of jade, and flowers, and flowers caught in wire—“come, what do you think would best complement your sweetheart’s complexion…”—and Semi forgets his embarrassment entirely.

(But this young man’s sleeves were made of silk—but the fur about his collar looked warm and rich as a fox’s, and when he grins in delight and fondly traces a hairpin with flowers in draping beads, she knows the heart he holds can only be that of the royal palace.)

“I’ll take this one,” Semi says, and fidgets as the merchant suspiciously eyes him again, wrapping the hairpin in a bolt of fabric, then setting it into a small wooden box. “A fine choice, young sir, but may this old woman ask why?”

Semi’s fumbling for his coin pouch, and looks up with a little jerk of his head, lips quirking in a boyish grin. “My Kenji is just like a flower, madam, with eyes that could warm the most freezing winters! Though I suspect I’ll get burned, first…”

Money and the hairpin trade hands, sinew to wrinkles, and the old woman clasps both of Semi’s hands over the box as she leans in with a knowing smile. “Smile at your sweetheart when you give this to him, then—just like that, yes! Safe travels, young soldier.”

“Ah, yes, thank you madam,” Semi says with a little duck of his head, heart warming at the gentle press of her hands—and it is only when he has disappeared into the ebbing crowd that he turns his head with coltish surprise.

He had never mentioned that his lover was a he—and as for soldier—

Well, the elderly were always so perceptive. Snow dusts his hair like so many fallen stars, and Semi hums to himself, slim box tucked safely into his inner shirt, eyeing the capital market with newfound wonder. He was off-duty, today, even if much of the palace wasn’t—all of Namazu alive for the winter solstice.

Painted paper fans, delicate teacups, well-wrapped calligraphy brushes… the crown prince wants for nothing, but everything reminds Semi of Kenjirou anyway, and the palace guard smiles fondly at each stall, such that the merchants lean forward and ask Semi about “whatever girl’s got you looking so lovelorn, anyway?”

“Someone special,” Semi says simply—and turns away. Merchants sigh after him, dressed so richly, even with the understated, confident bearing of a young master, his disciplined posture borne of ten dozen sword forms, practiced to heartrending, fluid clockwork violence. No doubt Semi is breaking hearts just by sweeping through the city streets, upright and so handsome heads would turn just to see the ash fall of his hair again. Semi pays it no mind. He buys a stick of tanghulu for the brief walk back, and holds it in his mouth when he is stopped at the palace gates, both hands reaching into his shirt to present his identifying token.

Semi Eita, it says in sweeping, carved strokes in wood—and the guards at the door dip their heads and stand aside to let him in, twin voices strong.

“Captain!”

“Mm, good work today, no?” Semi grins, patting at one guard’s shoulder, and steps over the threshold to push the hulking double doors open. Well, not everyone would know his face here. The palace was so massive, after all. He knows this better than anyone, what with how he oversaw the delegation of shifts, sturdy feet trekking a well-worn map of the sprawling grounds. Muscle memory takes him through tiled courtyards, beneath upturned archways—past snow-laden banners, guards saluting him at every turn.

Truly, he owed much to the servants who swept the pathways every morning… Semi studies his iced over reflection in the middle of a nine turn bridge, patting self consciously at his hair. Missing, suddenly, the koi fish that flitted through these waters, now dormant deep beneath the surface. Kenjirou reminded him of them, sometimes—his sweeping robes, silk sleeves like spilling water. Gauze and gossamer; and their owner, elegant as a ballet dancer; a watercolor painting in flowing motion.

…Kenjirou would have his head if such sentiments ever left Semi’s lips. Better he press his own against Kenjirou’s soft mouth— ah, he was getting ahead of himself. Semi hurries across the bridge, deep into the interior of the palace facing the sun. To the crown prince’s quarters.

There are no guards stationed outside his doors, but two ladies-in-waiting, instead. They exchange knowing smiles as Semi approaches, heads bowed in perfunctory greeting, and the captain feels his ears warm. What, what was with that reaction!? Semi was a perfect gentleman—

“Your Highness, Captain Semi is here to see you,” one of their voices cut through, past the painted sliding doors—and Semi snaps to attention, posture straightening; conscious despite himself.

“Enter,” he hears—and Semi exhales, doors parting as he ducks his head from the hanging decorations and steps through.

This entire hall belongs to Kenjirou, and Semi walks past ground lanterns, unlit—shelves stacked with books; through a round carved archway…until he sees him.

Every instance still feels like the first. When time stands still, his every breath caught in amber—and Kenjirou turns to face him, otherworldly in the winter light of one window.

“Eita,” Kenjirou says around a smile—and Semi’s breath hitches at how his given name sounds like home over his lover’s lips.

I love you, bubbles up in his ribs, nonsensical. “Kenjirou,” he says, instead—and goes still when Kenjirou moves to approach him, fine-boned pianist’s hands raising to unclasp the heavy cloak about his shoulders.

“It looks good on you,” Kenjirou is saying, one hand feathering through the soft fur by Semi’s cheek, the other smoothing along rich black fabric, rippling with the motion. “Just as I told you. How impudent of you, to dare reject this prince’s gifts.”

Aish, this brat. “I gave in, didn’t I?” He smiles, cheeky, and watches Kenjirou with fond molten eyes as the prince removes Semi’s cloak completely, folding it over one arm before he tosses it onto an armchair and tugs his lover close by the belt.

“Oof,” Semi says, surprised—and goes silent when Kenjirou cups his jaw, tilting him down as the prince surges forward to press a demanding kiss to his mouth, as if writing his own name across Semi’s lips. Possessive little thing—but it makes something in Semi tingle. He wraps an arm around the thin trim of the prince’s waist, his other hand raising to gently tangle in the spilling waist-length fall of Kenjirou’s hair. He’s left it loose, today; half in a bun, the rest of his hair caught in Semi’s cradling hands. Semi thinks about pulling, soft noises a symphony from Kenjirou’s mouth, and doesn’t.

One of Kenjirou’s hands rests over Semi’s bicep, and he flexes it, smiling into the kiss when the prince’s hold tightens and he gasps against Semi’s lips. Kenjirou steps back, kiss-flushed, petal-pink all over and so, so pretty.

“Show-off,” Kenjirou says, petulant, halved gaze from his ducked head, lashes fluttering. Semi doesn’t say anything, for one long moment—the love of his life in his arms, Semi caught once again by his beauty—by the miracle that he can stand here, at all.

One blink, two. Just when Kenjirou looks like he’s about to push him off, Semi smiles, a crinkled, sweet boyish thing, and tilts the prince’s chin up with one finger to press two, three fluttering pecks to his lips.

“All for you,” he says when they part, and winks. Kenjirou really wants to separate now, tugging as if to step away, and Semi laughs, both arms spanning the prince’s waist to pull him close before he reaches with one hand into his inner shirt.

“Wait, wait,” he huffs, and loops both his arms behind Kenjirou’s neck before the prince can see what Semi has. Kenjirou steps on his foot, just enough to hurt, and Semi winces even as he works hard to unwrap the hairpin, fabric and wooden box falling to the ground as gently as he can manage with a clatter.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Kenjirou says darkly, but his thinner arms bracket Semi’s waist, a satisfied cat lounging over its prize, without a single complaint. Semi feels his heart expand in his chest, such that he fears it will spill over, his entire body awash in golden light—but he just presses a kiss to Kenjirou’s hair instead, nimble hands well practiced as he handles the hairpin with ease, slotting it into his prince’s bun in one held breath.

“I like you too, my prince,” Semi says, and steps away at last to settle his hands over Kenjirou’s shoulders, gently spinning him in place to face his dresser mirror. He doesn’t move away from Kenjirou’s back, instead hooking his chin over his lover’s shoulder, closely watching both their reflections.

“Oh,” Kenjirou breathes, and Semi steps away fully as the prince walks closer to the mirror, one hand raised to gently appraise his gift. The hairpin is made of innocuous dark wood, sleek in its shape but brilliant with how the decorative end blooms in wrought stones of amber, orange and red as if it is a single flame, caught in time and fashioned into delicate flowers. Hanging chains boast similar details, and when Kenjirou lifts one end and lets it fall back, they rustle together as if they were windchimes in the breeze.

“Like your eyes,” Semi says softly, and smiles when Kenjirou makes a soft, inquiring sound. “In the sun, you know. When it’s setting. When it turns everything to gold.”

Oh, again, and those pretty petal lips part, soft around a revelation Semi isn’t privy to. “Aren’t you silver-tongued,” Kenjirou scolds, and sighs when Semi just lifts his brows with an exaggerated waggle. “My eyes are brown,” he says next.

Thank you, is what he really means—and he presses this soft gratitude against Semi’s lips, chaste and sweet.

“Anytime,” Semi promises him, chasing Kenjirou’s mouth to seal a sentiment of his own. Always. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.