Akrahan was quiet at first. The flick to his forehead left him blinking in mild shock, brows raised, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. And then the giggle hit him. Yijun’s bubbling, unguarded laughter. The shame that had coiled in his stomach started to ease, not vanish, but soften. That sound, that wine-warmed laugh, genuine, unrestrained, cut straight through the fog of nerves like sunlight through stormclouds.
“Oh gods,” he muttered under his breath, a huff of air escaping him that was half laugh, half groan. He lifted a hand, rubbing at the spot on his forehead where the prince had flicked him, as if wounded in some noble duel. “You are a menace, you know that?”
He let his hands settle again, this time firmer, with confidence returned. One palm slid smoothly up the prince’s thigh, steady and grounded—not as a bold move, but as a quiet reaffirmation. A touch that said, understood.
“I just…” He exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment. “Forgive me, my Prince, I didn’t want to be a pretender. Not in your eyes.”
His thumb traced a slow circle against Yijun’s leg. “But you’re right. Maybe running isn’t always cowardice. And maybe traveling dusty roads and making a pillow out of your pack for weeks on end doesn’t make you unworthy of a warm place to rest.” He looked up again, golden eyes shining.
He gave Yijun a crooked smile, head tilting slightly in a sheepish gesture. “I think the wine has gone to my head. But only because you’ve completely knocked the wind out of me.” His hands flexed slightly, thumbs pressing like they were trying to memorize the shape of Yijun’s legs. “So no, no nurse. Unless you’re about to faint too, in which case, I’d be honor-bound to catch you.” The grin returned, slow and teasing, returning the game to its rightful place.
“But if you’re staying in my lap, I’m afraid I’ll need you to do one thing.”
He shifted his hips ever so slightly under the prince, letting the new angle emphasize just how aware he was of Yijun’s weight against him.
“I’m going to need you to stop calling my boots ‘feet prisons.’ You’re giving them a complex.”