#sacriln

“You know. I’ve never been much of a fan of events such as this one.”

A small part of him had always wondered if his father had played events such as this one. Or if he simply went around to the various taverns throughout the lands of his world, sinking hours into his craft and trying to knock up loose women. Why yes, he was counting his mother among them. He held no love for either of them! His brow furrowed a bit when the song reached an apex of sorts. He greatly disliked music.

“Is --”

He pauses, gaze trailing to the side before back to the male in front of him. He is familiar - familiar enough that he should know who he is, though his name is currently escaping him. The blue of his hair is as familiar as the gentleness of his expression, reminding him of a shorter princess from what felt like an invisible land.

His comment isn’t towards who he is, but moreso towards his attire. A place like this just doesn’t seem quite so fitting of white (all white, at that), almost worried about how easily it could get dirtied in such a place, even with the false sense of peace he felt within the gardens. Still, it reminds him of long robes and a soft voice singing late at night.

     The king had excused himself after entertaining a young woman with a small dance and thanking her for her time. He glanced across the sea of people to spot a familiar figure that was across from. The distinct color of the young mans hair wasn’t hard to mistake as all correlations pointed to who he thought it was. “Shigure? Shigure is that you?” He projected his voice enough that it could be heard in between the music and mass of people speaking.

     Upon closer inspection. He was definitely sure it was him. While this meeting had been a conflicting bit of information for Ryoma. He decided to push that to the side as to not let it damper the mood that the event was setting.

“i.. couldn’t tell you.” he looks up from what he’s sewing, fingers still moving out of instinct born of years of practice, in and out, up and down, easy and instinctive as breathing.

he’s listening to shigure complain (”complain” is a strong word, as the vallite prince is as prone to internalizing as he is), of course, even if he doesn’t quite understand the problem. he’s talking about his crush, and how it’s gone nowhere after years, and forrest is honestly bewildered. if the object of his affections does not return his feelings, then it isn’t as though shigure is ugly - or unpleasant on the eyes at all.

surely it would be no harder to find someone else than a smile, one of his real ones, that make your heart beat a little faster. if his cheeks flush a little, he hides it by looking down at his lap, at the sewing, once more.

“really, shigure. pining doesn’t suit you. surely there must be someone more fitting out there for you than someone who doesn’t notice you. you deserve much better than that. you are a handsome man and any woman would be lucky to have you.”

shigure is speechless, and forrest looks up again, bewildered, confused as to what he said that could render the sky knight speechless. he’s staring at forrest like he has never seen the prince before in his life, and forrest is about to ask what he’s done wrong when shigure is suddenly a breath away, not even, and the contact electrifies.

“shigure, don’t be a fool.” forrest has raised his voice - this is not something that happens, not really. he is a calm man, normally prone to explanations over shows of anger, but he’s so tired.

his weight is borne on his staff, his own legs weak, and blood is slicking the smooth metal of it, making it hard to grip, hard to keep planted in the ground.

“shigure - i’m fine,” this is a lie so bitter even forrest knows shigure will never believe it, and he abandons it. “after me, they’ll come for you. go, shigure, don’t make this mean nothing.” 

"shigure, you’re too kind to me!” he laughs. “you know, it isn’t as though you aren’t very handsome yourself.” 

11. A collarbone kiss

forrest has never been one to partake in alcohol - a prince had certain standards, certain expectations, and he had no tolerance for the stuff. with shigure, he felt safe enough to do so - he feels like it’s only appropriate that his first episode into alcohol is with a man he has trusted with his life, a man he would count on to defend him in a war.

of course, he overestimates himself. he’s drunk, he at least has the clarity to realise this, but shigure is talking and talking and forrest finds he isn’t listening to the words so much as the sound of his voice. he is so beautiful, forrest thinks, in word, in deed, in voice, in appearance, and he half falls, half slides into shigure’s side, leaning heavily against his side - he can hear the other man’s heart, hear the way it pounds at the contact, and forrest closes his eyes, just listening. his breathing deepens, regulates, and it genuinely seems that he is asleep.

shigure’s hand raises, touches his curls, and forrest startles back into alertness - he jolts a little, nearly clipping the top of his head on shigure’s chin but stopping himself. where was he?

ah. yes. he tilts his head up, still resting against shigure, and studies his face. he is not the first man forrest would have lain with - but he is so beautiful, and he would be the first to mean something, and forrest sighs, indecisive.

that is, until the alcohol decides for him. his fingers gently brush against the small sliver of skin showing and pushes it out of the way, soft lips following their every movement as he traces the sharp lines of shigure’s collarbone, giving him a sharp nip after a few gentle ones.