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sabraeal · 3 years

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Born to Make History

A prequel to this prompt from an earlier collection! The short program I reference here it based very heavily off of Nathan Chen’s 2021 short program which you can find here

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Figure Skating AU

“I hope you weren’t expecting me to go easy on you this morning.” Garrack’s voice booms across the ice, loud enough that a few other skaters slow, craning their necks to see who the fabled Coach Gazelt would chew out next. “Your work is just beginning if you want to call this a comeback.”

A groan rumbles in the back of her throat, dying to be let out, but it’s impossible to miss the small figure sweeping the eyes, dark hair curling over his eyes. Ryuu’s here already, picking at some footwork-- his transitions are his weakest element if his scores are anything to go by, but he’s determined to make it his best. Shirayuki breathes in, six counts in and eight counts out, and lets her protest die on her tongue.

Shirayuki slides out, stomping her skates beneath her to get feeling back in her legs. “I know you better than that.”

Her muscles ache as she eases into a lap, letting the ice settle beneath her. When she was small, she could blast out into the rink like a cannon ball, running across it like it was just another bit of ground beneath her feet. But she left it, and silly as it sounds, the ice hasn’t forgiven her. Her blades don’t tremble like the used to, but a few days off the ice-- especially folded up on an Transatlantic flight-- leaves her with a drunken lurch, the whole world passing by too fast.

But it’s quick to even out, her body warming to the chill of the rink, to the way her legs have to bend to keep her moving. After a lap or two, control is easy as breathing, as easy as swimming to a fish. The ice may not have forgiven her, but it’s missed her too.

She glides to a stop right at Garrack’s toes, sending up a little spray. It earns her a smile, tight-lipped but approving. She’ll earn teeth once she gives it a medal to sink in to. “I think if you let up on me for a moment, I’d have to take you to a hospital.”

Her coach barks out a laugh, blonde hair ruffling out like a halo from her bun. “Oh, Shirayuki. You say the sweetest things.”

It might be cold in the rink, but it doesn’t do anything but make her cheeks burn hotter. She forgets, but these Americans-- they don’t really take ‘hard ass’ as a compliment.

Well, most wouldn’t. Garrack looks quite pleased, though.

“Aw, coach.” Hands catch at her shoulders, and she knows them even before a sandy head peeps over them. “Can’t you give her one easy day? She’s finally made senior!”

“Oh, Higata, really, there’s no need--”

“Sure.” Garrack bares her all her teeth in a smile Shirayuki’s willing to bet has been the last earthly sight of some of her students. “But if I give her a pass, you boys will have to pick up the slack.”

Already, Higata’s hands loosen their grip. “N-now, I didn’t say--”

It’s far, far too late for him to quibble over exactly what was and wasn’t said on the ice. “What do you think? Balance drills? Or we can see how far you’ve come with your flexibility for spins.” Garrack tilts back her head, giving him a speculative look. “Maybe even run through her routine once...?”

“Ah, Shirayuki!” He gives her a firm pat on the back, sliding away. “I did what I could! Viel Glück!”

Garrack watches him skate off with a satisfied grin lingering on her lips. “Nice boy, that Higata. Thick as a hockey puck, but nice.”

Shirayuki knows better than to posit her own opinion when Garrack’s in a punchy mood. “The usual warm up, then?”

Garrack levels her with another of her measuring glances. It’s the sort that could bring grown men to their knees-- she saw it happen once, outside of a rink in Wisconsin-- but Shirayuki is used to it now. Assessment is a tool, and Garrack Gazelt has made her career by being good at it.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks instead. “You only got off a plane yesterday. That time change is easier the other way.”

She nods. “Really, I’m fine.”

Garrack sits back in her hips, one arm tucked under the other, and takes a long, thoughtful drag out of her thermos. Shirayuki shifts on her skates, trying to look-- awake. Ready to seize the day.

I’ll push you. Garrack had made no bones about that during their first lunch in Strasburg. She’d given her a similar look then too, assessing, trying to see that promising junior skater in a university student’s body. But you’re a professional. You say stop, we stop. You say go, we push on. You’re at the wheel for this one. I’m just your emergency brake.

“All right,” she sighs. “Keep it simple, though. Think easy, for once.”

“I said I was--”

Garrack flaps a gloved hand. “It’s not about you. I took a look at the books this morning, and Haruka’s right after us.”

Shirayuki blinks. Strange, he usually grabs the first slot. “Are you avoiding him?”

“Me?” She presses her thermos to her chest, scandalized. As if she and Haruka don’t skulk about the rink when they see each other, hissing like cats when necessity forced them onto the same practice time. “I don’t avoid anyone.”

A dubious hum goads her to tepidly add, “No more than he deserves.”

Shirayuki folds her arms across her chest.

“No more than usual,” Garrack promises. “But that’s not why we’re going to get off the ice.”

She lifts a brow. “And why is that?”

If Garrack weren’t in skates herself, she’d be bouncing on her toes. “I want to be in the seats when he sends his students out.”

Shirayuki’s mouth pulls thin. “The season just ended, and already you’re trying to--?”

“No, no. I’m not looking to poach, and I don’t care what routines he’s working on for next season.” She huffs, hair fluffing out in agitation. “And his aren’t better than mine anyway, he just has top tier skaters because him and Haruto like to rub--”

A polite cough breaks her concentration, enough for Shirayuki to sneak in, “Then what exactly do you need to see?”

Garrack’s mouth curls into a smile Zen has, on more than one occasion, called grinch-like. She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper, and says, “Haruka’s putting someone new on the ice.”

“A new student?’ Zen sputters, skates limp in his hands. “Haruka never said he was taking on a new student.”

“They aren’t on the roster.” Shirayuki’s shoulders hunch around her ears, as if that might keep her words between them. “And the other coaches don’t know anything either.”

Zen settles back against the bench. “We just got back from Worlds three days ago. How could he possibly have someone new that quickly?”

“Maybe it’s someone who just promoted from juniors.” She should be excited; a new student with that level of ability would be someone to watch, to learn from. But instead anxiety twists in her gut, a snake that slithers itself into tighter and tighter knots. “I saw your program, by the way. You did well.”

“I got fourth,” Zen grumbles, sliding his foot into a skate. “No wonder he already scouted a replacement.”

“Haruka would never replace you, and certainly not because you were a jump shy of bronze.” Or silver, which if he’d skated clean, he would have earned in spades. “Kiki placed second. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s jumped to a coach with someone on the podium when they started competing at the senior level.”

“Sure,” he grumbles, “but usually it takes long than--”

“What are you two talking about over here?” Kiki drops her duffel unceremoniously between them, the bench warbling beneath it. “Gossiping, I hope?”

“Just our progress at Worlds,” Zen lies smoothly, sending her a secretive wink. She’s not sure why-- Haruka’s always favored Kiki; if anyone knew anything about this mystery student, it would be her. “Shirayuki was just saying how impressive it is to get so close to the podium, but I said--”

“Right.” Kiki casts her gaze over the ice; a few weeks ago there would have been nothing to that, just a casual glance, but Shirayuki knows her better now, enough to see the hopeful perk of her chin and the inquiring lift of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She’s looking for someone; even when her gaze swings back to Shirayuki, she knows it’s not about her. “What were you two talking about?”

Zen squawks. “I said--”

“I know.” Her voice is even, logical. “But Shirayuki can’t lie.”

Shirayuki wants to protest-- she can, really, she’s done it before-- but takes one look at her and blurts out, “Haruka has a new student.”

Her skates clatter to the floor. “What was that?”

“Well,” Zen murmurs, mouth twitching. “I guess somebody isn’t the favorite after all.”

Garrack may be content to sit in the seats as Zen and Kiki take the ice, but Shirayuki leans on the barrier, letting the chill brush over her face. At this level, they’ve all been skating since they were old enough to fall and get back up. But unlike her, Zen and Kiki have never stopped, and the gap in skill has never been more apparent than now. They take to the rink like birds to air, winding around each other in complex circuits, slapping hands and turning circles around each other.

That’s the other thing: they’ve always had each other. Kiki’s hardly twenty, but there’s already rumors of Milan being her last Olympics, of what she might do once she’s over the hill-- and the first word on anyone’s lips is pairs. The second and third are Zen Wisteria, since there’s not a person alive who can imagine a competition without either of them on the ice.

Her fingers grip the rail’s rubber rim hard enough to leave crescents. They’d look good together-- they do look good together. It makes sense to go that route if Zen picks up a gold. It’s what his father did, years ago. For his mother.

The gate swings open, and they both glide to a stop. But then, to be fair, so does most of the rink.

There is no official size for a skater-- not like gymnastics, where smaller equals better and taller equals a very gentle nudge toward ballet-- but still, there is a trend to fall on the shorter size of average, at least in singles. Height might give more control on the ice, might give an extra spin or two, but when it came to jumps, the less bulk heaved from the ice the better. But Haruka’s student--

Well, he’s certainly not Mitsuhide’s height, but even with his slouch he’s taller than most men here. In his skates, he even looks down at Haruka-- though it’s not much of a feat; the man never comes onto the ice, just stands behind the barrier to shout his way through practice. Not that he needs to raise his voice to make his displeasure known; a single frown usually sends Zen and Kiki gliding back to him, heads bowed.

He’s outright glowering now, but his new student only rubs at his hair, a half-gloved hand riffling through black bristle. There’s something about him, something about the way he moves that seems familiar, if only she could catch his face--

But then the thrum of a guitar rolls over the ice, tinny on the rink’s speakers-- Zen’s song, his short program. The one that fell just short of the podium, because he put a hand down after a jump got away from him. Haruka’s student turns around, and even from where she stands, she recognizes the grin.

Oh no. No.

It should be Zen at the center of the ice, but this guy pushes out instead. His black clothes making him a stark contrast to the ice, to the barriers around him. Zen’s already halfway to the center, confused and a bit agitated, looking like he’s about to have words-- and then Haruka’s student glides out, Spanish guitars warbling in his wake.

He moves like water-- no, like a blade through water, each motion of his arms both flowing and sharp, carving through the air with a grace than even Zen would be hard pressed to copy. His hips swing, daring angles that should throw him off his footwork, that should leave him stumbling, but instead he’s mesmerizing, a flamenco dancer that does not need to touch the ground.

“Who is he?” Ryuu murmurs, shifting in the seat behind her.

“I wish I knew.” Jealousy drips thickly from Garrack’s voice. “Just where did Haruka dig up a gem like this?”

Tanbarun, Shirayuki nearly says, but she can’t speak, can’t do anything but watch this man skate Zen’s routine like he owns it, like it was made for him. She expects him to mark the jump sequence-- quad toe, triple toe loop-- but the moment he jumps, she knows-- it’s clean. No, more than clean, because this isn’t a joke, not a sly wink and smile to his new friends--

He’s come to compete.

“Can you believe that?” Zen normally floats like a cloud on the ice, but right now he looks like he could thunder and storm too as the song switches to the next on deck. “He did my whole routine.”

Kiki’s mouth cants, wry. “Better than you did.”

He snaps to her like a lightning crack. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.” Garrack saunters up to the barrier with a barracuda’s smile, raising a brow. “If you’d gone that clean at Worlds, that would have placed you. Maybe would have brought home gold.”

Zen only glowers, and Shirayuki sends her coach a pleading glance. It’s a hopeless cause to wish she’d keep her mouth shut, but maybe Garrack might blunt her tongue.

She really should know better.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone move like that,” Garrack sighs, tapping her hand on the plastic. “Not since...”

Your brother, she doesn’t say; a small mercy. Zen’s grimace says he heard it anyway.

“Where’s he from?” Ryuu asks, appearing at her elbow. His brows are drawn, grave over his already serious eyes. “I haven’t seen him at any competition.”

Shirayuki bites her cheek to keep from saying, I have.

“That’s the question,” Garrack grumbles, looking greener by the second. “Where did he find an unknown that can skate like that? It can’t be--”

“Korea.”

The accent that says it is distinctly not that; oh no, there is a deeper rumble on the ‘r’, a harder ‘k’ at the start. A thicker accent than he’d sported when he loomed over her, gold eyes cold as coins, and asked, I think you get my point, da?

When she turns, there he is: her saboteur in the flesh.

“Well, well, devushka.” His grin stretches wide, elbowing in between Zen and Kiki. “Long time no see.”

#obiyukibingo21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #figure skating au #my fic #ans #okay consider this a teaser for a fic i might one day write #where shirayuki used to be a promising junior skater in germany but ended up dropping out #when her grandparent got sick or died or what have you #and then decided to come back when she was in university because she misses it #and probably something to do with raj and zen but like *waves hand* not my problem right now #obi is russian but he's from the eastern part and thus doesn't look kievan #and so despite his skill he never was put on russia's competitive team #and thus has rented himself out to korea #whose star skater just took a terrible tumble and will be out for the season #and he has juuuuust enough korean blood for the international skating committee to allow it #YES YES LIKE PAS DE DEUX you all know the reference i am making and also rent-a-russians are a thing SO #today i borrow my sister's sweater #it fits very nice

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sabraeal · 6 years

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PROMPT: Three accidental kisses... that perhaps weren't so accidental after all.

There are no masquerades in the North. At least, not likethis.

A wave of masks sweeps out of the ballroom, flooding thearcade and lapping at the manicured walkways of the courtyards. Their costumes are three centuries out ofstyle, cut much like court robes, though instead of being constrained to dowdycolors and matte fabrics, the crowd scintillates with satins and silks andvelvets, stitched in gold or silver and embellished with crystal. They are the portrait hall come to life, a congregation of history dressed in theirfinest.

“I thought Wistal was known for its full masks,” Hakiremarks, angling herself so that she may both see the revelry outside and watchher husband-to-be enter the antechamber. “I saw pictures of them once, in the libraries atLyrias. Porcelain embellished with gold.”

“Mm, once,” he agrees, coming to stand beside her. Theguests ebb and flow beneath them, and she cannot help but think they lookdesperate for a dance. That was the always the worst part of a night banquet,waiting for the floor to be opened.

“They’ve fallen out of style?” She runs her fingers alongthe stiff velvet of her own, feeling snowdrops beneath their tips. “A pity. I alwaysloved the look of them.”

“There are a few who are traditional.” His shoulder leansagainst the glass, mouth curving beneath his half mask. “But what is the pointof being anonymous, if your mouth is masked as well?”

Haki hopes the darkness of the room hides her flush. She’sto be married in three days, wooed and wedded and bedded, but she is not usedto such frank talk, not out of a nobleman’s mouth, and certainly not a prince.In the North such things are talked around, carefully couched in euphemism andcoy inquiries into whether one’s bed is large enough to warm two. Not – this.This casual mention of mouths kept uncovered for clandestine kisses.

She presses her cheek against the window, hoping the glasswill cool its burn. “Things are very different here.”

“You have a masquerade in Wilant, don’t you?” His mouth cantsslyly. “My mother brought me one as a boy. I had great fun with it. Zen, not asmuch.”

She clucks her tongue chidingly. “Cruel.”

He shrugs. “Elder brothers have their fun when they can.”

Haki ducks her head, smothering a smile into the puffedshoulder of her gown. She refrains from informing him younger sisters did aswell. Makiri still finds other places to be on Long Night.

“It’s not like this,” she tells him instead, when herexpression can be held placid. “It’s not celebration, but superstition. It’s tochase the spirits back to the mountains, before the winter sets in.”

Her fiancé hums thoughtfully. “Very different.”

She risks a glance up at him. Even with his mask on, she cantell he is serious, contemplative; every inch a king. “It’s all right,” shesays, gaze falling to the crowd below, their faces illuminated by the pale lightof the lanterns. “I think I like this better.”

Her neck aches, and she lowers her head, putting chin to chest. Her headdress is heavy, wrought gold that her hair has been wrapped so tightly around her temples pound. She can’t imagine how women survived this as fashion.

She lets out a soft hiss, fingers probing the back of her neck to relieve the tension there, but – ah, it only makes it worse.

A soft chuckle escapes him. “I am sorry,” her husband-to-be murmurs, stepping closer. “Mother did insist on the worst period for royal headwear.”

These masquerades are tradition, she’s been told a half dozen times. To celebrate the future of a royal marriage, it is considered auspicious to look to the past. A strange custom, to be certain, but there was a poetry to it that appealed to Haki, some romance.

The bride and groom were supposed to be dressed as ancestors that had previously joined their houses together, but – there was no point in history where a prince married a steward’s daughter.

It was an observation that had not gone amiss among thebriars of the court. No one had been cruel in Haki’s hearing, but she had heardthe titters behind hands, seen the speculative looks some of the women had eyedher with. Her own handmaidens brought back talk, had told her of women who hadlaughed behind closed doors and said, whoknows, perhaps she does have some fine blood within her. There’s always achance a lord takes his due.

That is until Haruto arrived, all smiles and sunlight, andtold her she had chosen a time where one of her own ancestors had married intothe Wisteria line – the marriage that brought Wistal and Wilant as one.

Haki’s eyes had burned with gratitude. It was not just anhonor, it was a claim. Whoever tookissue with her bloodline had issue with the Queen Dowager herself.

It is more than she deserves, but Haki knows well enough not to say.

“I see now why you just have the bands.” Her whole head chimes as she tilts to look him in the eye. It feels like her scalp might rip off from the weight.

“I am suddenly very suspicious of why she begged off the evening,” she continues, teasing. It would be just like Haruto to put forth all this effort, only to find herself conveniently allergic to the evening.

“Oh, I’m sure the accessories are part of it.” His lips part beneath his mask, just slightly. “But please do not feel as if it is a slight. I think…”

Something very serious settles over his face; he looks less a young man and more a king in this light, lines furrowing the space between his brow.

“I think she did not think the festivities would affect her so.” His mouth pulls at the corners, grim. “She thought she had put so much of this behind her.”

“Ah, I –” Haki flounders, looking for words that won’t come. “I didn’t think how hard this might be for her.” She wraps a hand around his elbow, gentle. “She must have loved your father very much.”

Muscles tense beneath her hand, and when she looks up, his mouth is a rictus of a grin.

It is gone in a moment. “I only mean,” he drawls, humor rich in his voice, “that it is hard for her, as a widow. She does so love dancing.”

A laugh bursts from her. “You would not dance with your mother? Hm, they say there is much about how a man treats his wife in how he treats his mother. Should I worry –?”

“You will never find fault with me as a husband,” he promises with an amount of vehemence that startles her. “Not in this.”

“I did not mean –”

He holds up a hand, gently quelling. “I know. I only meant – you may be at ease with me. There is no harm I would ever visit upon you.”

Her fingers tangle in her skirt, if only to keep from touching him. “Thank you.”

He turns his head, waiting for their signal. “It is nothing.”

She looks at him, so strikingly handsome even masked and costumed. There is something about the robes of this era that lend him an air of wisdom, though they do not hide the lithe power of his frame either. Makiri often said the king was one of the bests swords in the country, and dressed like this she could believe it.

In the dim light of the corridor, the pale arch of his cheek glows, and she cannot help herself, not when he makes himself so – so within reach.

She leans into him, finger sinking into the soft velvet of his robe as she rises on her toes, lips tingling with the expectation of the sharp curve of his cheekbone –

He turns, so attentive, at the last moment. “Is there some –?”

His breath catches as their lips met, hardly more than a brush of skin and shared breath –

She rocks back onto her heels with an embarrassed chirp. “Your Majesty, I –! I didn’t –”

“Ah, no.” His hand comes to her cheek, pulling her back toward him. “Haki, it is – fine. I don’t –”

Their eyes meet, both so black in the darkness.

“– Mind,” he finishes, strangely breathless. She feels it ghosting over her lips, her toes curling in her slippers. Surely he cannot mean –

“We’re to be married, are we not?” he asks, his voice so low, so enticing. She leans into him, his robes tickling her palms. “We should not be so shy with just a single kiss.”

“Well,” she replies with more confidence than her quivering heart feels. “It is the only one.”

He leans closer. “Thus far.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “Thus far…”

“Your Majesty!”

They spring apart, like a scullion caught in the hay with a stable hand. The steward, eyes rolled aloft, waits just outside the doors. “It is time.”

Izana clears his throat, pink dusting his cheeks. “We can continue this conversation later,” he tells her, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Ah,” she sighs, pressing a hand to her cheek. “Yes. Later.”

Everything about this damned thing itches.

Zen has done his part for the night – his due diligence, as brother had so eloquently put it. He’s stood at Izana’s side and pretended he does not look absolutely ridiculous in – what is this? Some sort of dress? – his hair fighting the fashionable curl of yesteryear with every strand.

He’s made polite conversation with every foreign dignitary, even the Samese ambassador, who wore musty furs and smelled heavily of musk. The old style, you know, Batbayar had said with a laugh, slapping Zen on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

He’s danced with every eligible young woman Haruka deemed it would be an insult to miss, and his costume would be nearly sweat through if it was not so copiously padded in the shoulders and chest. He hopes whatever perverse impulse that made his mother pick the Solomon period has been exorcised from her, for he won’t be having any of this at his marriage masquerade.

With that thought, he smiles. Finally he is done with duty; now he may turn to the more pleasurable part of this night.

He scans the shadows of the ballroom, letting his legs leadhim out the doors, down to the arcade. Here the usual alcoves are curtained –for privacy, his brother had said all-to knowingly – and Zen’s sharp eyes onlyserve to catch couples dallying in their finery.

His nose wrinkles. Weddings are romantic, yes, but even withthe anonymity the masks afford, public displays are unseemly. Using the alcoves to steal a few kisses that could keepto the end of the night was the height of impropriety and –

Zen’s mind grinds to a stop. He sees her.

Her back is to him, but he recognizes the curve of her body,the way she is so small but stands so tall. The court in season is like asummer storm, but Shirayuki has weathered it all, unbowed. She makes it so easyto picture her beside him, to imagine her hand in his and this distance betweenthem erased in a single moment, her at his side as they promise to step forwardtogether.

She’s done well to hide herself in the alcoves; Izana hasn’t forbidden himto see her – and he invited her in the first place – but still he feels hisbrother’s disapproval like a palpable weight. Shirayuki peers out from thecurtain, head swiveling about on her neck, looking for him. Her hair is covered– one of the few fashions of the Solomon period that has any merit, in Zen’sopinion – and her mask covers all but her mouth, but still he knows her. Hewould know her anywhere.

He must traverse half the arcade, but it feels like only three steps, his hand coming to grasp hers and spin her into his arms. “There you are –”

She’s clever; the shadows are thick here, and he has no fear of being spotted when he lowers his mouth to hers.

His name is muffled by his lips when they meet, drawing outa yelp of surprise. For a moment she sits stiff in his arms, one of her hands clutchedin the padded shoulder of his robes, but he keeps the kiss insistent, coaxing.Shirayuki is shy in this, always waiting for him to move first, for him to soothher, and as he expects, she melts against him, opening her mouth under his, and –

She shoves him into the alcove.

His back hits the wall, hard, jolting their lips apart for along second, every noise muted by the curtains save for their heavy breaths. Hebarely has time for another before she is on him again, lips dragging over hiswith a hint of tongue that leaves his knees weak, that leaves him whining,needy, against her mouth.

They’ve never kissed like this – she’s never kissed him like this, never been the one to press formore, always waiting for his lead before her tentative response, but –

Her tongue licks out over the roof of his mouth, draggingalong each ridge behind his teeth and – and he moans, yanking her against him. It’s both too much and not enough;he knows that he shouldn’t, that thishas progressed far beyond their usual kiss, but also – also –

“It’s been so long,” he groans. She hums in agreement, nails dragging along his scalp, and he jerks against her, hips grinding into the flat of her belly.

It’s embarrassing to be so uncontrolled, to be so shameless, but – but she rolls her own in response, whimpering against his mouth, and oh, oh, it is more than fine if she is just as lost as he.

He’s flushed, hot, nudging her mouth aside so he can put his lips to the salt of her skin, sucking at the soft place between her neck and shoulder –

“Zen,” the woman breathes, and – and –

That is not Shirayuki’s voice.

He jolts back, eyes wide. Her mouth is swollen from his kisses, red and still inviting, still tempting, but – but –

He pulls the single ribbon that keeps her mask in place, and blue eyes stare back at him.

He groans.“Kihal.”

No matter how tame he gets, Obi will never enjoy these night banquets.

It’s not the drinking – though as his miss’s guard, he’s not encouraged to imbibe – or the dancing – though it’s not a plus, not in his book. And it’s certainly not the food, but –

The music shifts; the stately strains of the waltz drowned out by the beginning of a playful polka, and there she is, regular as clockwork. He knows her even with the mask, and not just because of the way her hair is burnished in the moonlight, how every fancy whorl catches the light and shines red. It is the way she walks, her feet so firmly planted on the earth even as her chin is tilted towards the heavens; the way she holds herself so tall, cutting through a sea of blue bloods like a skiff does toward shore.

It’s in the way her mouth curves when he drops to the banister in front of her. It how she doesn’t flinch when he wraps a curl around his finger, brushing the pad of his thumb over the silken ribbon of her hair.

“What’s the point of going to a masquerade, if you’re only going to give yourself away?” he asks wryly, smirk hidden behind the porcelain of his mask.

She clucks at him playfully, angling away. “It wasn’t quite my idea,” she admits. “Tanbarun had done away with hair coverings. And it seems my ancestor hadn’t been fond of them even when they hadn’t.”

Obi laughs at that. In the course of her research, his miss had discovered there were a great number of things polite society wore that Lady Theophanu went well enough without. It was the sort of eccentric behavior that might have gone unrecorded, had she not seen fit to inform every person that she happened to come across of the fact. More than once, Obi had caught his miss leaving the library red-faced, only answering his queries about her research with a shrill, It’s going fine!

“What a compliment His Majesty has paid you, suggesting her for tonight…”

Miss’s laughter peals like a bell, and he’s glad his face is behind a mask; he knows how poorly he hides his longing.

“Everyone’s been complimenting me on my wig,” she tells him, leaning close. Her scent winds around him, and he sways, just slightly. “Apparently red wasn’t so rare then. I’ve seen some other women with it tonight.”

“I hope Master isn’t too confused,” Obi teases, letting the curl slip from his finger. “I heard he owed you a dance.”

“Mm,” she hums, distracted. “But what are you supposed to be, Obi? You don’t look so different. I mean,” Her mask hide some of her blush, but the neck of her dress reveals more. “You look very handsome, but I don’t think they dressed like that.”

His breath catches at the compliment,but he shakes it off. His miss is far too kind for his heart. “Can’t you tell, Miss?” He taps on the mask. “I’m the dog!”

Her jaw drops, he thinks in dismay, until a laugh bursts from her. “Obi! Your ancestor wasn’t a dog.”

He lowers his eyes, smile tight behind the mask. “I wonder…”

“Oh well,” she sighs, her shoulders brushing his knees. “I do often prefer dogs to people.”

“I think what you mean,” he laughs, hoping he does not sound so breathless to her ears, “is that you prefer mutts to purebreeds.”

She ducks closer, her mouth struggling against a laugh. “Obi.”

“You’re out here with me, aren’t you?” His voice shouldn’t be this low, shouldn’t show so much, but still, still.

Sharp green watches him from beneath lowered lashes. “I am.”

She’s too close to him; her shoulders are bare, and they rubagainst the knit of his trousers as she stands between his knees. It’s too much;he sways at her proximity, at the temptation of closing that small distancebetween them and –

And he can’t do this. He’s too bold, knowing that he canhide from her.

His fingers slide under his chin, lifting up his mask, and –

Soft lips flutter against his. Air stutters out from hislungs, leaving him gasping.

What is this? What isthis?

His miss jerks back, not enough to leave the cradle of histhighs, but enough so that their eyes meet, so that he may see the shockedquestion in them.

She fell. That’s – that’s the only explanation that makessense. Her slipper caught on her gown, and she just fell onto him.

“Miss –”

“I didn’t –” Her eyes are wide behind her mask. “It was just supposed to be – your mask was still on –”

“Oh,” he breathes, “right. Of course. You meant for the mask…”

His mind grinds to a halt. If she meant for his mask to bethere, would she have meant to –?

“Obi,” she sighs, and there is no reason for him to benddown, no reason for him to assume –

Her hands tangle in the straps of his uniform, pulling himdown as she rises to meet him, and – and there is even less reason for this,for the way she sighs into his mouth, for the way she gasps when his handthreads through the braids and twists at her scalp to draw her closer, to tilther head just so. His miss whineswhen his mouth opens under hers, tongue eagerly slipping past his teeth toslide against his; the friction so delicious that he groans, so softly –

“Oh!” She breaks away, her heavy breath busting over hislips. “I – um…”

“There’s something that bothers me, Miss,” he purrs, slowlyslinking off the banister, unfurling himself so he stands head and shouldersabove her.

“O-oh?” Her skin is flushed a delicious pink, from justabove the top of her mask all the way to her décolletage. It’s…encouraging.

“If my mask was supposed to be on…” His mouth spreads into aslow grin against her lips. “Just what were you planning on doing to it?”

There is only so much she can take.

Haki sweeps into the antechamber, heaving a sigh of reliefwhen she finds it devoid of honored guests. She flicks her train out frombetween the doors and leans back, letting her weight close it the rest of theway. The smooth wood cools her back, and she lingers for a long moment.

Finally, some time to think. Not that she’ll been able to domuch of that tonight, anyway.

She paces away from the door, shaking her head. That kiss haunts her. Or, more accurately, the moment after, when the king royal leaned back in –

Or did he? She must have imagined it; the king is not known for his softness, for having a weakness.

It must be the dream of a hopeless romantic, a fevered wishing by a woman destined to be disappointed by the harsh reality of her marriage –

The door flies open.

Haki is in no mood for pleasant company. “I would prefer to be–” Her eyes fall on the lithe form filling the doorway. “…alone.”

“Good,” His Majesty says, door snicking shut behind him. “I prefer you to be alone as well.”

Her brow furrows. Why could he possibly –?

He descends.

There is no other way to put it. One moment there is an entire room between them, and next there is nothing, his hands dragging her closer still, flattening the ornamentation of her skirt.

“Wait,” she gasps, and he tears himself from her mouth with a wounded noise. “You’ll ruin the flounces.”

The way he looks at her from under his hooded eyes, irises as dark as midnight, makes her want to rip them off herself. “Are you concerned greatly?”

“No,” she breathes, and then pulls him back, fingers threaded tightly against his scalp. He gasps into her mouth, and yes, yes, this is what she wants from him –

“Your Maj – oh, really? At your own party?”

Haki springs away, waking her mouth with the back of her hand. Sir Shidnote stands at the door, torn between amusement and wishing he could be anywhere else.

“Would it really be any better if it was at someone else’s party?” Izana drawls, turning away from her with eyebrows raised.

His knight laughs. “At least no one would be telling me to come fetch you for the dance.”

Her fiancé lifts a single shoulder, as if he couldn’t be bothered by such trivial complaints. Sir Shidnote only laughs harder.

“Just come as quick as you can. I don’t want to be explaining this to Haruka.”

The door remains ajar when he leaves; a reminder. She can hear the din of the party wafting through it, and she is embarrassed to know she almost let herself be accosted mere feet away from the court, in a room without even a lock –

Izana turns to her, gaze heated, and her thoughts evaporate. She wants his hands on her again, wants him to find where the seamstress hid the closures of her gown.

He steps close, bending so that the tip of his nose meets hers. Her eyes must be crossed, but she hardly cares as long as he looks at her like that. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

“Perhaps after we are married?” she teases, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

He smirks, one hand spreading over the narrow waist of her gown. “There’s plenty to discuss before then.”

She hums thoughtfully, making to sweep past him, but his hand keeps her close.

His voice drops, so deep, when he says. “I will make you a very happy woman, when we are married.”

Her heart flutters in her chest. “Aah,” she sighs. “I do so hope you live up to your reputation.”

His eyebrows raise.

She smiles. “I’ve heard you are a man who keeps his promises.”

#obiyuki #hakizana #kizen #my fic #ans #onepetal #i got FOUR WHOLE ASKS for accidental kisses #this is the prompt that survived #i debated long and hard over which pairings would get them #CLEARLY I CHOSE ALL OF MY FAVS #including my STEALTH FAV #hello kizen tag #i can't wait to put more content in you #Holiday Promptathon

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