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arget-star · 6 months ago

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My Heart, It's Snowing

A year after their arranged marriage, Leo and Sakura find themselves in Hoshido to celebrate an upcoming festival. Sakura opts to teach Leo the proper form of Hoshidan dress. Or, Leo has a strange relationship with Physical Affection and Sakura's determined to help him through it.

Part of my loosely defined Arranged Marriage AU.

1,730 words.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Unfamiliarity has become a constant companion in the past year.

The careful, measured way he’d said I do when marrying a Hoshidan bride.

Long speeches performed in front of crowds of hollow-cheeked, war-fatigued Nohirans.

Council meetings lasting far past their scheduled end, dealing with intricate politics he was not born to navigate.

And now, standing half-dressed before his wife, he fights the blush creeping its way across his cheeks, tamps down the desire to throw up his metaphorical armor.

“I-it’s supposed to w-wrap like this,” Sakura says softly, gathering handfuls of the deep purple fabric of his kimono. Her fingertips brush against the linen undershirt covering his chest with the motion.

Leo’s breathing hitches. Unprompted touch is still new to him. The casual intimacy of it all, the implicit trust in allowing someone else access into his personal space. He’d only ever afforded Elise and Corrin the privilege—the former because he vowed his baby sister would never know the feeling of having her love rebuffed, and the latter because he truly had no choice in the matter. Reject Corrin’s affections and endure her tears. (Along with a rather long-winded lecture from Xander.)

Sakura, on the other hand, is neither exuberant or overbearing with her physical touch. It’s always light, airy, like she’s a bird about to take flight at the slightest indication of his discomfort. Yet her caution doesn’t override the determination lurking underneath. She touches him whenever opportunity presents itself, outside of the necessary posturing both their courts demand.

All of her hard work is slowly paying off. Leo can only watch in rapt attention as she effortlessly sweeps the fabric across his body, her proximity bringing with it another whiff of her floral scent. Cherry blossoms, naturally, along with something sweeter. Peonies, he thinks.

He should plant some in Krakenburg’s greenhouse.

Sakura tilts her head up. “L-Leo?”

Her soft voice pulls him from dreams of peony blossoms. Their eyes lock, emerald on brown. Unbidden heat rises in his cheeks; he clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Can y-you please hand m-me your obi?”

Slowly, his pointed chin dips in a nod. A heartbeat passes before he breaks their impromptu staring contest, turning his torso away from her and reaching an arm out to the small dressing table nearby. A group of servants had arrived earlier this morning, carefully carrying in and arranging both his kimono proper and all the accoutrements with it.

The obi material is stiff in his hand as he scoops it off the table. He runs a thumb along the striped purple and gold pattern, wondering if Sakura had planned this months ago. This time, when he hands it over, she’s careful to avoid touching his skin.

He feels bereft, suddenly, as if he’d lost something precious. Sakura unfolds the obi with practiced movements while Leo lifts his arms. He can’t tell if she knows what he’s thinking or if she’s lost in the familiar rituals of her home country’s dress.

She steps closer, top of her head nearly brushing his chin, arms wrapping around his waist. It would be so easy to lower his own arms, to hold her against him and finally let her past the thorns guarding his heart. The limbs twitch just as she moves a foot away, now holding the two ends of the obi.

Disappointment fills the space she just occupied, followed by an undercurrent of relief. He’s become a coward when it comes to vulnerability; too many losses have exacted their toll. If he *did* give in, for this one moment in time, holding her like a devoted husband, would that truly be so awful? Would he find the words to answer her inevitable question?

Leo decides it’s a blessing he’s been offered more time to discover the truth. Sakura pauses briefly in her flurry of motions, gifting him a gentle smile like she knows he’s wrestling with his own thoughts. She returns to her task with no expectation of a reason for his crinkled brow. There’s an intimacy in that, Leo realizes with a sudden bolt of clarity.

“All done,” Sakura says, giving the expertly tied obi knot one final tug. “All that’s l-left is your h-haori and f-fan.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, still recovering from the self-reflection induced by something as simple as being outfitted. “I never knew how much went into Hoshidan attire,” he settles on, lowering his arms and watching her walk towards the stand housing his haori. There’s an art to everything in Hoshido, including how they display and treat their clothing.

Or perhaps it’s only an art because Sakura is performing the action.

While she removes the jacket, he finds his reflection in the mirror, taking careful stock of his appearance. There are no blunt lines or tapered armor points, no high collar he can shield himself with. Only clean, elegant edges leaving him exposed, a raw nerve now bared before all of Hoshido.

(Dissidents would be foolish to mount an attack. No one wants more bloodshed, least of all on a festival day. Leo himself went over the security plans in excoriating detail with King Ryoma—only an act of draconic influence can disturb the square today.)

Sakura returns, this time stopping at his back, deep purple haori in hand. “We v-value our t-traditions,” she says, considering him a moment before seemingly settling an internal debate of her own. “Hold o-out your arms a-again, please.”

Leo obeys, craning his neck behind him in order to see the determination on her face. Their difference in height isn’t usually an issue; then again, she’s not usually attempting to place a jacket on his shoulders. With more care than strictly necessary, he slides his left arm in first, followed by his right.

She moves away again. Leo adjusts the haori, noting the small loops about halfway down the lapels. He fingers one, trying to puzzle out the purpose. There are no buttons that he can see. When Sakura next appears, she’s holding two short, braided white cords. Soft, fond laughter escapes her at his confused look.

(He wants to hear the sound again.)

“One m-more piece to c-complete your o-outfit. The haori-himo,” she begins, holding up the cords, “is c-considered formal d-dress. It a-also keeps the h-haori from s-slipping off your s-shoulders.” She ties one cord into the small loop on the left side of his haori as she speaks, then switches to the right.

Her concentration to helping him—dare he call it *dedication—*fills him with something he’s too wounded to name. “Wait, Sakura. Why is there a pattern on the inside?”

“You o-only noticed n-*now?”*

Well, he can’t tell her he’s been far too distracted by her to pay attention to much else, let alone the inside of his garments. He’d only caught a flash of white lines as she messed with the lay of his haori.

Sakura finishes securing the right-side cord, then carefully peels the deep purple fabric aside. More white lines appear, decorating the interior lining with no order he can discern. “Pine needles r-represent longevity a-and resistance,” she explains, voice quiet on the last word. “I t-thought it s-suited you.”

Suddenly meek, she doesn’t risk looking back up at him, grabbing the ends of the two cords and knotting them together. Leo swallows another rush of emotion. *Resistance.* To what, exactly? Breaking under the strain of assuming a life not meant for him? Succumbing to the darkness said to plague Nohr’s rulers? His stomach churns.

“I-I can c-call for a-another h-haori with a-another p-pattern if t-this one u-upsets y-you.” Delicate fingers curl around the cords, pulling him an inch closer to her. She leans in to him, stopping just shy of planting her forehead against his chest.

Leo shakes his head. Even when he was at his absolute worst during the war, Sakura never held any malice towards him. This was meant as a peace offering, in her own way, a bridge of pine needles extended to mend the jagged gap between them.

*Resistance to love, maybe.*

*“*It’s alright, Sakura. Thank you.” The words come out hoarser than he intends. Strange, how she always manages to reduce him to his most genuine self.

Her head tips back, eyes wide. “Y-you’re n-not upset?”

His heart gives an unhappy twinge. He’s been far colder this past year than he’d previously realized, if she’s this nervous about the significance of a clothing pattern. Before he can overthink it this time, he gingerly places his arms around her waist. Closes the scant few inches separating them, resting his chin atop her head. “No, I’m not.”

Sakura goes utterly still. Leo doesn’t risk moving, lest he scare her further. He can feel her heartbeat, the rabbit-quick pace nearly matching his own. He hopes she wasn’t this nervous the entire morning. She inhales, deeply, in the same way he does when trying to keep his impassive mask in place, then returns his embrace.

“Oh, Leo…”

She clings to him, bunching the fabric at his back. He doesn’t mind. Nothing else matters beyond this touch, the silent admission of trust conveyed in sharing body heat. No thorns writhe in defense. The needle-like tips lay dormant—not yet desiccated, just smoothed. Perhaps, in the future, they’ll disappear completely, and he will be free to love without resistance.

A handful of heartbeats pass in stiff silence. Logic catches up with emotion; the hairs on Leo’s nape prickle with self-awareness. He won’t admit that it’s *nice* being held and holding someone in return, not yet. Once he overcomes the unease with affection, grows comfortable with it, then he can lean into the softer parts of his humanity.

Leo’s still gentle when he removes his arms. The high points of his cheeks are stained a lovely shade of red that he prays will fade by the time he and Sakura must join the royal procession outside. He can’t read the myriad of emotions quickly flitting over her expression. “…thank you, Sakura.”

Her lips part, as if to say something, but she closes them a second later. She understands his gratitude is for more than a simple hug, or even helping him dress. With efficient movements, she smooths out the wrinkled sections of his kimono, and she doesn’t miss the way he trembles ever so slightly at all the physical contact.

Satisfied he’s presentable, she pulls back. “A-always, Leo.”

#char writes #fe leo #fe leon #fe sakura #fire emblem fanfiction #fire emblem fates #leosakura #fe 14 #birthright au #arranged marriage!leosaku

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