#crazy thought

Probing your legs over and into the warmth of his bed chambers, you couldn’t help but smile at his slight pout. “Training just got done. Did I wake you up?”

Based on the way his hair was still neatly in place, the sheer robe loosely covering his shoulders, and the piles of books stacked behind him, he was clearly waiting for your arrival; the crossed look he sends you only proves this further.

It was cute.

Attention gravitated towards him like those swarms of birds that love to surround his room (which he equally complains about and in the same breath, tells you to fetch food for them.) Regardless, it was clear in pages written and rumors whispered with equal respect and criticism for his status and character, many do respect him — either in fear or with awe.

It is no surprise that underneath the public eye, he prided himself on the image of a cold and arrogant heir to the throne, outspoken for his opposition to political relations and strategy, praised for his long list of achievements, and known for the confident air he surrounds himself them the moment he steps into a meeting room.

However, behind those closed doors, there was nothing but your worried prince, already popping a nerve at the prospect of you being a mere minute late to your nightly meetings. Case in point: you watch with amusement as he shakes his head; the crinkles on his clothing making way for how tense he is.

And it takes only a few strides before his hand reaches out towards yours, his eyes already examining your injuries.

“Are you hurt?” came his response after a moment, low and steady. “Don’t tell me you injured yourself again.”

“Nothing too major,” you chuckle. “Don’t worry yourself too much.”

At those words, the corners of his mouth deepened into a frown. His hand tugs yours closer, not too harsh, hardly anything that should sting—and yet, with one pull, you hiss at the surge of pain.

…

He gives you a look.

“Nothing too major,” he echoed.

You cough. “Well, it was not too major. Just scrapes here and there.”

“You are unbelievable.” You watch as his other hand wipes away the dirt off your shoulder. “…Is it part of your job to annoy me at every chance you get?”

With the way he opts to scrutinize your hand with a newfound determination, gazing at it as if it personally curses him and his lineage, you almost find it amusing how worked up he was on this.

“I would never.”

For good measure, you begin to lift his hand, leaning in to press small kisses to each knuckle. His index? Kiss. His middle? Kiss. His pinkie? Another kiss. Each one filled with devotion, each one a flavor of your loyalty. You look up while you do so, watching as his eyes peer into yours with such intensity that makes even you shiver.

“What are you—Are you trying to distract me?” he whispers.

“Is it working?”

At the sound of your laughter, Scaramouche rolls his eyes before guiding you right inside, into the safety of his room.

—

When your prince drags you down on a chair, sitting you in front of him, he begins taking out his pile of wraps, ointment, and bandages.

“Sit down and don’t say a word until I say so.” In contrast, the way his hand found your wrist and gently tugged it to his chest, you hardly found it in yourself to take offense to his comment.

Instead, you settle into the plush seat, stretching out languidly. You were ‘wounded’ and your Highness was there to be your alleged nurse. What person would pass up on this offer?

Not you, of course.

When he lays open your palm, he squints at all the nips and cracks with disbelief. “These hands…”

Without another word, you watched how he dapped the wet cloth, his face scrunching in utmost concentration. You made sure to lay still, heeding his order, far more focused on the attention he was giving you, all in the form of hushed complaints and ‘tsks’ at some particular scars.

“Your shoulders.” He mumbles, looking up at you in expectation: A command, not a request.

“Is that an invitation? How scandalous, your Highness.” You’d expected that familiar frown and eye-roll to strike his face.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, there was a pause as his eyes continued to pour into yours, subtle desperation in his irises.

“Speak.” Harsh breath fanned against your skin, and the finality of his voice gave way to the slight tremble in his tone.

“About?”

“Your training. Were you distracted or something?” From this angle, it was cute seeing his worry up close.

The chuckle that comes out of you is as natural as the way his fingertips thrum against your skin, almost as if he were studying it like he would tracing the letters in his books. “Why? Were you watching me?”

“I was. Ha, does that bother you?” The corners of his mouth finally lift into a subtle wry smile; a familiar sight that relieved you more than the gauze on your skin. “Though, it was funny seeing you fumble if I had to be honest.” He shakes his head, likely recalling the way you met the ground several times while training with your sire. “Quite a show.”

In contrast, when his delicate skin brushes against your cheek, you feel dust rubbed off by the quick wipe of his thumb, slow and drawn-out.

Feigning ignorance, you purse your lips in thought. “I don’t suppose it is right for My Highness to gawk at their knights during training.”

You watch as his throat bobbles up and down, flicking from your eyes and then stopping at your mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous,” but he stays there, fixed on your lips.

There was a certain conflict in the way he was staring right now. You’d imagine it was the same way he was looking at you when you were fighting.

Bare and vulnerable.

It comes in the form of unbridled yearning, the temptation seemingly palpable. It comes in the form of his hands twitching against your form as if they want to tug on the armor under it—To tug on it until his eager lips finally press against yours.

And yet, he doesn’t, frustratingly so. His hands simply remain there, unmoved by the growing desire fixed in the air.

“What’s wrong, Your Highness?” the query escaped your lips before you could stop it. And at the sound of your voice, he quickly breaks out of his thoughts — from your lips — and back into your gaze.

You watch as the fine robe drapes down his shoulder as he leans back, baring the skin to you and marking a look of vulnerability to down-right defiance.

“Train with me instead,” came his blunt response.

You stare; his demand is not only sudden but downright ridiculous. “Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he huffs, but in contrast, his next words were whispered, softer. “Train with me. You are my knight, are you not? I’m sure I could provide much of a challenge than whatever the knights provide you.” And when his hand sets out to find another damp gauze, he shook his head.

You try to recompose yourself, coughing. “Is that a command, your Highness? I’m not sure if-”

His eyebrows furrow at those words.

“Why do you keep insisting on using that name? Even in these private chambers. As your…..” He shakes his head. “Yours. I thought you knew me better than that.” There was a palpable bitterness that followed after his next sentence. “Or is it true, I’m just a stranger to you?”

He gives you a look, his attention remains riveting on your form a second too long: The way your prince is kneeling before your form and staring up at you through his lashes— the subtle desperation in his eye to that pout that rests on his face—it was terrible for your heart.

You quickly shook your head, melting under his gaze. “Of course not.”

“Then say it. My name.”

“Kunikuzushi,” The name comes out as easily as the soft look that he sends once you lean closer to him, taking his hand to your cheek and gently rubbing it. “It would be an honor to train by your side.”

You can hear his breath stagger as his hand rests on your skin; the echoes of the near-empty room humming out to occupy his low breaths. “Say that again.”

One devout kiss to his palm. As an apology. “Kunikuzushi.”

“Again.”

Once more, you press another one to his inner wrist. For your gratitude. “Kunikuzushi.”

“Again.”

And the last one….

You take his hand back to your cheek. “What do you want me to do, Kunikuzushi?”

At that moment, you watch as he stares intently, eyes fixed on your face and his teeth tugging his bottom lip.

There is something that shifts in the way he lays his eyes on you. Like a damp breaking—damp of all his desires—pooled in the way he looks at your form—longing to give in, longing to see it through.

You lean forward, enough to where your fingers brush against his nape, touching the soft fabric beneath it, worshiping the way he sat before you: A request. Maybe, a temptation, he would called it.

Wiith a chuckle, you press your forehead against his. “At your command, I will do it.”

(A moment of clarity before you give in to each’s desire.)

And at that moment, you watch as his resolve firms and he shuts his eyes: “Just kiss me already, knight.”

You shift until your fingers tugged his robe and his hand gripped your armor.

“As you wish, Kunikuzushi.”

One final note of reprieve emerges as your lips make contact; all the desire collapsing into a desperate squeeze of his touch. With a kiss just as reckless as your sword matching the swinging of your squire, but just as gentle as the light gauze that cleans your wounds afterward.

You chuckle as he entwines your fingers together, tenderly rubbing in rhythm: My Knight. You could hastily make out under all sensations with his lips on yours. And in turn, you reciprocated, tracing your fingers on his waist: My prince.

Followed by your laughter and his sigh, the wind hums at the two lovers behind the window.

A noise that brings hope to a prince and his devoted knight.