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sabraeal · 4 years ago

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Desert & Reward, Chapter 9

Obiyukiweek 2020, Day 6: Courtesy Exhibit manners. Be polite and attentive. Be respectful of host, authority, and women.

Unlike the other fancy soirees Obi has attended in Wistal, his stag night is not in the grand ballroom. Too informal an occasion, Yori had said, and for a moment, he lets himself believe this might be all right. It wouldn’t be a boisterous night of hot toddies followed by a morning of hangovers like Hiro’s, or even a quiet affair-- as much as the brothers Lowen would allow-- held by the hearth like Sir’s, but humble enough that he didn’t feel like a thief wearing an imposter’s crown.

One look at the crowd teaming on the veranda and he knows: he’s an idiot.

Every man attending your nuptials will be there, Kiki had warned him, Izana has shown you the guest list, hasn’t he?

Oh no, that had been a detail that slipped through the iron trap of His Majesty’s memory. Last he’d heard, the plan was discreet, but befitting your station. He’d assumed that meant small; there was no way a knight-- even one who answered to the prince himself-- merited a grand fete for his wedding.

He’d forgotten: a marquis did.

“Ah,” His Majesty’s lips curl as he catches sight of him, plucking a flute of champagne off a passing tray. “If it isn’t the man of the hour.”

Obi stares at the glass pressed into his hand, and with the barest hesitation, downs it entirely.

“Ha ha.” The king’s eyebrows rise with his smile. “Do try for temperance tonight, my dear marquis. It wouldn’t do to start a marriage with a scolding, after all.”

Or, as his wife as so delicately put it, limp groom. Not that he’d have to worry about any of that.

The empty flute disappears from his hand, replaced by another. “Mine, or yours?”

His Majesty’s smile loses its shine, but the shadows give it sincerity. “Oh, who is to say she’d only stop at one?”

His mouth curls behind a crystal rim. “Oh, my miss would have us both to rights.”

If he didn’t know better-- and at this point, Obi’s not certain he does-- he could swear the king looks fond as he says, “She would at that.”

The moment doesn’t last; in a breath His Majesty’s mask settles back in place, smile wide and utterly insincere. “This may not be what you thought it would,” he murmurs, tone pitched low to obscure his words but bright enough to conceal his meaning, “but do try to make the best of it.”

Obi’s fingers clench tight around his flute. “A funny thing to say to a man on his wedding night.”

“Maybe on a different night. Maybe to a different groom.” The kings turns from him with a meaningful glance. “Enjoy yourself. My brother labored over this to make it so you could.”

He glances at the passed trays, filled with tiny canapes, at the endless parade of footmen carrying champagne, at the endless press of lords and their knights, and tries to picture the time in which he’d find any of this enjoyable. He fails before he’s even begun.

“Well,” His Majesty hums, lips twitching at a corner as he strolls away, “I never said he did it particularly well.”

A lifetime ago, he’d spent the night in a barrel.

A boy his age should have been too big to fit, but he’d always been small, underfed and overworked, and on that night he’d been lucky, too. With the scent of rotting fruit pressed all around him, he’d held his breath for minutes at a time, hoping that he could stay quiet enough to live until morning. And now--

Now the king of Clarines was eating finger foods at his stag night.

Lata had told him once, the longer you live, the more absurd life becomes. He’d thought that was some stuffy noble thing, but--

“Lord Obi!” An unremarkable blond man breaks through the crowd, clasping his wrist. “What a pleasure to finally meet!”

--He was starting to see his point. “Ah, I...wish I could agree.”

The lord laughs, open and friendly, and Obi is entirely certain he’s never seen this man in his life. “Ah, of course. I know you by reputation only. My name is Asanagi Sui.”

Sui; a name he knows all too well. Its last lord was on of the first casualties of His Majesty’s campaign to cut away the corruption in Clarines. Which would mean this man--

“We are neighbors, are we not?” Sui asks, a guileless smile on his face as he snatches a scallop from a tray. “Not quite next door, but a few manors down, one might say.”

--An ally of His Majesty’s. A trusted one, if he’d made it onto the king’s short list of conspirators.

“Ah, yes.” A map of Clarines unfurls in his mind’s eye; after all this business with Conti, it’s practically tattooed on the back of his eyelids. “You’re next to Forenzo.”

“Just so.” He casts a curious glance around the veranda. “I’m surprised to see that none of them have come to celebrate your nuptials. I was under the impression that you were quite close with your neighbors.”

“Ah, well...” Obi grimaces, rubbing at the back of his head. “Lata isn’t so fond of this kind of thing. Takes him away from his work too much, he says. Last time we lured him out to one, it was with a grant.”

“Ah, yes,” Sui says, stilted, that wide smile faltering. “I do, hm, remember him saying something similar to me.”

He tries to picture Lata exchanging more than two words with this ray of sunshine and fails. “You talked to him?”

“Yes, a handful of times,” he admits, taking a delicate sip of champagne. “That one was at my wedding...”

Obi chokes on a laugh, just barely keeping the corners of his mouth schooled. “Well that...sounds just about right.”

“His father’s much the same,” Sui confides, voice trembling with a laugh, “loath to leave his manor for any reason that isn’t shooting season.”

“Not really?” Obi can’t wait to pitch that particular morsel at the professor once he’s back at Lyrias. He’ll be so pleased to be reminded how much he resembles his father. “That does explain a bit about Lata, though.”

“Doesn’t it just?” Sui glances over his shoulder before stepping close, mouth rounded in a conspiratorial curve. “You know, I met your bride once.”

Out of any other man, the words would have been pointed, a prelude to an insult. From Sui’s lips it is an anecdote, not a cut; a way of making more pleasant conversation.

“Oh?” Six years by Miss’s side has him sure he’s never seen him save in passing; just another pleasant face in a glittering crowd.

“Yes! Years ago, now.” His face brightens with the memory, and ah, he has met her. “His Majesty introduced us.”

His hand tightens, only the brittle sway of crystal reminding him not to crush it. “You don’t say.”

“It’s true,” Sui continues blithely, “a funny story, really. He told me she was his new secretary. One of his little games, you know.”

“Little games.” Oh, he knew all about those. “Of course.”

“Yes! Though at the time, I had thought it must be about--” Sui’s teeth snap shut with a click. “Ah...never mind.”

“No, go ahead,” he manages, tone deceptively light. “I haven’t heard this story before.”

“Ah...” Sui glances at his flute, mouth settling into a pale grimace. “It’s really...”

“Please,” he murmurs pleasantly, “I insist.”

“A-ah, well, I has been under the impression that she, ah--” he swallows, finger pulling at the knot of his cravat-- “had been a particular companion of His Highness. But,” he quickly amends, “I must have been mistaken.”

“Perhaps.” Obi lets his mouth stretch into a particularly pointed grin. “That was years ago now. Before I met her. And things do have a way of...changing.”

“Right, yes.” Sui’s smile fades paper thin. “Change.”

“Ah, Lord Obi,” a snake hisses in his ear. “The man of the hour--” oh, how quickly he’s becoming tired of that phrase-- “let me congratulate you on your accomplishment.”

Sui recoils as Luigis slithers between them; Obi’s growing fond of the man already. “Hisame Luigis,” he says, like a man curses a stone in his boot, “I would have never thought to find you here.”

His tone implies his sentence is incomplete, and that the other half of it is instead of in a gaol cell. The snake bares his fangs, so polite, so polished. “I could hardly miss such an opportunity. Not when Sir Obi and I have so much in common.”

Sui’s gaze darts dubiously between them. “Do you?”

Obi’s mouth hooks into a sneer. “We share a master.”

One of his worse ideas, just below trusting the Bergatts, and a little above hiring Obi himself.

“A lord,” Luigis corrects tightly. “Not all of us are dogs needing a master to hold our leash.”

“Funny.” He takes a long drag of his champagne. “You never gave me the impression of knowing when to heel.”

Luigis grins, no humor in him. “And yet you always gave me the impression of a mutt waiting for his turn.”

It would be the height of impropriety to commit homicide at a stag night-- he wouldn’t be the first, and at least it would be at his own, unlike certain knights he knew-- but oh, this snake is just asking to be defanged, permanently--

“But that is neither here nor there,” Luigis drawls, as if his impending death bores him. “I must admit I wandered over this way to inform his lordship that I found something that might interest him.”

Sui nearly sags in relief. “Ah, well, then I suppose I should leave you gentlemen to it,” he says, his smile struggling to stay on his face. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of confidences between colleagues.”

Colleagues. The man could have slapped him and he’d be less offended. “We’re not--”

“You’re too kind,” the snake simpers, and oh, he could ring his bandy neck if he wasn’t-- “If you would come this way, Lord Obi.”

“If I must,” he manages.

“You must,” Luigis informs him, none of that noble politesse lingering on his face. “Now get over here.”

Luigis leads him on a circuitous path around the veranda, winding down to a lower balcony a staircase away from the main party. Not so far that he has left the crowd, but quiet, at least. Isolated.

The former Knight Captain clucks his tongue when he drags his feet, mouth drawn in annoyance.

“It would be just as easy to poison you in there as out here,” he chides, impatient, “and you know it.”

“We both know you would never stoop to a poisoning. That’s much more Touka Bergatt’s style.” He arches a narrow brow. “I think you’re much more of a dagger-in-the-ribs kind of murderer, or maybe even a garrote--”

“Dramatics do not become you, Lord Obi,” the snake rattles.

“Really?” he drawls, flouncing down the stairs with as much feeling as he can conjure. “But I learned from the best.”

Luigis stares at him, blank. “I do not know how Prince Zen put up with you.”

“I’m very pretty.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“Now, now, Sir Hisame,” Obi drawls, wallowing in the hollow ring of his title, “is that how a knight speaks to his betters?”

The snake’s skin sheds, and Obi fears no man-- besides the marquis, of course-- but he’d be a lot more comfortable if Hisame wasn’t looking at him like that.

“Get down here,” he mutters, turning his back to him. “I thought a bridegroom would be more eager to see his beloved.”

“What--” his voice is a whip crack, cutting into the night-- “do you mean by that?”

Luigis huffs, patience worn thin. “You’d know already if you’d stop dawdling.”

“I’m not dawdling,” Obi grumbles, hurrying down the rest of the steps, “I’m making an entrance.”

“You’re being a nuisance,” he corrects, as peevish as always. “Do you want to see her or not?”

Ah, now there was a threat to get him moving. “What have you done to my mistress?

Luigis clucks his tongue. “I haven’t done anything to her. Though you might want to get accustomed another pet name if you want to convince the rest of these heels of your love-match.”

He grits his teeth. Sloppy, dropping his guard in front of the snake.

Obi sidles up to the balustrade; a cursory inspection reveals that it’s just a little too high for a man to conveniently fall from. Not that decent reasoning has ever stopped a terrible accident from happening, but it would be a cold day in hell before Obi let a man like Luigis get the drop on him.

“So,” he drawls, leaning an arm on the rail. The garden spills out below them, though it’s not Miss’s stomping grounds. This is the decorative one, complete with useless fountains and a laughably easy hedge maze. “Is there some reason I should be im--?”

A giggle bubbles into the air, wafting up to the balcony on the wind. He’d know that sound anywhere.

His heart surges at the flash of red flitting between the hedges, quick as a bird. But it’s not, not with the crowd of blonde and brown and black following along behind it. His vantage is made clear as the red scurries further into the maze, and-- ah, there she is, too far away to make out more than the burnished glow of her hair and the shimmering fabric of her gown.

So this is what the ladies were up to tonight. He knew he should have made Kiki his best man.

“Ah, see? We’re not so different after all,” the snake murmurs. “We both like to bask in what was never meant to be ours.”

Kiki saunters after the press, and oh, when the moonlight hits her, she could be one of those goddesses Master is always on about. The kind that hunted by moonlight and turned men into tree for looking at them naked.

Obi had always thought something like that might appeal to her; Miss Kiki would certainly be itching to try if she caught Hisame Luigis looking at her the way he is now.

He turns a feral smile towards the former Knight Captain. “At least some of us didn’t use lies to get it.”

Luigis stares back, impassive. “Oh, did we not?”

My name is Obi, Miss, he’d said, the second lie he’d ever told her, and I have many aliases and many secrets.

He clenches his jaw. “Well, some of us didn’t go on to commit treason.”

Against all expectation, the snake grins. “You have me there.”

“It seems as if all the south is here at your wedding,” Luigis remarks after a long moment, crossing his arms over the balustrade. He may play at a casual pose, but oh, Obi knows his gaze hasn’t strayed, not one inch. “What a lucky man you must be to inspire such a press.”

Obi’s mouth twists into a rueful grin. “I think we both know none of this is for me.”

“Of course not.” Strange how much more palatable this snake was when he wasn’t trying to hide his scales. “His Majesty only invited lords he could trust. Ones that toe his line.”

He huffs out a laugh. “And somehow you still made the short list.”

Luigis favors him with a brittle smile. “Only due to the magnanimity of our mutual master. And yet...” He casts a wary glance back toward the veranda. “No northern lord has merited an invite.”

Obi frowns, following his gaze. “Or maybe they refused. It is a long trip. Short notice.”

“Perhaps,” he hums, mouth pulled into a grim line. “Perhaps. You all never did catch Conti, did you?”

His gaze darts up to his. “What do you--?”

“Sir Hisame.”

The both start, a fact that does not escape the crystal trap of His Majesty’s eyes. His mouth curls, threatening the sort of good humor a cat has when the canary’s between its paws. “I hate to interrupt, but I do believe you are hogging the groom.”

The snake’s smile fades to harmlessness. “Apologies, Your Majesty. Sir Obi and I have so much in common now that we both are in Prince Zen’s service.”

“Of course,” His Majesty agrees, utterly insincere. “I’m sure the marquis has much wisdom to impart about my brother’s idiosyncrasies. Still...I do hope you’ll spare me a few minutes to have a word with my vassal.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” The snake flashes his fangs at Obi. “He’s all yours.”

The king of Clarines is still as he watches Luigis disappear into the press, his polite smile firmly in place as he says, “Kiki dodged an inconvenient accident with that one.”

Obi coughs. “Your Majesty?”

Master always threatens to tie bells to him, but it’s His Majesty that moves silently, sweeping in beside him with little more than a whisper of his cape over the stone. “I trust you are finishing your engagement agreeable.”

“As little of it as there is,” Obi replies, guarded. Miss still bobs through the hedges, obvious to his keen eye, but oh, how he hopes it is not the same for the king.

“What can I say? You are a passionate man,” he remarks dryly, peering out over the gardens. “Once you discovered your love, it took you mere days to marry. Unless, of course, you rather a longer courtship? It’s not too late to change history.”

Obi’s mouth pulls flat. “I suppose that depends on how much Tanbarun know about Master and Miss, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, how very reasonable of you.” The king lifts a brow, impressed. “I should be grateful for it. If you had shared my brother’s temperament, I would have had to do quite the dance to explain that swap of wives.”

He shouldn’t rise to the bait. Izana Wisteria, first of his name, never mentions anything off-hand; each turn of conversation is planned, a gambit he has weighed and measured before placing his bet. He is not the sort of man who asks a question unless he has already devised the answer to it.

He knows all that and still, still-- “Really? I would have thought one up-jumped common girl would look the same as any other in this court.”

His Majesty’s smile sharpens, and oh, he’s some kind of idiot leaving an opening like that against a master swordsman. “I would commend you for that observation, my lord, had not the engagement party taken place. Months ago now.”

Months ago. Yesterday he had asked since when, and Miss would not meet his eyes, but now-- now--

His knuckles blanch on the balustrade. “How long?”

His Majesty’s eyes alight, and oh, he’s falling right into his trap, but it’s hard to care when the answer is, “Oh, half a year ago, now? Perhaps more. Not long after you’d left to go north. Your title was part of the marriage agreement.”

Obi blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The title to Conti,” His Majesty repeats, “Countess Yuris was quite clear that as part of her reward for liberating it from its last lord, the march should go to a man that would be sympathetic to her island’s struggles. When we offered your name, she agreed. Quite quickly, if I may say so”

His thoughts are a storm, a hurricane, and oh, there are a thousand more important things whipping through his skull, but the only one that surfaces is, “Kihal?”

Doesn’t a marquis outrank a countess, he’d teased, only hours ago, and she’d rolled her eyes, but-- but--

She chose this. Chose him. Ha, he knew she liked him, no matter how much she complained.

“So you can see what sort of trouble I would be in had you decided to be as belligerent as my brother,” the king continues, watching him carefully. “Perhaps if we committed to the deception, I could convince them that she dyed her hair, but losing two inches, hm...” He lifts a shoulder. “A hard proposition. And I doubt Marquise Conti would have be any less of a firebrand than Countess Yuris.”

The king laughs, but his smile is an invitation to think of all the things he has left unsaid, all the slights from which a countess would never recover from. There was no way to exchange Miss and Kihal, no way to pretend confusion when they had already presented her as Master’s consort-to-be. Everyone would have known she was put aside, shunted off to a loyal retainer to smooth over ruffled feelings. A consolation prize and a reward all wrapped into one.

Fine enough, if she was just some lord’s daughter. But Kihal was Countess Yuris, a lord in her own right with a seat on the council, and to insult her in such a way--

Well, Master’s reputation would recover, but hers never would. And Miss--

Miss would be a party to it. All because Master could not resist the chance to have what he gave up willing. Months ago.

“You look quite thoughtful, Conti,” His Majesty observes pointedly. “Perhaps--”

“That’s not my name,” he says, because it is rote, it is safe, and nothing else that roils inside him is.

The king’s mouth curves, pleased. “Ah, my apologies--”

“Brother.”

Master stands at the top of the stairs, all billowing cape and shining hair like an illumination of a folk tale’s prince-- but it is soured by the grim set of his mouth and the hard gleam in his eye. “I see you’re both taking in the evening.”

“Can you blame us?” His Majesty sweeps a hand toward the garden below. “We have have such a pleasant view.”

Master’s brows take a dubious slant as he approaches the balustrade, peering over as if he suspects His Majesty might take the opportunity to become an only sibling. “What--?”

A flash of red darts through the hedge again, and Master’s mouth pulls thin, skin pale in the moonlight.

“Well then.” The king smiles, all teeth. “I see you’ve become as enchanted as we have.”

“I’d like to speak to Obi,” Master grits out, never pulling his gaze from Miss. “Alone.”

“Of course.” His Majesty floats away, too pleased. “A lord does have his duty on the night of his vassal’s wedding, after all.”

He should say something. It always been his job to break the tension; it would be too easy to do it now. Don’t worry, Master, he would say, you don’t need to explain to me how a lord does his duty.

But he can’t. Not when he remembers how proudly Master had worn Kihal on his arm. Not when he knows how easily he would have scuttled her reputation, her entire island’s hope for safety, if only to have what he wanted. Still, given the same choice, could he say he would have done any different?

Yes. He would have married her when his damn knight asked him on his knees to do it.

“I was thinking.” Master drags his gaze from the maze, finally meeting his.

“Funny,” Obi grits out, hands flexing at his side. “So was I.”

He takes in a breath, lets it out. This is fine. It’s practically tradition for the groom to punch his best man the night before the wedding, isn’t it?

“I don’t hold your reins.”

His head jerks up. “Master--?”

“Not anymore,” Master continues, the words solemn, his shoulders rolled in a rueful curve. “You’re a lord in a your own right now, Obi. Your earned that. Ten times over.”

He stares. “Ma--?”

“No, don’t. I...I think--” Master steps forward, pained smile parting his lips--“it’s time you called me Zen.”

“I--” His hands are trembling now, but not from anger. “I can’t. I couldn’t. Master--”

Pale hands reach up to clasp his shoulders. “You’re a marquis. And beyond that, a personal friend.” He laughs, bitter. “I should have told you that a long time ago. It’s not like I make Mitsuhide stand on tradition. And Kiki...”

Obi lets out an inhuman wheeze. “They’d never find the body.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” He slings an around around him. Obi staggers under the weight. “ Come on. I think it’s high time we got you respectably drunk.”

“I...” Obi swallows, throat so tight it nearly chokes him. “I think I don’t know who Miss will scold more.”

He laughs, mouth widening into a grin. “What, and miss the chance to get both of us at once?”

The world lurches into place as Obi says, “You know, your Honorable Brother said the same thing...”

His jaw drops. “No! He didn’t, take that back.”

Obi grins, sauntering beside him. “Miss says I may joke, but I never lie.”

He groans. “Let’s just get you drunk already.”

Obi snickers. “Sounds like a good idea, M--” he bites down on the word. “...Zen.”

In the lamplight, Obi is sober as a schoolmarm, hoofing down the hall with a spring in his step and a song on his lips. A song he can’t quite remember with lyrics that seemed clearer in his head, but-- sober. No tipping or slurring whatsoever. Sir would be proud.

It’s when he gets to his room, the lights extinguished-- don’t know why, it’s not like Yori didn’t know where he was going-- that things start to fall apart.

Namely the lamp. That falls right to pieces when it hits the floor. Oil soaks straight into the carpet. The king will probably bill him for that. One (1) Viandese carpet, stained. One (1) priceless antique oil lamp, smashed. Oh, to see Morel’s face when he gets that letter. Won’t be attending any more weddings, that’s for certain.

Not a problem. Wouldn’t be attending this one either, if he wasn’t the groom.

Ooh, the groom. The groom that would need to be upright and art--- art-- able to use words. Things. And stuff. For the...word things. Important word things.

He bends down, trying to pick up the lamp. Ouch. Nope. Leaving that for Yori. Miss will scold him if he draws any more blood tonight.

Miss. Miss, who he’s going to marry tomorrow. Who will be very put out if he can’t word good. Talk good. WORD THINGS.

Or would she? He’s just got to make it through the ceremony. Doesn’t need him after that. No worries about a limp groom, no matter what Her Majessy says. Majosty. Mejesty. Whatever. Him not being able to perform would probably be a relief, if Miss--

Knock knock knock.

He blinks. That’s not at his door.

Knock knock.

It’s on his wall. Can’t open that.

Knock knock knock, it persists, after a bit of a pause. Knock knock.

OH. It’s Miss. She’s talking to him. Through the wall. How nice.

She’s started a third round by the time he stumbles close, picking out the same pattern on the paper.

Knock knock knock, he replies. I’m here.

Miss, never one for subtlety, breaks into a run. He stands there, brow knitted. Why a ru--?

Her balcony door swings open.

Oh, she wants to see him. Now. Right now. How he is.

He stares down at his costume, and well, all right, it’s seen better days. Better hours at least. But Miss Kiki-- Mrs Kiki now? -- knows what she’s doing. He looks presentable.

He takes off the cravat anyway. And the jacket. He’d be out of the waistcoat too, if there were any less steps for him to take.

“Obi,” she breathes, cheeks flushed. “You’re back.”

“Miss.” He’s not prepared to see her, not when she’s in her nightgown already, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. Might as well be back in Tanbarun with a set up like this. “Would have made it hard to knock if I wasn’t.”

A laugh bubbles out of her, her eyes wide. “Yeah,” she agrees, hiccuping up another. “I guess so.”

“You know...” He saunters toward the balustrade with a swagger. Or maybe swaggering with a saunter? Eh, a saucy walk. That’s the thing. Reminding her he’s got some hips and he’s not afraid to use ‘em. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding.”

“Good thing our wedding happened two months ago.” Her mouth curves into a little smirk he’d love to put his mouth on. Which he won’t, because they aren’t like that. Mouth friends. “So there’s nothing to ruin.”

Sound logic. That’s what he likes about her. And everything else, too.

“I saw you tonight.” She wrinkles her nose, like she’s only just hearing her own words. “On the balcony, I mean. At your stag night. It looked like fun.”

A laugh heaves from him, unbidden. “I promise you were having more at yours.”

At least until Honorable Brother opened up the good stuff. One for the road, he’d said. Or wait, no. Didn’t say that. But well, something like it. Close enough.

“I wish I was with you,” she sighs, voice thick with longing.

“You would have been very, very bored,” he promises. “I'd like to have been running around that maze instead.”

He’d caught more than a few pairs unaware in there. He would have liked to catch Miss unaware too. Maybe even been caught by--

“But I would have been with you,” she insists, and she must mean something more for the way she frowns, as if even her own words weren’t working properly. “I mean--” she sighs, frustrated. “Obi...”

Miss hesitates, gaze flicking up to catch his, and with no more warning than a clench of her jaw, she crawls over the balustrade and leaps onto his balcony. She stumbles over the lip of his own rail, but he’s already there, arms out to catch her.

“Miss,” he laughs, breathless. “My heart almost stopped.”

She laughs too, but it stills as her hand curls into his shirt. She lays it flat against his chest. “But it didn’t.”

It didn’t. It hasn’t. It never has. That’s all he can think as he stares down into her eyes. Her mouth goes slack, breath coming out of her in tiny, labored bursts, and on any other woman, he’d know what that meant.

No, a lie. Not the last thing, but before. He’s also thinking, months ago. Six months ago. A letter in hand before he left Lyrias. And she’d said nothing at all.

Nothing at all, but told him she’d missed his body. Had answered every hopeless flirtation in kind.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. But... “Miss--”

“Obi,” she breathes, gaze fixed to his. “you would...you would tell me. If this wasn’t what you wanted. If I...” She licks her lips, an utterly distracting technique. “If you wanted something else.”

He blinks, arms loosening. “Miss. I’m happy to do whatever you need--”

“No.” She squeezes him tighter, as if that might wring the truth from him. “I’m asking if this is what you want.”

His breath rasps out of his chest. He’s never wanted anything more. No, never wanted anything to be real more.

But that’s not what she’s asking. “Yes,” he breathes, “I want this.”

Her gaze drops, straight to his lips, and oh, she must think he’s coming down with something the way he’s wheezing.

“I guess it’s time for all good grooms to go to bed,” he tells her, setting her down on her feet. “I think I might have had too much.”

She blinks, flushing as she looks away. “O-oh, right. Yes, me-- me too, I think.”

“I should get you in bed then,” he says, because oh, he’s far too stupid to use words right. “I mean, put you in bed. Your own bed. Over...over there.”

She nods. “Right. Yes. It would be good to, ah, have someone to lean on I think.”

She stumbles on her first step, and he laughs. “I think in the interest of you making it down the aisle under your own power, you need a little more than that.”

Her eyes widen, curious. “What do you-- oh!”

He grins, swinging her up onto his back. “Come on, Miss. Let’s take the quick way.”

#obiyukiweek20 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #desert and reward #ans #FINALLY WE ARE GETTING INTO THE MEAT OF THIS #there are some scenes coming up i am HYPED for #i am so glad we have FINALLY gotten through the stag night #and now we head into...THE WEDDING

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