#7.2.2019

It was his own fault. Well, it was Toshinori’s fault, actually. That had been their agreement. Shouta would escort the fallen king, help him, but he had to be honest about his limitations. He was supposed to say when they needed to rest. Shouta should have known better. True, Toshinori was better about his own limits now than he ever had been before, perhaps even better than Shouta had expected at first, but he wasn’t always completely honest, and Shouta had been picking up the slack, watching for the blond's telltale signs of exhaustion or pain long before Toshinori would admit he needed a break.

But it had been a long two days of little to no sleep, poor food, worse weather, and they were both getting on each other’s nerves by the time they stopped to make camp, long after the full moon had risen above their heads. He hadn’t been in the mood to keep another stubborn old man accountable for his own damn health. And he, admittedly, likely wouldn’t have been very kind had Toshinori spoken up before.

The coughing wakes him. He’s more exhausted than he realized if he’s dosed off while he was supposed to be keeping watch. But their campsite is undisturbed. Across the dying fire, Toshinori’s entire body shakes with the force of his coughing. Shouta crosses to his side, trying to shake him awake. Nothing seems to draw him from sleep and the coughing only gets worse. Cursing, he grabs their packs, carefully  lifting Toshinori’s head to shove them under him. Slowly, his coughing subsides, but the shaking doesn’t stop.

Brushing long bangs away from his face, Shouta presses the back of his hand to the king’s gaunt cheek. His skin is ice to the touch. He pushes off the furs piled on top of the king to feel his clothing, and the damp garments stick to him like a second skin, siphoning his usual warmth. He had told Toshinori not to stay in his wet clothes. Why doesn’t the stubborn old man ever listen to him?

Shouta peels the damp clothing from Toshinori as carefully as he can, even as he curses the man for the trouble. The fire is little more than sparking embers now, but he lays the garments out as close to it as he dares. Pulling off his own tunic, he lies besides the king, covering them both with the furs and drawing the shivering man to his chest.

Even this smaller, skeleton form of the man towers over Shouta when they’re standing, commanding attention wherever they go, bright hair catching the light like he still wore a crown rather than living on the run, searching for some long-lost strength or an heir to his power, to his kingdom. But like this, tonight, he feels small and fragile in Shouta’s arms. In his sleep he huddles closer to the warmth Shouta offers, naturally curling tighter to protect his injured side.

Shouta feels gooseflesh rise over his skin at the brush of Toshinori’s cold fingers against his chest, but he doesn’t dare pull away. He can feel his stuttering breath brushing over his collarbone and an erratic heartbeat under his hands curled around Toshinori’s back.

“How are we going to get anywhere if you don’t take care of yourself, you old fool?” Shouta whispers into the night. His hands seem to move of their own accord, coming up to run through Toshinori’s wild, sunflower hair. He tucks unruly bangs behind his ear and Toshinori’s head moves with the touch, leaning into Shouta’s palm until he’s cradling the sleeping king’s face in his hands.

The moon is full tonight, possibly the most dangerous time to be out in the open, when magic and magical beings run wild. But for once, Shouta isn’t thinking about the dangers awaiting them. He’s too busy watching the light play on the planes of the king’s face. There’s a small, pale scar on his cheek that catches the moonlight, like a star. Almost perfectly he can imagine if the king was awake, how those dark, mysterious eyes would glisten in the darkness.

In the light of day, he wouldn’t dare, but in the darkness Shouta has always been more comfortable, confident – brave. Bending his head, he presses a kiss to Toshinori’s forehead, holding the king as close as he dared. And miraculously, he felt just a little bit warmer.

Shouta doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes again, it is still dark. The moon no longer hangs directly overhead, so surely morning is not far, but for the moment, the forest hangs in the quiet darkness of an uncertain time. Their fire has gone out completely, and he should get up and move their clothes to hang somewhere before dew gathers, but he is warm and surprisingly comfortable. He isn’t even entirely sure what woke him, until he finally meets the bright eyes watching him.

“…Your Majesty,” Shouta isn’t sure why the title comes out of his mouth now, but he sees a flash of curiosity as Toshinori notices the uncharacteristic greeting.

“Shouta,” he replies, voice so soft Shouta is almost certain he’s imagined it. The king has never used his given name before, why would he ever start now? “Why are we lying together?”

“Your wet clothes. You were freezing last night.” Though he can clearly feel the warmth rushing off the king now from the way they’re intertwined under the furs, he reaches up and brushes a hand against his forehead. Foolishly, he remembers now the kiss he left there just hours before. “You’re warm enough now.”

He starts to pull away, but Toshinori reaches for him. Long, crooked fingers grasp his arm, callouses tugging ever so slightly at the bandage still wrapped around his elbow.

“Stay,” Toshinori whispers, and it sounds like a plea in the dark. “Just until first light.”

Shouta’s hand slips down, settling against the side of his throat. He can feel Toshinori’s pulse thrumming under his fingers, and it feels steadier than it’s been in a long time.

Blue eyes watch him, waiting for him to make a decision, and for once they don’t flinch away when he meets their gaze. Perhaps, he isn’t the only one braver in the dark.