Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All through the river valley, word spreads that winter is arriving early this year. A chill wind blows in from the north, hastening the stocking of firewood and the preserving of food. Traveling traders making their way southward share frightful tales of distant cities and countrysides stricken by blizzards and ice storms out of the blue. The harvest season is barely halfway done.

Soon enough, the little village of Kurosaki is cast into darkness by foreboding clouds that obscure the surrounding mountain peaks. The first snow of the season falls heavy enough to bury the last of the crops in the fields and freeze ripe fruit on the branch. And that is only the start of their troubles.

The winter that follows is the hardest one Suguru has ever seen. It’s the worst in any of his village’s elders’ memories. Every morning the frost is worse. The snow piles up faster than they can clear it away. The local game has either fled it or succumbed to it, because every hunt Suguru sets out on goes poorly. And no matter how much straw he pads his boots and overcoat with, the bitter cold finds its way in. The hushed whispers of his neighbors echo his own worries: how many chickens and pigs froze overnight; whether their grain stores can stretch until spring; what recourse they have left, given all outside trade has been halted by snow-blocked roads and iced-over rivers. 

And then come the unlikely rumors from their nearby sister villages, word trickling in that a dragon has been sighted in the skies up and down the vale—an ice dragon, bringing worsening winds and snows in its wake, and it’s taken up residence in the abandoned temple at the top of the tallest mountain in the western range.

Whatever skepticism Suguru holds to—no dragon has been seen or heard of in these parts for hundreds of years—is flayed away when he sights the beast himself while on one of his fruitless hunts. Frozen like a hare while a hawk passes overhead, Suguru watches from amid the pines as the ghostly white dragon disappears into the perpetual pall of cloud cover. Within moments of its passing, the wind kicks up and fresh snow begins to fall.

Suguru grew up with enough stories of dragons to know they're a coin-flip, as capable of bringing good fortune as they are destruction: rain to withered fields, safe passage while sailing, devastating floods, ravenous appetites. And the dragon occupying their home—an ominous glimmery-white ribbon of scales that shimmer against the backdrop of dark, brewing storm clouds, always a terror to glimpse high above their small village—is anything but benevolent.

All the villages in the river valley come together to make an offering in the hopes of appeasing the creature. Suguru himself contributes a stag he’d happened upon while checking his snares for smaller game. Though thin, it would be enough to feed himself and his sisters for weeks if the meat were stretched out with rice and porridge... but the welfare of the whole valley is in their best interest. They can’t fill their bellies while their neighbors starve. And if the dragon isn’t dealt with soon, in a months’ time they’ll all be in equally dire straits.

Everything that can be spared, is: jugs of sake, piles of fruit, slabs of meat, incense and gold coins and fresh-made buns are all left on a makeshift ice altar at the base of the dragon's claimed mountain. Everything but the sake is accepted, Suguru learns secondhand, and for a moment he breathes a sigh of relief.

Yet the dragon doesn’t leave, showing no mercy for the people trapped at the bottom of the valley nor the animals starved and freezing in their woods.

When spring—or what should be spring—approaches, the ground is still frozen solid and snow-covered. The dragon is still lording over the skies and the mountaintops. And Suguru knows this cannot go on much longer.

All the game has either died or fled elsewhere. He can barely find enough straw or wood to keep Nanako and Mimiko warm. He can hardly keep them fed. There are other families in the village even worse off, and none better. They can neither bury nor burn their dead, and their forest shrine sits untended for all the ice and snow barring the way.

If the dragon won’t take its leave, then there’s just no helping it.

Suguru strings his bow anew and gathers his arrows, having so many of them lying around unspent for lack of recent prey. He takes his sisters and all the food they have left to a friend, Manami, who will look after them for him. And he lingers too long as he hugs each of the young girls goodbye, knowing it’s likely that he won’t make it back for one reason or another.

But as Kurosaki’s best hunter—perhaps even the best in the whole valley—he can’t do nothing.

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With knee-deep snows slowing Suguru every step of the way, it takes hours of trekking to reach the foothills of the mountain the dragon has claimed for its own.

The lake he spies up ahead is a welcome and familiar sight, even cluttered with abnormally thick sheets and shards of ice. In years past, these waters made for good fishing of eels, catfish, and carp. But even Suguru's pack is woefully light on food, there is little point in trying to catch a meal here now. Between the intolerable cold and the desperation of the surrounding villages, every once-abundant source of life—land, water, and air—has been thoroughly picked over and cleaned out.

Suguru picks up his pace, eager to take a rest in the little fishing hut nestled nearby the lake. It was built by his mother years and years ago, intended as a place to sleep on longer hunts or shelter within during sudden turns of bad weather. In spring and summer, Suguru sometimes spends days camped out here, laying and checking snares between his hunting forays. In winter, though... in this winter, anyway, he hasn't bothered for some time. Even if all the small game hadn't died off or taken refuge elsewhere, his traps are useless when perpetually re-buried under several fingers' worth of freshly fallen snow.

The fishing hut will be a good place to stay the night and rest, though. Come dawn, Suguru will start making his way up the mountain, where he will find the dragon, put an arrow in its eye, and hopefully free his home of the ice choking it tighter by the day.

The single-room hut is dark and dusty when he first shoulders the door open. With a little sigh, Suguru sets down his heavy pack and starts a fire in the small, central hearth—a simple recessed pit that will keep the drafty place warm enough through the evening. Once the flames have taken hold, licking at the split logs Suguru stocked here months ago, he decides to go out for water. The lake is close by and drawing from it will be faster than melting snow. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even find a frozen fish or two lying dead on the shore.

At this time of year, there would normally be little more than frost on the ground. The air would be rife with birdsong and the trees with delicate shoots of new growth—the promise of a green spring soon to come. Instead, the world remains white, white, white.

Despite a thick blanket of powdery-fresh snowfall that reaches midcalf, Suguru's feet know how to find and follow the old, well-trod game trail that winds down to the lake. It's a path he's taken hundreds of times over the years, both with his mother and without her. He has barely stepped clear of the treeline and onto the gentle slope of the snow-covered bank when he spots the last thing he’d ever expect to see here and now: someone’s head breaking the still surface of the dark lake, their white hair plastered down, mouth open as the unfortunate soul sucks in a deep breath.

It takes precious seconds for Suguru to comprehend what he’s witnessing. The empty water gourd in his hand goes forgotten, as does any wishful thought of lucking into some fish. The lake is ringed with ice at its edges, while broken sheets of it float and cluster further in. Anything more than a few minutes in water that cold is a death sentence. Whoever that is could slip under at any moment, never to be seen again.

Suguru shoves aside the bewilderment of seeing another person out here, much less in the lake, and throws off his cloak and straw coat. Stupid! This person is either stupid or stupidly unfortunate—there is no third option. He tears off his quilted donza jacket next, along with his worn-thin deerskin gloves. One after the other, he kicks off his boots while staggering to the water’s edge, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in the snow. The wind slices sharp without those added layers of protection.

“Hold on!” he calls, not even knowing if they’ll hear him from shore. “Hold on, I’m coming for you!”

With a muttered curse, Suguru dashes across the thick ice along the bank, sliding on every heavy step. Further out, at a spot where the ice is thin, he crashes right through it.

The full immersion is a shock to his lungs and all there rest of him. A gasp of surprise sucks in water that chills him from within. Even with his eyes open, the lake is deep and dark and thin ice still stretches across the surface above, muddling what wan afternoon sunlight is left.

Suguru kicks forward, gliding under the surface until he can break it and sputter for air. He reorients himself, paddling in a circle with chattering teeth, until he sees that white-haired head bobbing a little further out, their face now turned toward him.

How did they even get out that far? Why?

But Suguru has no time to ponder. The icy water needles his bare skin as he swims on, putting into Suguru a fear that he’ll seize up and sink if he slows. He’s forgotten the feeling in his fingers already. The first stirrings of mortal peril tickle at the back of his mind as he realizes his body isn’t moving quite like normal. His limbs are stiff and slower to respond. His legs feel weak, to the extent that he can feel them at all.

When he closes on the hapless idiot who drew him out here, Suguru wastes no time.

“What do you—”

“Don’t t-talk,” Suguru tells him, his own teeth rattling together so painfully his jaw aches. There’s no sense in trying to speak out here.

He grabs under the stranger’s arm and wrenches him along, kicking hard and fighting to keep his own chin up above the lapping waves that the wind has spun up. The body he’s clutching to himself is dead weight in the water, dragging along uselessly—not the drowning man’s fault, no, but nonetheless a trial atop a trial. Suguru’s limbs ache and burn with exhaustion, but he pushes on anyway. He’s so close now to the edge...

He reaches the little ledge of ice that borders the lake and scrabbles for purchase on its slick surface. The thinner ice splinters and cracks away under any weight put on it, but eventually they reach the thicker, sturdier shelf closer to shore. It takes Suguru two laborious attempts to lift himself out and then drag his half-drowned anchor out of the water after. From there, it’s a numb crawl-slide across the ice to the lake’s snow-covered bank.

Suguru shakes all the while, his only relief being that the man he'd fished out is at least moving for himself now. The frigid wind on his wet body is worse than he could’ve imagined—like cold blades knifing across his back, cutting deeper with every breath. His skin stings like it’s being scraped away, numb and burning all at once.

“I h-have a fire,” he mumbles, picking up pieces of his dry, discarded clothing and draping them over himself to block the wind a little—and some over the form of the… the nobleman, he figures, looking at the soaked clothing clinging all over the nearly-drowned man and dragging along the snow. Or a well-to-do merchant, maybe. “C-c-come on. We have to...”

Suguru judges the man even as he stumblingly leads him back to the fishing hut, baffled by his presence here and the wild impracticality of his dress. It’s silk he’s wearing while wandering deep in their remote foothills, the blue and white fabric all brocaded and lined—so many padded layers of it he ought to have drowned from the waterlogged weight long before Suguru got to him.

But fools are always lucky, aren’t they? Rich fools more so than any other.

Even with his fur-lined cloak draped over himself and his straw-insulated boots back on his feet, Suguru remains chilled through. Ice clings to his lashes and stings his eyes with every blink. He shivers so severely that it makes his steps unsteady. Even his blood and marrow feel sluggish.

The fire in the fishing hut is stronger, fortunately, than when he’d left it.

Suguru staggers the last few steps inside before dropping to his knees, expending what little energy he has left to peel off the soaked clothing he has on. Extreme exertion has left his limbs leaden to the point of near uselessness. Muscles along his forearms and thighs twitch and spasm in between full-bodied shivers. Most of his extremities have no feeling. If he doesn’t remedy this soon, he’ll be in an even worse way once the sun is down and night's chill begins to creep in.

And that goes double for the wayward young lord still standing motionless in the open doorway, dripping wet.

“Get inside and shut the d-d-door,” Suguru instructs through chattering teeth, annoyed by how slowly the man moves to follow his words. “Out of those clothes! Quickly. Or you’ll end up dying anyway.”

But the stranger is in no hurry to follow suit and strip. Rather, he looks down upon Suguru with something like affronted amazement—eyes wide, lips parted, the hint of a sneer taking shape.

“What, you expect me to just bare myself to you?”

If his lungs and ribs weren’t still aching, Suguru might laugh: a fussy nobleman, of course, more prideful than practical. For a moment, he considers letting it go and telling the man to at least go die outside then, where his frozen body won’t be a bother. But…

“I risked my life t-to save yours. You aren’t allowed to waste it now,” Suguru hisses out with as much heat as he can muster. “Take. It. Off.”

Even incensed and glaring, Suguru is certain he looks pitiful: drenched, shaking, naked but for the tabi socks he’s only now pulling off of his numb feet. But the strange nobleman gives a derisive snort and then heeds him.

The waterlogged white hanten and sky-blue kimono drop to the slatted floor of the fishing hut with a wet plap. White inner robes turned clingy and translucent are shrugged off after, revealing broad, pale shoulders. Then the woolen hakama trousers underneath follow, which leaves…

Suguru pointedly turns his head aside, cheeks warm, after catching an eyeful of something enormous. And just coming out of frigid waters, too? Could it be even bigger in warmer conditions? That can’t be right…

“Oh? Finally found a way to make you shut up, did I? No more orders for me?”

Perhaps he should’ve left this ingrate to drown.

Suguru sets his jaw and looks back at the man standing naked on the other side of the blazing hearth, deliberately focusing from the neck up. The worst of what he wants to say slips from mind as he properly takes in those unfamiliar features for the first time: white hair, rare for someone who looks no older than himself, shorn unusually short and close; blue eyes, which are rarer still; pale and unmarred skin, typical of the gentle life of a noble. Pretty, with full lips that have a blush of pink at their center. Handsome, his shoulders broad and his arms as well-muscled as Suguru’s. Maybe even more so. And his chest is—

Suguru suddenly gets the feeling he’s being watched in turn. He glances up, guilty, and then away, pretending he didn’t notice the stranger catch his wandering eye.

“I'm beginning to think you dragged me out of there just to brazenly ogle me,” he accuses.

Suguru vacillates between mortification and insult, face growing hotter. He lands on the latter. “Right. Of course. I swam all the way out there just to get an eyeful of you. As if I could even tell from shore that you’re…”

“...handsome? Finely hewn? Incomparably beautiful?” the man shamelessly suggests.

Suguru scoffs and scoots himself closer to the fire. Yes, some of those had been among the words that came to mind. “Self-conceit is deeply unattractive. Neither your looks nor station had any bearing on why I went to pull you out, anyway.”

The young lord’s lips thin into a slanted, unamused smile. Those blue eyes suit the coldness of his manner. “Then why did you come in after me? I did not ask for your aid.”

“You… you were going to drown otherwise,” Suguru reminds him, mouth going slightly agape. “If I didn't do something, you would have died.”

After a long, curious pause, the insufferable nobleman-or-merchant says, “So?”

“So? So you would have died. And it would be on my conscience for standing idly by while it happened,” Suguru answers, more confused than anything else. 

The stranger eyes him coolly, same as before. “I’ve no gold or silver to spare you, if you’d hoped for some.”

“I had no such expectation.” Suguru is offended he would even assume such. “Would you not do the same if you saw someone being swept downriver or trapped under a fallen tree?”

The nobleman ponders it for a moment. “Probably not, no.”

“At least you’re honest, I suppose," Suguru grumbles under his breath. "As well as fortunate that others are more kind than you. I’d advise you hang up your clothes if you want them dry by morning. I’m not some servant of yours,” he adds by way of warning, stubbornly refusing to be slotted into the role his unwanted guest doubtlessly expects him to fill.

There is, Suguru is aware, likely a limit on what time he has left. And he will not spend precious hours of what could well be his last days catering to the whims and needs of some coarse and careless young lord. Not only is his mission and purpose greater than that, but the knowledge that death may await him atop that mountain provides a certain… fearlessness.

And he thinks he could take a single spoiled merchant or nobleman in a fight, if it came to that. Out here, without guards to outnumber him or fear of his family being harmed to punish him, Suguru doesn't have to roll over or jump to obey commands from someone supposedly of greater importance.

In the meantime, he digs into his traveling pack and pulls out a clean, dry set of clothes for himself. He has one more spare set, too… but there’s a risk that this stranger might run off with them, eager to steal a few more warm layers for the rest of his travels, and that will leave him in a bind once he's in the thin-aired cold of the mountain summit.

But if Suguru doesn’t give them to him, he’ll be lying flush up against a very attractive, very naked man while pooling their body heat tonight.

“Here,” Suguru says, keeping his eyes on the ground as he passes the extra clothing over. “You can borrow these. Just for the night. I expect them back once your own clothes are dry.”

“As if I’d want to keep ugly scraps like these,” the ungrateful lord mutters, nose wrinkling at the thickly quilted cotton Suguru and his sisters had sewn by hand. “It wouldn’t kill you to show a little respect, by the way. You clearly have no idea who I am or else you’d be bowing and scraping before me.”

Aside from a small lift of his eyebrows, feigning the bare minimum of interest, Suguru maintains a flat, impassive expression. He busies his hands, no longer painfully prickled by numbness, with heating water for tea and unpacking the onigiri Manami made for him. “Who are you, then?”

“Gojo Satoru,” the young nobleman says with his nose in the air, as if that name means anything to Suguru. “Gojo-sama to you, of course.”

Any modicum of politeness Suguru still intended to offer his unexpected companion for the night evaporates.

“Gojo,” Suguru offers back, a deceptively pleasant smile spreading across his lips. Then, wanting to get under this man’s skin even more: “Satoru.”

For all he knows, this is just a rich merchant trying to get one over on him and inflate his importance. Why would a lord of any significant standing be traipsing around their remote valley in a winter like this, anyway? And off the beaten path, too. 

“You—” Satoru stops himself there, in the middle of pulling on Suguru’s clothes, and sputters in indignation.

The tips of his ears are red, almost glaringly so compared to the rest of his moonlight-pale skin. His mouth works in silence for a moment, the tendons along his neck and arms drawn stiff with tension. It’s as if he doesn’t know how to respond at all—at least not without some court officials and guards here to back him up.

“You’re insolent, you know that?” Satoru then snaps. He resumes dressing himself with sharp, short, forceful movements. “Insubordinate, too. Are you always this bold with your betters?”

“I don’t consider anyone who’d end up in a frozen lake in winter my better,” Suguru dryly mutters. Eyeing the man a bit more, he realizes he’s the only one of them with any food. “Nor someone who owes me their life. Unless you want to be stuck out here on your own, you ought to show me a little respect in turn. Or perhaps you won’t get fed tonight.”

Satoru stares at him, little traces of bewilderment and outrage peeking through his otherwise icily composed features. Those eerie blue eyes blink slowly as he mulls over the threat, his silence more unsettling than his poor manners.

Suguru wonders then if Satoru is so spoilt he’s never been told no. Perhaps this is his first real chastisement, and coming from the lips of someone he sees as very beneath him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to the onigiri warming by the fire, along with the steaming teapot and a single small cup to go with it, and then goes back to Suguru. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Satoru stares down at him in transparent disbelief, pale eyes almost ominous in the glow of the firelight. And then, without warning, he breaks into a toothy smile. The cold, hard shell of his expression cracks like thin frost underfoot, the worst of its chill melting off with a laugh. He sits himself down by the fire, opposite Suguru, looking out-of-place in the homely clothes he’s borrowing.

“Fine. I’ll give you credit for guts,” he says, that smile now stuck in place. “And what should I call you? Aside from a bossy little peasant.”

Suguru drinks down his tea in one draw, eyes slipping closed at the way it warms him from within. He immediately sets to pouring another cupful.

“Just Suguru will do.”

“No family name?”

“Oh, you don’t need to know it,” Suguru tells him, keeping his voice as pleasant as if making smalltalk in a market.

Suguru passes the teacup to Satoru, willing to share while he’s behaving tolerably.

“And which of these little villages are you from?” Satoru then pries, accepting the offered tea. He sips slowly, in no rush to return the singular cup to its rightful owner.

“You don’t need to know that, either.”

“Oh? What if I want to send a gift to your family out of gratitude for saving me?” Satoru asks with a smile that seems anything but generous.

Suguru trusts less in the benevolence of some random nobleman than he does their ire. He’s been smart-mouthed with this man and he knows it. He’s overstepped already and likely will do so again. And while Satoru seems to be aware of his predicament, stuck relying on Suguru to survive the night, there’s a very real chance he might intend some potential payback for the disrespect down the line.

“My family is well taken care of. I’ve seen to that. There is no need for your intervention.” Impatient, he gestures for Satoru to finish drinking and pass the tea cup back. “Why are you out here in the first place? How did you end up in the lake?”

“You first.” Satoru polishes off the last of his tea and hands the cup over.

“I’m hunting.”

“Hunting? Hunting what?” Satoru asks, now prodding at the building ash in the hearth with a long stick. “I haven’t seen any game around here in... more than a week, probably.”

“There is a dragon that’s taken up residence here. In our valley. In the mountains.” 

Satoru stops poking at the fire, head cocked as he searches Suguru’s face for some hint that he’s joking. Finding none, he rocks backward with laughter and says, “You’re hunting the dragon? You?”

The insult and dismissal in his tone pricks Suguru in all the wrong ways. He glares long and hard at Satoru, who is still chortling and giggling as if entertained by a jester.

“What makes you say it like that? You have no clue what I’m capable of,” Suguru complains. “I’m an excellent shot. And I can certainly survive better than someone like you, Satoru.”

Satoru stiffens where he sits, his earlier sourness returning. “You would really dare call me something so familiar—”

“I would, yes. We’re in the middle of nowhere, in case you have forgotten. Why should I have to stand on arbitrary formalities here, where all your money and finery counts for nothing while my skills are the difference between life and death? You’re in my clothes, drinking my tea, warmed by a fire I made, and sheltered in a hut my own mother built. You couldn’t even get yourself out of that lake,” he scoffs, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

“I was doing just fine,” Satoru snaps back.

“You’re delusional.” Suguru leans over and presses the back of his hand to Satoru’s forehead, grinning to himself when the man jerks away—so cocky yet so jumpy. “Just checking if you have a fever, to be spouting such nonsense. I was doing just fine,” he mimics under his breath. “Anyway, I have a good reason to be out here. What’s yours?”

Suguru offers one of the freshly warmed onigiri to Satoru, hoping a filled stomach will make him a little more agreeable. After a moment spent warily eyeing him, Satoru grabs the food from his hand and immediately bites down half of it.

He's still chewing when he answers with, “I’ve been traveling. Seeing the south and what it has to offer. Looking for excitement.”

Suguru can’t help but perk a little at that, curiosity overcoming everything else he feels toward this Gojo Satoru. “And have you found it?”

Satoru shrugs. “A little, here and there. Not nearly as much as I’d like. Edo was entertaining for a while. Have you been?”

“No. I grew up here,” Suguru says, still nibbling on his own onigiri. “It’s all I know.”

“This place?” Satoru wrinkles his nose as if he’s smelled something off. “That's it? How boring.”

“You’re awfully quick to judge,” Suguru tells him, bristling at the insult to the only home he’s ever had. “It’s not boring. It’s… it's beautiful. In autumn, the leaves change and turn the mountainsides gold and red. In spring, everything is green and pink with petals. There’s always some festival or another around the corner, or a wedding to celebrate. In summer, that lake is perfect for fishing and swimming. For generations, this valley has provided for us everything we need. If not for this terrible winter, you would see what I mean. You would have a higher opinion of this place.”

“Terrible?” Satoru questions, his brow twitching. “What makes this one so terrible?”

Suguru’s lips part, jaw dropping a fraction. “What do you mean ‘what makes it so terrible?’ Have you not…? You just said yourself there’s no game to be seen. Half the livestock have died, too. Trade’s ground to a halt because the roads and passes are blocked by snow. We’ve too little straw to stave off the cold and our food stores are nearing empty. If something doesn’t change, we’ll all either be frozen or starved within a few weeks. Both, most likely.”

Satoru doesn’t look particularly moved by that, perhaps under the impression his title and coin will spare him the same fate—as if either of those mean anything when the locals have no food or warm shelter to offer in exchange.

Suguru turns his head and rolls his eyes, having expected little better. Whatever. They’re not together for reasons of companionship but survival, and only for this one night. Once they've parted ways, Gojo Satoru can stubbornly die in a snowdrift somewhere and it won’t be on Suguru’s conscience. His duty to his family and the wider community supersedes the welfare of a lost, spoiled lord who seems to think highly only of himself.

“We should bed down now, while the fire’s still going,” Suguru then sighs.

It’ll burn out within an hour or two, and the embers will go cold shortly after. Ideally, before that happens they’ll have made enough of their own heat under the covers that they can sleep semi-comfortably until dawn.

Suguru spreads the stitched hides of his tent across the wooden slats of the floor, covering the drafty gaps; he unrolls his thin futon atop it for cushion and insulation. It’s just wide enough for him alone, and well worn from use on numerous overnight hunts. For the two of them? It will be a close, uncomfortable fit… but unavoidably necessary, if they both want to avoid succumbing to the night’s deep freeze.

Suguru lays himself out on one edge of the futon, trying to leave an equal share for Satoru… who makes no move to join him under the covers.

“Did you hear me? Satoru? Aren’t you cold?”

Satoru looks more appalled than chilly. His lip curls as he asks, “And what are you trying to do here, exactly?”

“Stay alive.” Suguru is flat and to the point. There’s no point in prim reservations when freezing to death is a possibility pressing in on them at all times. “And somewhat comfortably. There isn’t enough firewood to burn all night. If we don’t share this bed and our warmth—”

“Oh, so you want to leech off of me like some parasite?”

“I want us both to wake up tomorrow without frostbite.” Suguru sighs again, weary of trying to make the man see sense. “I have the only blanket. I have the only furs. You can either be practical and join me or… don’t, if you insist. More room for me.”

He’ll probably be okay with or without Satoru. The fire has mostly dried his skin and warmed him through. His hair is still damp, but hopefully the residual heat of the slowly dying flames and embers will help with that—and their drying clothing, too.

But Satoru? His tune will change the second the fire wanes and there’s nothing else to stave off the chill. Some people only learn through suffering.

Suguru lies down under his blanket and fur-lined cloak and waits to get warm. He thinks, for the time being, that Satoru poses little threat. He may be arrogant and unaccustomed to being spoken to frankly, but he surely knows Suguru is of more value to him alive than otherwise.

Still… in the deepening darkness, Suguru slides his hand out from under the covers and grabs the sheathed dagger lying by his pack. He’ll sleep with it under himself, in easy reach. Just to be safe.

By the time the fire has dwindled down to nothing, Suguru has fallen into some state in-between cold and content. He won’t freeze to death like this, no, but want of warmth keeps his sleep shallow and fitful. Every so often his body shudders of its own accord, rousing him awake again. His fingers and toes have always been quick to turn chilled, and now is no different; no matter how he tucks them under his arms or between his thighs or beneath his clothes, they won’t stay warm.

He’s half forgotten about Satoru when the covers suddenly lift and a rush of frigid air sweeps in, shocking him fully and painfully awake. He hisses between his teeth until the man is finally settled in beside him, resenting the loss of what little heat he’d accumulated for himself.

“Took you long enough,” Suguru murmurs, not sure how much help an even chillier body will provide either of them right now.

But then his toes brush against one of Satoru’s shins and they both recoil—Satoru from the touch and Suguru from the surprising shock of warmth.

“Hey, don't you dare touch me with your grimy, dirty little feet—”

“You’re—you're so warm,” Suguru mumbles in awe, now itching to press his freezing toes to Satoru's legs. “How?”

He ought to be colder than Suguru, given he’d been just as soaked from the lake and then spent the last hour or two stubbornly sleeping alone, uncovered. Or maybe he’d huddled himself close to the fire’s dying embers until they went out? Still...

“Just better than you, I suppose,” he answers, sounding smugly pleased with himself. “Stronger. More resilient. Blessed in fashions you couldn’t dream of.”

Suguru turns his head and lets out a low, irritated groan, unsure what other caliber of answer he’d expected. “Vainglorious in the extreme, too.”

But Suguru cannot deny that Satoru radiates a comforting warmth which has his sullen mood melting away. The futon’s narrowness naturally leaves little space between them, their bodies pressed together at the shoulder, at the chest, at the knee; pride and propriety alone keep Suguru from fully and shamelessly plastering himself against Satoru to soak up his soothing heat more directly. 

“Tch. All your condescending, self-righteous talk and you’re the one freezing without me.” Satoru doesn’t exactly sound displeased about it, although he unforgivingly kicks Suguru’s feet away when his cold toes once more venture too close. “You’re lucky I’m generous enough to let you cozy up to me like this.”

“Right. Sure. I’m the one that’s lucky to have you,” he murmurs back, too tired to roll his eyes. As if Satoru wouldn’t be at the bottom of the lake right now if not for his intervention.

“I'm glad you agree.”

Suguru scoffs at the snide satisfaction in Satoru’s tone. Worse still, Satoru seems to find amusement in every miffed little reaction he makes, chuckling to himself on the other side of the futon.

The warmth building around them contents Suguru enough that he doesn’t argue back. Comfort makes him irresistibly drowsy and pliant. He forgets entirely about the knife stashed underneath him and it being far too soon to be so trusting of a perfect stranger who is perfectly unbearable. Those are worries for warmer daylight hours, when they will no longer be caged together by necessity.

The small footprint of the futon has them jostling for whatever spare space can be found. Satoru’s broad shoulders—he makes no effort to contain himself to one half of the futon, of course—shove into Suguru until he’s nearly forced off the bedding completely.

Suguru wrinkles his nose and pushes back, willing to roll atop Satoru’s limbs if he has to. He repays every little shove and poke with one of his own. After some struggle, he worms himself into a semi-comfortable arrangement, hushing Satoru’s occasional whines of stop moving! and I’ve had people caned for causing me less annoyance and how am I supposed to sleep with your elbow in my ribs? If Satoru is going to hog most of the futon, he gets no right to complain when Suguru ends up wedged against him.

And though Gojo Satoru is obnoxious and lacking in gratitude, the heat he offers is rather nice compensation for his abrasive personality.

The world of late has felt particularly callous and indifferent—to his struggles, to his suffering and others’, to the probability of death creeping ever closer to those he loves. Amid all that, he finds there is comfort to be had purely in being close to someone, hearing their heartbeat, and feeling their breaths... even if that someone is this someone. Given that tonight could very well be Suguru's last night sharing a bed with anyone, it’s far better than being alone.

The chilled tip of his nose presses into Satoru’s shoulder, breath dampening the fabric of the borrowed shirt Satoru wears. His eyelids become too heavy to lift. The day’s exhaustion catches up to him in full.

Lulled by the warm, solid heat pressed beside him, he sleeps.

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It is undoubtedly morning when Suguru wakes to find himself cocooned in warm darkness and stifling air… and fully wrapped around the obnoxious young master he’d rescued yesterday. He’s sweating, even, despite the chill that’s surely crept into the drafty fishing hut overnight.

Extricating himself without waking Satoru poses a substantial challenge, Suguru grimly notes upon taking stock of his position. He is half atop Satoru’s slumbering form, having apparently slipped astride him in the night. His perspiring skin flushes hotter as he realizes he’s got a leg jammed in between Satoru’s, thigh lodged right against the same little monster he’d gotten a concerning glimpse of the night before. One of his hands is even jammed and twisted up under Satoru’s borrowed clothing, skin-to-skin, his fingers fully warmed through by the contact.

Suguru moves achingly slow as he pulls his arm free and works to disentangle himself. The last thing he needs is for the condescending nobleman to realize—

“Well, well. Someone certainly made themselves comfortable.”

The firm, too-hot body under Suguru shifts, which causes Suguru to shift with him.

Satoru is covered in the same darkness afforded by the blanket draped over them head to toe, but even so… his eyes shine bright and his face looms close enough for Suguru to make out the smile lazily spreading across those very smooth and soft-looking lips.

Suguru jolts up and wrenches himself loose from Satoru, scrambling away from him all at once. Cold air daggers into him the moment he’s out from under the covers, making him wince and hiss out a cloudy stream of breath. His whole body shivers in protest, everything weak in him demanding that he shamelessly crawl back to Satoru’s side, even if it gives the man undue satisfaction.

Suguru clenches his jaw to stop his teeth chattering and casts the thought away. There’s no good in letting himself get too reliant on feeling warm again. From here on out, it will just be him and whatever he has on his back.

“Get up and get dressed.” In need of a distraction, Suguru begins patting down the clothes strung everywhere through the hut, testing them for damp patches. He can’t linger here overlong and waste daylight, anyway. “It’s time to go.”

The fabric is all dry, mercifully, if cold to the touch. Everything, including his hair and skin, is faintly scented with smoke from the petered-out fire.

Suguru intentionally pays no mind to Satoru while they dress, focused on quickly layering himself up as best he can. The last thing he needs is to end up gawking at Satoru again... and get caught doing so.

When he turns back around, he finds Satoru adjusting the sleeves of his kimono and luxuriously thick hanten, looking deeply out of place in such finery. It’s ostentatious, the sheer amount of fabric wasted on one individual. It’s an enviable display of excess, all that cotton-padded silk and fine wool obscuring the unusually broad-shouldered and muscular body underneath—details Suguru had become overly acquainted with last night, both in seeing Satoru stripped bare to dry and in having random body parts jammed into him whilst trying to sleep. But at least Satoru returns his own clothes, tossing the balled wad of fabric at Suguru's chest the moment they're face to face.

Suguru gives him a quick glare as he gathers his things, as prepared for the elements as he ever will be, and shuffles to the door.

There is only a light dusting of new snow outside when they emerge from the shelter of the hut. It’s a relief. A rare stroke of luck given the weather of late, which tends to dump feet of snow on their villages out of the blue.

“If you head back that way,” Suguru says, pointing eastward, “you'll reach a road before midday. It runs alongside the river. Follow it south and you should come across a village by nightfall. They’ll try their best to take care of you, so you should be grateful. Speak to them politely. Offer them your thanks and whatever you can spare.”

If he’s going to send Satoru off toward one of their sister villages, he ought to at least try to impress on him some sense of gratitude.

“Uh, no, I won’t be doing that,” Satoru says, flatly rejecting the offered advice and instruction. Before Suguru can react, he adds, “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re what?” The sentiment is so abrupt and unexpected that Suguru can do little but stand there, trying to sort out what it is Satoru thinks he’s doing. Pestering him for fun? Glory-seeking? He eyes the young noble up and down, evaluating the elegant clothing, the ungloved and uncalloused hands, the noticeable lack of a sword or any other weapon. “But I… you can’t.”

“Why not? I want to see this dragon.” Satoru then grins and leans in to say, “And more than that, I want to see you try and kill it! There’s nothing else fun to do around here, anyway.”

Insane. He’s a madman. Suguru risked his life to save some nobleman with a potentially fatal sense of ennui.

“Satoru. Gojo-sama,” he pleads, not missing the little sparkle of delight in Satoru’s eyes at the proper address. “Go back to your family. If you come with me, you’re likely to die.”

“Hah, I’ll be fine. The cold doesn’t bother me much anyway,” Satoru shrugs, already crunching through the snow toward him, “as I’m sure you realized last night.”

Suguru’s face heats to the point that the little flurrie-flakes coming down melt the moment they kiss his cheeks.

“It’s not the cold that will kill you. Probably.” Being able to pool warmth on nights that would otherwise be deadly is beneficial, yes, though not a guarantee they won’t still end up frozen. “It’s the dragon.”

“The one you’re going to kill?” Satoru questions back, mocking. “If you’re as competent as you allege you are, what do I have to worry about? You'll slay it in one shot, won't you?”

Suguru takes a deep breath through his nose. Satoru is more pleasant company as an unconscious source of heat.

“Even if I do manage to put an arrow in it, there’s no certainty that I’ll be able to walk away after. I’m not counting on it, in fact.” Suguru can’t help but take another look at Satoru’s almost snowy skin, absent any scars or freckles, and large but soft hands; he carries all that muscle for nothing, apparently. “And you stand even less chance than I do.”

Satoru gazes up at the nearby mountain, chin lifted into the breeze, and smiles to himself. He’s still smiling when he turns back to Suguru. “I owe you, right? A life debt, you said. Then I’m accompanying you on this little journey of yours. Maybe I can repay the favor along the way.”

Doubtful. Suguru looks at Satoru and sees a young nobleman used to comforts and tea houses and all the pleasures gold can buy. Survival in a lean winter? Out in the harshest of elements? No. If Gojo Satoru lives to return home after, it will be something of a miracle.

But… he is a warm body in a place where warmth is a precious commodity. He is also exasperatingly persistent and foolhardy to boot, deaf to all of Suguru’s objections, and Suguru can’t waste further time or energy on trying to deter him.

The nights will be easier to sleep through with someone at his back, too—if Satoru can keep up.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly enough, Satoru doesn’t slow him down. Rather, he traverses the knee-deep snows with the same ease and familiarity as Suguru. It's a shocking display of competence from a man who seems to be more talk than anything else.

“You really mean to do this,” Satoru observes once they hit a near vertical climb of jagged cliff-face along the base of the mountain. With his hands planted on his hips, he squints up at Suguru, who is already halfway to the top. “Over what, a little more snow than usual?”

“A little snow?” Suguru nearly barks back, twisting his head around to yell down at Satoru. His gloved hands find purchase on ice-slicked rock and he continues pulling himself up the side of the cliff, breathing hard. “We've had enough snow to cave in our roofs and bury our fields and turn this place near-uninhabitable. We don’t all have the luxury of down-padded jackets and imported wool, you know. It’s killing us, all this snow.”

Suguru groans as he pulls himself up over the ledge, and then again as he rolls onto his back. After catching his breath, he turns on his side and peeks down at Satoru, who looks comically out of place here in the middle of the wilds. The man is dressed for a leisurely winter-day outing at court rather than scrambling up mountainsides.

“This is as good a place as any to part ways,” Suguru shouts down, almost grateful for the daunting physical challenge. If it deters Satoru, they’ll both be better off for it. “Go home, Satoru. I’m sure you’re missed and wanted elsewhere.”

“You’d think, right?” he calls back, showing no sign of turning around.

“I mean it,” Suguru tries again, not wanting to see Satoru flail and fume—or worse, get himself hurt—now that they’ve hit an actual obstacle. “This isn’t a journey for the weak.”

It’s not quite the word he meant to reach for, but it is the first one that came to mind. The moment it leaves his lips and reaches Satoru’s ears, though, Suguru can tell he’s struck a particular nerve—poked right at Satoru’s inverted scale, so to speak.

“Weak!?”

Snow-capped trees nearby rustle as a number of the valley’s few remaining birds take flight, frantically chirping. The outraged word echoes off the stone and snow, giving Suguru time to bite his bottom lip, squeeze his eyes shut, and regret the indelicate choice of words. Obviously—obviously—Gojo Satoru is a proud young man. Had Suguru been smarter, he’d have flattered him into backing off rather than giving him something to prove.

Satoru stamps a foot in deep snow and jabs a finger up at Suguru, who is sitting on a ledge some fifty feet above him. “You think you’re stronger than I am? You think you’re better than me?”

The temper tantrum certainly isn’t doing Satoru any favors where Suguru’s opinion is concerned; his twins back home are less bratty. Suguru pulls down the grey-black scarf covering the lower half of his face and purses his lips, noting that Satoru, flustered and furious as he is, hasn’t actually made any move to catch up to him.

He gives a shrug. “Maybe a little?”

Down below, Satoru goes quiet. Both arms are rigid at his sides, his shoulders squared.

Then, to Suguru’s shock, the young lord soldiers forward and starts climbing his way up the stone face of the mountain in his pretty white hanten and silk kimono and fine leather boots, with bare hands and hair too short to shield his neck or ears from the cold. The sight would look ridiculous if not for how adeptly Satoru maneuvers, scaling the rock no less quickly than Suguru had.

Suguru is so lost in staring at Satoru’s swift approach that he forgets to move himself from the cliff’s edge. By the time he scrambles to slide out of the way, Satoru is already there, heaving himself up and clambering over him—no, not over him. Atop him. Satoru bowls him over flat on his back and braces his hands on either side of Suguru’s head, caging him in; his sharp, leering grin looms right before Suguru’s eyes.

“That’s it? You were whining like that was hard!” Satoru laughs in his face, misty breath warm where it falls on Suguru’s chilled cheeks and eyelids. “If you're winded from that alone, maybe you’re the one who should turn back.”

Suguru doesn’t want to hear it from the reckless nuisance who nearly got himself drowned yesterday. He smacks his lips in annoyance and puts a gloved palm to Satoru’s cheek, pushing him aside—and only then does he recall that this is ostensibly a nobleman he’s putting his hands on, and in an incredibly informal, improper manner.

Satoru isn’t fussy this time, though. Still laughing, he rolls with the push and off of Suguru—though not without first calling him a bumpkin weakling and giving him a quick retaliatory shove in the shoulder.

Suguru swats his arm aside and sits up. His shoulder smarts from the push. “We’ll see how you do once we’re up where the treeline thins. The winds at those heights make the cold cut twice as sharp. The climbing will be less forgiving, too.”

He himself has only ascended that high up two or three times in his life—on other nearby mountains in milder seasons, usually, while tracking nimble deer and goats. But he can do it again. He must. And he knows well enough how to handle himself in thinner air and sparser surroundings.

Satoru stands and dusts himself off, offering Suguru no helping hand to get up. “That’s fine. I’m confident in my own natural ability.”

Suguru snorts at that, the sound rolling into a short laugh of his own. “Yes, I can tell.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d almost admire the unwavering certainty Satoru exhibits. There is a charm to it, beyond the frustration, that has Suguru half-tempted to believe the brash, boastful things that come out of that mouth. He believes that Satoru believes himself untouchable.

As he looks the man up and down, though, there is no denying he is ill-prepared for the arduous trek ahead. Suguru nibbles his chapped bottom lip, thinking.

“If you’re really going to do this,” he says, resigning himself to Satoru shadowing him for the next day or two, “you’ll need gloves. And a scarf. An oiled hide to put over all your silks would be nice, too, but... well, we'll work with what we have. It’s a miracle you’ve managed this well so far, honestly.”

“Is it, though? I already told you, a little chill has never bothered me.” Satoru has a way of looking imperiously down at him despite the fractional difference in their height. “The cold's no issue.”

Suguru can’t deny that Satoru runs hotter than most—hotter than Suguru himself does, certainly. It’s an advantage, but not one that makes him invincible within the unnatural winter that’s gripped the valley.

“I would wager you’ve never been out in conditions like this before. Frostbite sets in quicker than you’d think.”

Suguru shrugs out of his pack and crouches down beside it, digging within for the quilted shirt he’d leant Satoru last night. It’s comprised of layers and layers of cotton painstakingly stitched together, the irregular squares all in varying shades of blue—scrap fabric leftover from making his, Nanako’s, and Mimiko’s clothes last year. It’s thick. It's good insulation. It's worth more than gold when staying warm is a matter of life and death.

Suguru brings the edge of a fine knife to the fabric, hesitates, and then begins slicing carefully along the seams, cutting the shirt down to strips and squares. Within ten minutes, he is ready to loop the longest and largest piece of fabric around Satoru’s neck.

Satoru is slow and stiff to acquiesce when Suguru tells him to bow his head, but he does it. His mouth stays shut while Suguru winds the fabric snugly over his ears and nose before securely tucking the ends in.

He takes Satoru’s hands next, relieved to see no signs of frostnip yet on his fingertips or knuckles. Using narrower strips of quilted fabric, he wraps each hand in turn. Long fingers twitch against his own as Suguru forms makeshift mittens around them, double layered to keep them warmer.

“Once we stop for the night, I can sew something a little more secure,” he mutters, tucking the ends of the quilted fabric in around Satoru’s wrists and hoping they hold well enough for now. He wonders if perhaps Satoru lost his own gloves in the lake; surely he hasn’t been going around bare-handed all this time. “If they start to slip loose, tell me and I can re-do them. And if you start to go numb anywhere, say something. I don’t want you losing any fingers. Or your nose. Or anything else.”

It’s a terrible shame when it happens to anyone, losing bits and pieces of themselves to the withering of frostbite. It would be a particular tragedy in Satoru’s case, handsome as he and his hands are. Objectively speaking.

Only the strip of skin around Satoru’s light, bright eyes is visible now, his ears and everything else masked by patched quiltwork. He stares down at his wrapped hands, turning them front and back, before looking to Suguru.

The clear blue of his irises is nothing short of distracting. Suguru is unaccustomed to seeing such a color—one that belongs to high mountain springs and unblemished skies—in another's stare.

“—unnecessary, really,” Satoru is saying to him when Suguru’s attention once more broadens beyond the eyes looking into his. “But I can appreciate how much you seem to care about preserving the integrity of my fingers. And my nose. And everything else.”

Suguru can hear the stupid grin in Satoru’s voice even if he cannot see it. The sly crinkle at the corner those eyes makes his face go warm behind the cover of his own scarf, blush mercifully hidden from Satoru's sight. Suguru is not one to redden often or easily, and yet...

He clicks his tongue against his teeth—what, is he being teased now for simply being practical? considerate? generous?—and glares at Satoru sidelong as he passes him by, continuing up a natural sort of path that will take them through the white woods ahead.

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They’re still near the base of the mountain when they stop to make camp a couple of hours before sundown. Suguru finds a decent spot to set up his tent, sheltered from the worst of the wind among a dense thicket of trees, and then prepares a simple dinner of soup and rice. Satoru isn’t shy about eating his fill, going so far as to scrape the pot clean before Suguru has even finished his own share. 

There isn't enough wood to burn for anything beyond the necessities of cooking and melting snow, unfortunately, which means this night will be colder than the last. Once they’ve finished their supper, Suguru wastes no time in crawling inside and pulling off his snow- and ice-crusted outer layers.

The tent is a narrow fit, having been made for use on Suguru’s lone hunting expeditions. It makes little difference, ultimately—between the need to share body warmth and the size of the futon itself, they’ll be right on top of each other regardless. A small space is quicker and easier to heat, too. Suguru sits cross-legged upon the blanket and fur that will cover them tonight and pulls a needle and thread from his pack. His bare fingers are tremble as he begins sewing, but they’ll warm through soon enough.

Satoru squeezes in beside him shortly after, filling any space Suguru isn’t. He cocks his head and watches while Suguru works under the thin, dying beam of sunset that feeds in through the opening of the tent.

“My mittens?”

“Your mittens,” Suguru nods, shaping and sewing the cloth wrappings into crude but functional protection for Satoru’s hands.

Satoru pouts his lips out after watching for another minute. “I’d prefer gloves.”

“Well, you’re getting mittens.” Suguru smiles brightly at him while putting the last few stitches in place, daring Satoru to complain.

It’s not his best work but it will hold up for a few days of travel. He stuffs the mittens in with Satoru’s outer clothes for when they dress tomorrow, glad to have one more thing off his mind. And with that task done, Suguru secures the tent’s opening, takes down his hair, and readies for sleep.

Satoru is quick to follow. In just their underclothes—a cotton kosode for Satoru and a simple quilted undershirt and loose trousers for Suguru—they get uncomfortably close to one another to bed down.

Once snugly trapped together, Suguru finds it difficult to focus on anything but how pleasingly warm Satoru is, and all the places they touch, and how near their noses are to each other’s. Satoru’s breath is warm and smells of tea still. His eyes glint bright even in the dark, pale color catching whatever faint light reaches through the tent’s seams; his staring is blatant, not a trace of shame or shyness to be found.

Would it be easier if he turned over and they laid back-to-front? Suguru wonders. But then the thought of Satoru pressed to his spine, lips and heated breath near his nape, has him thinking no, that’s not much better.

His meandering thoughts keep him from anything approaching sleep. Whatever weary comfort he’d taken in Satoru’s presence last night has not carried over to this one; he is too aware, suddenly, of how strange and awkward their physical proximity is. In other, better circumstances, someone like Satoru would not so much as look at him. Or he’d have Suguru flogged in the street for impertinence. One or the other. But one little twist of fate and here they are, near-strangers pressed close in the dark.

Satoru has fewer grievances to voice this time, at least. No protest is made as they fold themselves onto the futon until they fit together, the dire necessity of it apparently having sunk in. It seems he can’t sleep either, given the frequent fidgeting and shifting Suguru feels against his side—and then the man sits up, pulling the covers with him, and rummages in Suguru’s travel pack while muttering about still being hungry.

Suguru’s sigh is lost in the rush of wind through the trees just outside. The dusk sky was clear when Suguru fastened the tent’s opening shut, no signs of torrential snowfall on the horizon. In the confines of the tent, their breaths sound twice as loud. Satoru’s chewing—now apparently snacking on Suguru’s meager supply of dried persimmons and loquats—seems three times as loud. And annoying.

“Um. What’s it like, traveling around?” Suguru eventually asks for want of distraction, hating the awkwardness of lying so close to someone he barely knows. “Do you feel like it’s been worthwhile? Do you ever get homesick?”

Satoru’s quiet spell breaks with, “Hm? Have you really never done it? Not even one foot outside this little valley?”

“No. Never. Even my furthest hunting trips kept me relatively close to my village.” Suguru explains his reluctance to leave with, “I have a couple of kids that depend on me.”

There is a quiet beat before Satoru asks, “A wife, too?”

“What? No. No, they’re not—they lost their parents some years ago and had no one else. And I had no one else at the time, either.”

His grandparents had died summers ago, and his mother had passed the year prior, and his father… well, who knows? The twins were orphaned in the following winter, when extra mouths are hard to feed, and Suguru'd had more than enough food and space to spare for them. Nanako and Mimiko simply stayed on with him after that, having taken quickly to the idea of having an older brother. The whole village more or less decided they were best off with him, too, and that was that.

Satoru hums at that, popping more dried fruit into his mouth and then speaking through it. “If they have no one else, why are you leaving them all alone to chase after a dragon?”

Suguru stiffens where he lays, trying to dissect whether there’s judgment in that or mere curiosity.

“It’s for them.” He rubs his cheek against the futon under his head; thinking of Nanako and Mimiko missing him turns his stomach queasy. “I didn’t take them in just to watch them shiver and starve. I couldn’t even feed them anymore,” he quietly admits. “They’re better off in the care of a friend for now. This is what I can do for them. This is all I can do, really.”

Satoru’s takeaway from all that is, “They’re not even of your own blood yet you’d go to such lengths?”

Suguru wants to knee him in the gut. Just a little. “What do you mean? I’d do that and more. I’d do anything. Wouldn’t you for a child?” 

“I have none.”

“A hypothetical child, then,” he tries, exasperated. At Satoru’s drawn silence, he scoffs. “Do you really think love and sacrifice are for blood relations only? Do you not think all children deserving of the same sort of affection you received from your parents, regardless of who they were born to?”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. He props an arm under his head and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand, looking down through the dark at Suguru beside him. Warm breath exhaled through his nose tickles at strands of Suguru’s hastily combed-out hair. 

“No, I don’t think blood holds much significance at all. And I can’t really speak to parental affection, given mine died when I was still quite young. I was taken in by my uncle,” Satoru explains, “who led the clan until I came of age.”

“Ah.” Guilt worms in Suguru’s stomach for making assumptions. Satoru just… seems to be the type to lead a charmed life, he supposes. “So, he’s the family you’re closest to, then?”

Satoru's teeth show as he laughs, the sound cold and hard even in its surprise. “Him? No, no, he tried to kill me. It was a—what would you call it? A scheme.” He pauses to pick at a piece of fruit between his teeth. “A farce. He kept me close whilst shoring up his own alliances and then tried to off me just before I was old enough to head the clan.”

Suguru lays there in silence, too shocked for words. Then he finds them. “I’m sorry, Satoru. That’s… I can’t imagine how terrible—”

“There’s no need for that. I slew my uncle instead. It’s all settled,” Satoru says with a yawn, as easily as if talking of a tea ceremony being booked.

Suguru swallows hard, knowing Satoru can hear it—his heartbeat, too, perhaps, picking up in response. He licks his lips and delicately asks, “Is that… a secret?”

Being let in on some nobleman’s kinslaying history isn’t really a desirable bit of knowledge to have, least of all as an easily disappeared nobody. Suguru can only hope his mission sounds doomed enough that Satoru isn’t worried about him running to tattle to anyone, for all the good that would do.

“No, my whole clan knows. Most of them watched it happen,” Satoru shrugs, still eating little morsels of dried fruit. He laughs softly and adds, “And none of them were surprised. Nor was I, really. Some part of me had known it was building toward that ever since I was a child. A clan can only have one head, just like a dragon.” He pauses and chews. “Unless you’re Yamata-no-Orochi, but that’s—special case, that one. An outlier. Let’s not count him.”

Suguru could not care less about the semantics of dragon-to-clan comparisons. No, he is more concerned with the knowledge that his present company is an admitted killer. A very casually admitted killer.

Unnerving as it is, though, his view of Satoru doesn’t change much. Clan inheritance and jockeying for power can be terribly messy, Suguru imagines. He is of no mind to condemn Satoru for defending himself—especially at a vulnerable age.

Assuming he takes Satoru at his word. Which Suguru… does. He thinks. Yes, he thinks he does.

Such a history somewhat explains Satoru’s doubt in the authenticity of a bond with no blood relation. If your only kin are distant unknowns, bystanding observers, and direct competition, anyone outside the family must seem even less likely to care. He must lack for friends, too, and for family of his own choosing. Why else would he be traveling alone like this? And attach himself like a bur to some random commoner met in passing? It’s not as if Suguru has given him much welcome or made himself enjoyable company.

“That would make you the head of your clan, then?” Suguru asks, already knowing that it must.

At Satoru’s nod, Suguru swallows down the sticky, cottony feeling in his throat. So, Satoru is definitely not the rich, embellishing merchant he’d first taken him for. Nor is he some minor lordling of low standing, nor the fifth and forgotten son of some daimyo’s least favorite concubine. No, Satoru sits at the head of some clan with wealth, land, and all the power that comes with those things—enough of it to tempt an uncle into killing off his own nephew.

And Suguru has spent the better part of two days teasing him. Chastising him. Talking his ear off about the local flora and fauna. Sharing meals with him, and clothes, and a bed. Liberties that are not normally taken with someone who occupies a social standing numerous rungs above your own. Satoru was right, back when they first met: Suguru really had no idea who he was talking to.

But it’s too late now to undo all that and Suguru has no will left to muster some performative subservience, either. Satoru has let him speak his mind thus far without threatening to have his tongue for it. And it’s not as if he’s a model clan lord, either, so…

“Yet you are wandering around cities and mountainsides instead of tending to your duties?” Suguru wonders aloud, more and more baffled by Satoru’s spur of the moment decision to join him—to be out here at all, far from the family he is supposed to be heading.

“You’re not going to lecture me, are you?” Satoru glumly questions.

“Sounds like you already know you’re deserving of one." Perhaps the bloodshed was inevitable if Satoru’s uncle put him in that position, but it still seems a waste to abandon the role he fought someone to the death over. “But I don’t know enough about clan politicking or responsibilities to lecture you properly. So, you get off easy this time.”

From Satoru’s laugh, he must be grinning. “Oh, I like that answer.”

“Just know that I don’t think gallivanting around the countryside is the best look for the young head of a clan,” Suguru tells him before he can mistake the lack of criticism for tacit approval. 

While laid on his side with his cheek propped in hand, Satoru dips his head down closer to Suguru’s—close enough for Suguru to make out the shape of his smile in the dark. “And how young do you think I am, Suguru?”

“Of course you ask when I can barely see you.” Suguru hums to himself, thinking back over the day’s trek and all the sides of Satoru’s seen: grinning braggart; competitive show-off; self-important and fresh-faced and filled with wanderlust. “A bit younger than I am, maybe? Twenty-four or twenty-five summers?”

“Mm, no,” Satoru says, a low, pleased laugh following after. “I am older than you, actually. A fair bit older.”

“Ah.” It surprises Suguru a little, truthfully, but he takes care not to show it. Satoru is confident enough without further flattery over his appearance. “Your wastrel charms and carefree lifestyle make you seem years younger than your age, then, I suppose.”

“Wastrel? You’re sharp-tongued even when you pay me compliments,” the grown man mopes—or pouts, more like, though it’s hard to tell with so little light to see by. “You’ll never get a wife with an attitude like that.”

“That is the least of my concerns,” Suguru dryly responds, having his own private laugh at the insinuation he’s on the hunt for one. “I don’t expect to run into any marriage prospects between here and the top of the mountain.”

Satoru yawns. “You never know.”

Just beyond the hide walls of the small tent, wind whistles through the trees and rustles their icy needles; the deepening cold causes frozen branches to crack and pop. Compared to the noise within, though, all else sounds as if faraway. Crowded together on the shared futon and huddled under the same covers, their breaths seem to be amplified such that Suguru can pay attention to little else. The air between them is warm and heavy and close, with some strange density to it. It would be stifling, if it weren’t such a welcome change from the bitter cold they’ve been traveling in.

The world outside—and Suguru’s looming obligation to it—feels distant in dark hours like these. The solid weight of Satoru snug against his side, though? The steady, inviting heat that rolls off of him? The reassurance of being not-alone? Too real. It feels like a small world all its own, this little bubble they’re trapped in together.

“I do wish I’d gotten to venture a little further from home at some point,” Suguru admits in the comfort of the dark, his hands folded over his middle. It’s too late for that now. His head gives a quarter turn as he says, “Tell me about some of the places you’ve been, Satoru. Please?”

“Satoru this, Satoru that. No one else calls me by my name, you know.” It’s a mild complaint delivered without any bite or bitterness. “And you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Tell me about somewhere warm you’ve stayed, Gojo-sama. Make me feel as if I am there, if you can.”

“Well, now it feels odd to hear you call me anything else,” Satoru mutters under his breath, complaining yet again. “And let’s see, hm… back home, we have hot springs. My clan’s castle is surrounded by them,” he boasts, “the air all full of steam and snow.”

“Where are you from?” Suguru wonders, eyes searching Satoru’s face in the dark.

“North. Far north and high in the mountains, with snowfall all year round.” Still stretched out on his side, he leans in over Suguru. His breath is as warm as the rest of him. “And even in weather like this, the springs stay hot. Snow and ice cannot even stick to the earth around them. Some are boiling, even. But there are many more where you could happily sit and soak until you’re pruney and pink all over—the longest, warmest, most satisfying bath of your life. And there are macaques!”

“Oh,” Suguru says, voice lilting down. The inclusion of monkeys sort of breaks the peaceful fantasy for him. But still. “That’s where I want to be,” he muses, his sigh full of longing. “Soaking like a crab in a hot pot. Right now, I don’t even think I’d mind being boiled.”

“What, am I not keeping you warm enough?”

Suguru grins to himself, unable to complain in that regard. Little wonder Satoru is so unaffected by the cold if he grew up where this foul weather is the norm. He is made for it.

“No, you are doing a very admirable job,” Suguru praises. Despite the freezing nighttime winds outside, there is no dull, freezing ache in his fingers and toes. He hasn’t shivered even once since settling in for bed with Satoru. He is as comfortable as anyone could be while camped on the side of an ice dragon’s mountain. “I hardly even miss having a fire.”

That’s not enough for Satoru, apparently. He braces a hand on the other side of Suguru, wrist pressing in along the side of Suguru’s ribs, and then leans in over him. He lets maybe half his weight rest on Suguru, all solid heat and insistence pinning him to the futon.

“And?”

Suguru’s mouth goes dry and his skin burns hot as he stares up at the shadowed features hovering just above him, Satoru’s obscured face looming close. There is huddling together for survival and then there is… this. Whatever it is Satoru thinks he’s doing.

“And I’m glad you insisted on coming with me,” Suguru says in a whisper, making a guess at what Satoru so wants to hear. He means it, too, though he might not have otherwise volunteered to say so. “It’s been far less of a trial with you here. So thank you.”

Satisfied, Satoru pulls back a little. A little. And unlike this morning, when Suguru found himself half-draped across Satoru’s form, he is now the one being blanketed.

Satoru drops down on his stomach, half his body on the futon and the other half still pinning Suguru to it. His leg lays heavy across Suguru’s. One of his arms slings across Suguru’s chest. His head rests close enough to Suguru that their foreheads bump against one another’s when they move.

It’s a far cry from the attitude he’d exhibited just one day prior, aghast that Suguru would dare touch him or use him for heat. Not that Suguru is complaining, although he lays stiffly under the careless drape of Satoru's body. He himself feels distant from the Suguru of this morning and yesterday, then so vexed by Satoru and eager to shoo him off.

When Suguru first set out from his village, it was in grim silence and with grim purpose. And while death—either his or the dragon’s, or perhaps even both—still waits for him atop the mountain, the journey thus far has been lively. Instead of hiking onward in utter silence, he’s had the enjoyment of sharing so many little things he loves about his homeland with Satoru: the chestnut trees they pass, the dens where the local black bears winter, the birds he knows by song, a handful of camellias still stubbornly, resolutely in bloom…

But what Satoru has taken the keenest interest in thus far are the stories of the valley outside of winter, when the hillsides are bright with wildflowers, the trees hang heavy with blossoms and fruit, and the woods are alive with birds and insects and animals. Which is fortunate, as those are Suguru’s favorites to tell, too.

Chapter Text

When Suguru pokes his head out from the tent the next morning, the air outside is chill and crisp and pleasantly still. No billowing, cutting wind laced with ice greets him—just a light, powdery snow gently coming down and dusting the world white. Whiter, anyway.

It’s unusually mild weather, more akin to the winters Suguru is used to. Pretty, too.

Within the tight confines of the tent, he changes and dons everything but his thick straw coat and cloak. He takes a comb to his thick hair and then ties it back, most of its length tucked inside his quilted shirt. And then, while in the process of pulling on his socks and boots, Suguru gives Satoru a gentle shake to rouse him.

Something unintelligible issues from under the blanket—followed by a foot as Satoru blindly kicks at him.

“Alright,” Suguru grits out, his patience instantly sapped. He grabs the covers to pack them up, fighting Satoru’s sleepy attempts to hang onto them. “Come on, Satoru! Time to get up.”

“It’s so early, though,” the man complains as Suguru next tries in vain to roll him off of the futon. His large frame remains sprawled across it, too dense to be moved by Suguru’s efforts. “And with you as a pillow, I was actually comfortable there for a while.”

“Yes, I could tell,” Suguru says, having awoken to find Satoru face down in his chest, breaths wheezing through what few small gaps the air could find.

“We walked so much yesterday,” Satoru goes on while stretching his arms and legs. He arches his back next, looking something like a lazy cat being forced to move from a favorite lounging spot. A big cat, like the ones Suguru has seen on scrolls sold by traveling merchants—white tigers and snow leopards from across the sea, large enough to devour men. “What if we take a day off? It’s nice and warm in here now, isn’t it? You can tell me more about the… the local history or whatever, your little backwater adventures, and I’ll nap.”

Suguru sits back on his heels, somewhat in disbelief. Satoru has a way of continually surprising him with the most offhanded words and rudeness.

“You may have forgotten, but this isn’t a sightseeing trip. I have a schedule to keep and we’re already losing daylight,” he says while piling Satoru’s nice garments and hanten on top of his lazing form. As he moves to leave, he warns Satoru, “If you’re not out soon, I’ll just pack up the tent with you in it.”

“Is that so? I’m tempted to make you put your money where your smart little mouth is,” Satoru grumbles back, “and have you carry me up the rest of the mountain.”

“You’d be better off with your litter and servants for that,” Suguru says through the tent flap, pleased to see Satoru is pulling on his clothes and gathering his things, ugly mittens included. “Should’ve brought them with you.”

“I keep telling myself that, too,” Satoru sighs, hanging his head.

Suguru has a small laugh to himself at the dramatics. A grin lingers on his lips until he does a quick inventory of their supplies while packing his bag for the day’s hike. 

Upon exiting the tent some minutes later, Satoru immediately notices the small, makeshift fire pit from last night is unlit and nothing is cooking. He looks quizzically at Suguru and asks, “Where's breakfast?” 

“After your hoggish snacking last night, there’s nothing left but rice. And not much of it.” What they do have is mostly dust and broken grains to begin with, scraped up from whatever was leftover after divying out food for Nanako and Mimiko. “When I packed for this trip, I didn’t expect to have a second mouth to feed. Nor one that eats like it has three stomachs to fill.”

Satoru blinks at him. He lifts his arms to either side of him, at a loss. “You never told me to stop.”

“I didn't think it needed to be said! I didn’t realize you were eating all of it.” It doesn’t help that Suguru is accustomed to letting Nanako and Mimiko take their fill and then sating himself with whatever’s left; he’d let Satoru do much the same with their limited stock, never imagining he’d munch through it with such careless abandon. Who does that? “Did you think I left my starving village with a banquet’s worth of food in my pack? Did you believe the bag would refill itself when you were done?” he chides, shaking the now-empty pouch that had held dry loquats and persimmons and other small fruit.

Satoru’s mouth hangs open for a moment. He does a slow turn, apparently taking in the desolation around them: the frozen earth, the vanished game, and the empty, songless skies. When he turns back to Suguru, it's with a pinch of somberness.

“...Then what do we eat?” Satoru then questions, showing more concern over a skipped meal than he had at the mention of an oppressive dragon residing atop the mountain they’re climbing.

Suguru hangs his head and lets out a long, slow sigh. It's his fault, really, for trusting Satoru with anything at all.

“Nothing, for right now. We’re rationing from here on out. But it will be okay as long as we keep moving. We’ll have enough rice for dinner tonight and a decent meal tomorrow morning. We should be nearing the summit by that point,” Suguru figures, glancing up at the ascent that lies ahead.

There’s still nowhere near enough to keep them both fed, especially on the return trip. But if Suguru is honest—and it becomes harder by the day to convince himself otherwise—he most likely won’t be making a descent. Accounting for that, there ought to be just enough rice leftover to sustain Satoru on his return down the mountain, especially if thinned out into a porridge. Enough to get him to a village where he’ll be properly fed, if he’s smart about it.

For today, though, they’ll need to go a while on empty stomachs. Suguru is used to it, thanks to the way this winter’s gone.

❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅

Satoru, however, is apparently unaccustomed to prolonged bouts of hunger.

“I could swallow a deer whole,” he moans, lagging behind as he follows the path Suguru’s footsteps have carved in the knee-deep snow. 

Suguru laughs behind closed lips and the cover of his scarf, taking some small satisfaction from Satoru's miserable antics. You’d think he’d been starving out here for days with the way he’s moping.

“Wait! Why don’t we stop and look for one?” Satoru then suggests, desperate and eager. “Find ourselves a meal? Come on, there's no way you aren't aching to eat, too.”

“You can try, if you like,” Suguru nonchalantly tells him over his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I won’t wait for you, either. Time is of the essence and hunters like myself are accustomed to going hungry while on the trail, anyway. I am obviously less affected than you.”

Suguru’s traitorous stomach chooses then to let out an audible, undulating growl that goes on for seconds, the sound even louder as it bounces off the snow and ice on every nearby surface. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns forward again, struggling to pick up his pace while desperately pretending he can’t hear Satoru bounding through the snow behind him, freshly incentivized to catch up.

“Oh? What was that? Suguru? Suguru, was that you?” he pesters over Suguru’s shoulder, now practically on his heels. “No… no, it couldn’t be! Not with your special hunter stom—”

“Satoru, would you please give it a rest?”

“Maybe if you admit you’re missing breakfast just the same as I am.”

“Are you seriously... yes, okay? Yes, of course I am starving, too,” Suguru huffs through the fabric covering his nose and mouth. He flails an arm behind himself to smack at Satoru for being right on his ass, the toes of his boots practically stepping on his heels. “But as I said, I’m used to working through it. You’ll need to get used to it as well. At least for the next few days.”

He still can’t understand why Satoru hasn’t turned and left, given the smallest hardship has him groaning like a dying man. Suguru would gladly split the remaining rice with him right now, let him keep the mittens and scarf, and send Satoru back in the direction of some semblance of safety. There is no need for him to be here, subjecting himself to everything Suguru has no choice but to confront.

All this talk of food doesn’t make traveling on an empty belly any easier. Now that Satoru’s made such a fuss, it’s all Suguru can focus on.

“I do miss venison,” Suguru says after a few more minutes of hiking and climbing, a little sheepish to even whine that much. “A lot. The only meat we've had for weeks are fowl or rabbits. Stringy ones.”

Ones Suguru has almost felt guilty for catching and killing, given how little meat is on them. The local fauna are faring little better than the vale's people are.

“I miss fresh peaches and satsumas, too. And roasted kabocha and eggplants. Mm.” His stomach growls again, loud and needy as it is reminded of foods he hasn’t been able to eat in ages. “Soba with fresh daikon. That’s the best. As soon as I get my hands on some buckwheat flour again,” he groans while pulling himself up a steep section of hillside, gripping onto ice-crusted tree roots for balance, “that’s all I’m going to eat for a week. Maybe two.”

Satoru, still just a few paces behind him, has nothing to say to that. Most likely his hunger is affecting his mood. Suguru can’t really hold it against him. He has been a wan, irritable version of himself for these past few months, too.

For the next few hours, there is no chatting, no questions about the lay of the land, no pointing out the rare, occasional bird chirping by. They trek in silence—or close to it, with heavy breaths and crunching snow all that fill the air—until they come to another sheer mountain face of near-vertical rock and are forced to stop.

The stone is worn smooth in most places, lacking footholds and good grip. Not good. They’ll need to find another way forward. Suguru traverses alongside the unscalable cliff for a while, looking upward for any sort of workable climbing path, until—

Ah. After several bends around the sheer, stony mountainside, he sees it: a frozen waterfall tucked against the rock, its towering column of ice offering crags that could serve as steps and handholds. Or as fragile pitfalls that could send them plummeting.

Either way, it will have to serve. Suguru cannot see another way forward that doesn’t entail circling the mountain to try approaching from another face, which could add precious days to the journey. He cannot afford to waste time, given the harsh bite of winter and the lack of food. Resigned to ice-climbing, he digs a small axe from his pack and passes it to Satoru. He keeps his mother's dagger in hand for himself, grateful that it’s of sturdy make.

At the foot of the waterfall, he gazes up. The water is crystalline and white-opaque. Sharp in places. Slick in others. Suguru swallows while trying to plot out a route to the top, which he can barely see from here at the bottom. A fall on a climb like this will most certainly break bones. A bad landing could kill instantly. It’s all ice and stone at the bottom of the frozen waterfall rather than cushioning snow. And Suguru has more than just himself to worry about, too.

“I don’t have any rope to tie us together,” he warns, hoping it will keep Satoru patient and cautious as they make the climb. “There’s real risk here, Satoru. Be careful.”

“You be careful,” Satoru snorts back, flicking a hand at him to hurry up and start climbing. “If you fall, you’ll take me out on your way down.”

How encouraging. But he’s not wrong.

Suguru sighs and makes his first move up the frozen waterfall, stomach weaving itself into knots as he does. He’s done something like this before, back when he was younger, but never for such a long stretch. Never without his mother there as an anchor, showing him the safest way forward.

Now, he is the one responsible for taking all the right steps for Satoru to follow—for picking sturdy footholds that will hold their weight and the climbing path of least resistance. His dagger helps serve as an ice-anchor, digging in wherever the surface is too uniform to find purchase. Even so, it is painfully slow-going, with little bits of ice constantly chipping off and plummeting down to the solid, glistening stream below. He worries incessantly for Satoru in those stupid, shoddy mittens and layers of loose, flowing fabric. Suguru repeatedly glances down to check on him, only to be met with the same impatient urge to keep moving.

After more than an hour of painstaking progress, Suguru’s hands ache and his grip is but a fraction of its usual strength. His thighs, so long tensed and strained while perched on narrow ledges or awkward footholds, begin to burn. The next time he glances down, the distance to the outcropping of rock below leaves his vision spinning and his head dizzy.

“Suguru! Hey, Suguru. Just a little further,” Satoru calls up to him. “Look forward, not down. Go on. See how close you are? One last push.”

Suguru blinks, his eyes watering just to freeze along his lashes. He sucks in a breath so cold it makes his teeth ache and swivels forward again, mustering whatever strength remains for him to call on; between the thinner air and the duration of this vertical climb, there isn't much. The burn in his muscles turns sharp and sawing as he tries dragging himself up and onto the icy ledge that marks the crest of the waterfall. He slips twice in doing so, only hanging on by the strength of his arms and some desperate stabbing at the ice for an anchor. With a strangled grunt and a string of desperate thoughts—too much depends upon him to stopped here, to let all this be wasted, to let down Satoru, too—he finally manages to haul himself up and onto a blessedly horizontal surface.

The mountain stream is frozen solid up here, too. Suguru lays atop the snow-strewn ice for several long seconds, chest heaving with harsh breaths, before he drags himself onto his knees and crawls to the edge to help pull Satoru up.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the young clan lord grunts, smacking Suguru’s offered hand away. With far less struggle, he swings himself up and over the rim of the waterfall. From a couch, he rises tall; his broad-shouldered shadow falls over Suguru. “Are you?”

Suguru nods, but even that makes his head spin.

Standing is far more of a struggle than it should be, his aching legs buckling each time he tries. The hard, unforgiving ice underfoot is no help, either. Suguru can't even manage half a step before he slips back down on hands and knees, head bowed while he waits for his vision to steady. He is still gathering his strength for another attempt when firm hands hook under his arms and lift his upper body.

Quite easily, too... it’s Satoru, of course, holding him up while walking the both of them backward. Suguru’s heels drag across the frozen stream’s surface as Satoru tugs him along, taking them both clear of the ice.

“Thank you,” Suguru wheezes as he’s laid down in a soft snowdrift some distance away, his heavy pack set beside him.

Sunlight falls on him in full. Though there's not much warmth to be had from it, it is infinitely better than being stuck in the shade-side of the mountain, even if the wind up here is nothing short of brutal. Suguru closes his eyes, his sight spotted and swimming from all the white around him and the daylight glaring off of it. He opens them again when something presses to his lips.

It’s cold and round and hard and small. A nut? Herbal medicine? Satoru forces it into his mouth without sharing any explanation first.

The sweetness that hits Suguru’s tongue is like a shock to the system. He can hardly remember the last time he had any kind of confectionery, much less one like this.

“What is this? Candy?” he asks while pushing it to one side of his mouth. The flavor is mild, milky, and pleasant. Its texture is firmer than a cherry pit and smooth like a freshwater pearl. Suguru’s never tasted anything quite like it. “You were moaning about food this whole time and you had candy?”

“I forgot,” Satoru simply shrugs, peeling the waxed paper off of a few more pieces. He pops one in his mouth and immediately gives it a hard crunch. “Not my fault you’re a constant distraction. Here, have another.”

Suguru reflexively seals his lips as Satoru moves to shove another small candy in his mouth, making muffled little noises as Satoru simply tries pushing it in harder.

“Ugh, what is wrong with you? The sugar will do you good,” Satoru complains, his thumb pressing and squishing at Suguru’s lips.

Suguru opens his mouth to complain, you could just hand it to me, then, only to have the candy immediately jammed in. Satoru’s thumb slips inside along with it; giving into an impulse, Suguru snaps his jaws shut, front teeth nipping the pad of Satoru’s thumb in the process.

“Ah! You fussy little ingrate,” Satoru cries, immediately pinching and pulling at one of Suguru’s cheeks in retaliation. “You can’t get candy like this anywhere but proper port cities. I share two whole pieces with you and this is how you thank me? Ungrateful.”

Ingrate? Ungrateful? Suguru has been sharing every meal with this man for days now. More than half his food supply is inside Satoru’s belly instead of his own, which is partly to blame for his nearly passing out after that climb.

Suguru rolls both pieces around in his mouth and finds the sweetness quite nice, if a little much after so long spent eating bland, winter-hardy foods. “I’m not ungrateful. Just surprised you insisted on hand feeding me.”

Satoru’s head lolls as he rolls his eyes.

“Who doesn’t like being fed? You’ll criticize me for anything,” he mutters, sulking and pouting where he sits crouched in front of Suguru. With a sigh, he sets his hands on his knees. “Whatever. You suck on those and rest here for a while. If you feel well enough later, start getting camp ready for the night.”

Satoru stands, then snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered something else. “Oh, and don’t die.”

“Well, if you say so.” Suguru snorts, already trying to push himself up.

A hand firm on his chest stops him, forcing him back down into the snow.

“I said to rest. Are you hard of hearing?” he tuts, giving one of Suguru’s ears a soft flick. “The top of the mountain isn’t going anywhere, is it?”

“N-No, but—”

“Then there’s no great hurry. Stay put. I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that, Satoru shoves him deeper down into the snow and departs, the hem of his excessively long outermost kimono swishing and stirring up little flurries behind himself.

Suguru blinks his eyes shut, deciding to wait until his breathing has evened out before testing his strength once more. When he opens them again, the sun has moved slightly lower in the sky and Satoru is still gone.

Not just run off to relieve himself, then, Suguru figures. It troubles him, not knowing why Satoru took off so abruptly, but...

As Suguru stirs, he finds he’s feeling better. Maybe he just needed some time to catch his breath. The sweet candy was certainly a help, too, and some comfort for his empty belly.

After stiffly struggling to his feet—his body aches horribly from the strain of the climb, muscles he’d forgotten about now making their pain loudly known—Suguru is determined to make himself useful and to compensate for the lost time. He picks a nearby spot where the stone forms a natural barrier to the wind and moves his pack there. In a deep snowdrift, he carves out a snow cave large enough to hold them both. He sets up the tent inside it, insulated by the snow all around, and then sits back on his heels. It will keep them warmer tonight than they’d otherwise manage on their own.

There’s no point in starting a fire yet, given how limited his supply of dry wood and charcoal is. The extra heat would be wasted without Satoru here to benefit from it, too.

With nothing else to occupy him, Suguru can only contemplate how cold he is and wonder where on earth Satoru ran off to. It's been at least an hour...

Anxious that Satoru might be in trouble, Suguru heaves himself up onto his feet and starts following the footprints left in the snow.

They trail beside the frozen stream, weaving around trees and boulders and the like. In short time, Satoru’s prints lead him to a frozen-over pond fed by myriad little frozen waterfalls, which is surely an even more beautiful sight in warmer weather. And at the pond’s center, he sees Satoru: laid flat on the ice with his arm stuck through a fishing hole, soaked up to the shoulder.

It beggars belief, how one man who seems so adept one moment can become so stupid in the next.

"Satoru!"

There are myriad holes punched through the ice all across the pond, as if Satoru’s been at this lunacy for some time. Is this what he’d been doing when he fell in the lake at the mountain’s base? Crawled out to try and fish barehanded in freezing waters? And then he goes and does it again?

“Gojo Satoru! Have you truly learned nothing? I will not be jumping in after you this time!”

It is an untruth, unfortunately. He would, in fact, end up diving in straightaway, though the subsequent exposure would likely kill them both. But Satoru doesn’t need to know that. In fact, it might be best if he believes he would be left to flop and drown on his own if he continues with reckless behavior like this.

Satoru’s head lifts from the ice—just slightly, eyes blinking wide open at the sight of Suguru storming toward him. “Hey, hey, hey, you’re going to scare the fish away. Back off.”

“Fish? Fish? Satoru, they’re probably all dead in there just like everything else around here! Get up before you freeze your arm off! Before you fall in!”

Satoru scoffs dismissively at him, as if Suguru is the irrational one here. The condescending effect is somewhat diminished while he’s lying on his flat on his belly with an arm plugged in an ice hole. “I’m fine! I'm catching something. Just give me—I just need one minute more.”

“You're catching your death of cold is what you are! This is beyond careless, Satoru. You are unbelievable. Incorrigible! Deaf to my every concern. If not for my sake, at least mind your own welfare. You can’t… look, I understand you’re hungry. I am as well. But you can’t go—”

“Aha!” Satoru abruptly pushes himself up off the frozen pond’s surface and back onto his heels, withdrawing from the hole he’d made in the ice. His arm, multiple layers of sleeves and all, is dripping wet and raised victoriously… with a truly massive cherry trout clutched in his bare hand, desperately trying to thrash and wriggle out of his grasp. “Gotcha, you little bastard! See, Suguru? See? I caught one!”

Suguru’s lips part and his mouth hangs open, eyes round at the sight of fresh food. Fresh fish. The tip of his tongue brushes the coarse fabric of his scarf as he licks his lips.

That excitement and relief is swiftly pushed aside as the wind picks up once more, howling around them and across this face of the mountain. Beyond the magnificent trout, Suguru’s eyes can fix only on the soaked sleeves clinging to Satoru’s arm, the wet fabric already beginning to turn stiff. In mere minutes, they could freeze themselves to Satoru’s skin.

Suguru closes the gap between them, pulls Satoru to his feet, and makes haste back to their shelter for the night, tugging him along at a quick clip.

“You get yourself soaking wet with the absolute coldest water available,” Suguru chastises under his breath, eyes darting nervously to the pale, pale hand clutched around that stupid fucking fish. He’s used to seeing early frostbite manifest in splotches of ugly, swollen red, but severe cases can turn patches of skin white and waxy. He squints. “Just how long did you have your arm in there?”

“I just caught the most massive fish you’ve ever seen and all you can talk about is my arm—”

“I’ve seen bigger,” Suguru gets out of the way first. “And the trout means nothing to me. Not if it comes at the cost of one of your hands or, heavens forbid, a whole arm. Have you ever seen gangrene in a limb, Satoru?”

“Suguru, Suguru, Suguru,” Satoru imploringly calls. “Calm down. I was only fishing in there for… not very long. Not long at all! You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”   

“No, you’re too cold.” Suguru doesn’t even have to touch Satoru’s afflicted arm to know it must be freezing. He can see the sparkle of ice crystals already forming on the silk with his own two eyes; it even glimmers along Satoru’s fingertips where they’re dug into the trout’s scales. “Look! There’s literally frost on your skin, Satoru.”

“I—barely,” Satoru says, quickly hiding his other arm behind his back and out of Suguru’s view. “It’s more the water than anything. I don’t actually feel—”

“Quiet! Let me think,” Suguru snaps as soon as they reach the camp. He lets out a shuddering breath, anxious knots forming in his guts. “I haven’t even gotten a fire going yet. How are we going to—ugh. Come here. Quickly. And leave the fish outside.”

Suguru ushers Satoru into the snow cave and the tent within it. It’s a bit warmer than freezing inside, the wind almost entirely blocked out and the thick layer of snow providing some much-needed insulation.

The first order of business is hurriedly peeling off all the layers of kosode Satoru wears and freeing his arm from their wet, half-frozen sleeves. Suguru then rubs off the thin, melting layer of frost around Satoru’s fingertips and then squeezes lightly along the lengths of his fingers, feeling for the firm waxiness of frozen flesh. There isn’t any as far as he can tell, which is reassuring. But that doesn’t mean Satoru is out of the woods yet. It is sometimes impossible to tell until hours later, after the flesh has warmed through, just how deeply frostbite set in and what damage it's wrought.

Suguru unfastens his own coat and jacket next, loosening the layers down his front and rucking up the fabric around his midsection. He takes Satoru’s hand and firmly guides it up under his clothing, feeding in more and more, jamming it as far as it will go—up to the elbow at least, ideally, given how Satoru had dunked everything up to the shoulder in ice water.

Satoru stammers something out. Suguru doesn’t pay him any mind, for the moment more concerned with getting his possibly-frostbitten limb warming as quickly as possible.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth as Satoru’s wet, chilled skin slides over his, squirming a little from the shock of cold. But that brief discomfort is nothing. Suguru’s chest and belly host the core of his body heat. He can suffer a sting of cold for a few minutes if it means preventing long-term damage to Satoru’s extremities, and swift action is crucial. He won't do anything less than everything he can.

Satoru’s hand ends up resting over his heart, fingertips almost reaching the hollow at the base of his throat. Suguru can feel them slowly splay apart, pads pressing into his skin. It’s not so different from what Suguru had unconsciously done in his sleep two nights prior. It feels fair to repay the borrowed warmth in kind.

“Is it helping?” Suguru asks while rubbing his hand around Satoru’s bare shoulder and down his upper arm, trying to encourage the circulation of warmer blood.

Satoru’s gaze lifts from the spot where it had been resting—the middle of Suguru’s chest, where the quilted cotton material is stretched taut by his arm wedged in under it—and meets Suguru’s. His snowy-white lashes move in a slow blink.

“...Yes.”

“Good.” The damp skin pressed to Suguru’s chest and stomach feels a bit warmer already. He lies back on the futon, knowing this will take a while, and pulls Satoru down with him in the process. Then, with some difficulty, he gets the blanket draped over a half-dressed Satoru to keep the rest of him from catching chill. “Let’s give it a bit of time. I’ll get a fire going and start on dinner after your arm's warmed through again.”

“Alright,” Satoru says in a small voice, for once offering no pushback whatsoever.

A second or two goes by and Suguru’s anxiety settles, satisfied at the measures taken. It sinks in only then, with his immediate fears assuaged, that their current position is… compromising.

He is reclined back with a bare-chested Satoru laid right against him, stuck face to face. Satoru’s hand is under his shirt, on his breastbone, and there is nowhere near enough darkness available to obscure themselves in. Every time Suguru breathes in, he feels the shape of Satoru’s palm sink firmer into his chest. Every time Satoru's fingers twitch or shift, Suguru feels that, too.

In his haste to make sure Satoru’s hand doesn’t wind up painfully frostbitten, he hadn’t—he wasn’t thinking of—well, he can’t very well back out now. There’s a practical purpose being served here and that’s far more important than temporary discomfort. Or embarrassment. Or... other feelings.

Suguru swallows and focuses on one of the tent walls, afraid that if he meets Satoru in the eye he’ll end up blushing even more. Then again, maybe the extra heat under his skin would be good for both of them.

“Are you, um… how do you feel?” Suguru continues skirting around making eye contact. “Is it terribly painful?”

Satoru’s fingers give a testing flex under the four layers of thick fabric Suguru is wearing. He licks his lips as he edges even closer. “No. No, it’s, uh… I think this is just what I needed.”

Suguru sighs at that, delicately patting his hand over the spot where Satoru’s is buried. No frostbite, then. Not the serious kind, anyway. “Good! That’s good. Probably just frostnip at worst, then. We caught it and stopped it quickly. It’s lucky you run so hot. I’m sure that helped.”

He flashes a quick little grin at Satoru, who looks less certain. Pensive, almost.

“You were really worried back there.”  

“Of course I was.” Suguru lifts his head to squint directly at Satoru, almost accusing. “This isn’t a joke, you know. I wasn't jesting when I warned you about this journey. Did you think I was just being dramatic?”

“No. No, I mean... you really worry about me,” Satoru murmurs like it’s some strange new revelation—like Suguru hasn’t been actively and openly worried about this man from the moment they met. “More than you should, even.”

Suguru hardly knows what to say to that. “I worry a normal amount. You just give me too many opportunities to do so,” he complains. Gently. “I’ve already seen more frostbitten hands and fingers than I’d ever wish to, especially this winter. Let’s not add you to that, hm?”

Satoru looks chastened—a rare sight, to be sure. His long, pale lashes lower as he drops his gaze a little lower. A minute flex shows along his bare throat as he swallows.

Almost tentative, his eyes dart to Suguru and he asks, “Has it happened to you?”

“I wouldn’t be much of an outdoorsman if it hadn’t.” It’s not uncommon to get a bit of frostbite on his nose or cheeks while outdoors in sudden blizzards or freezing winds. “But it’s always been mild. This winter is not so forgiving, though. While out laying traps a few months back, my hands froze so badly that they swelled up and blistered over after. It took weeks to pull a bowstring like normal again. Which,” he says, thumping the back of a hand against Satoru’s naked chest, “is why I’m constantly on you about keeping your hands covered. Not just to be a nag.”

Satoru hums a low, thoughtful note at that. His slightly unfocused stare rests somewhere below Suguru’s chin, close to where his hand currently rises and falls with the breath in Suguru’s chest.

If Suguru had to guess, the admonishment has worked. Perhaps Satoru doesn’t think himself quite so invincible anymore, above being frostnipped and bitten the way commoners often are. Suguru will mark that as a success, if so. Once they part ways, Satoru will be better off for having had the lesson.

But it’s strange, seeing Satoru so quiet and contemplative. It doesn’t really suit him, looking so dour.

Suguru licks his lips, thinking of something to encourage him instead. “I can’t believe you actually managed to catch a fish up here—and one so huge! And with your bare hands, too.”

He smiles brighter when Satoru’s eyes flit up to meet his, those pale brows lifting in surprise. 

“If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’m not sure I’d have believed it. How you went about it was more reckless than I’d like, of course, but it would be a lie to say I'm not impressed. The sight had my mouth watering, honestly, before the worry kicked in. It’ll be the first fish I’ve had in—I mean, if you don’t mind sharing, that is,” Suguru softly amends, catching himself.

Satoru sits up on one elbow, his other palm pressing firmer against Suguru’s sternum.

“Mind? Why would I mind? I caught it for you,” he says, and that’s news to Suguru. Then he sniffs and adds, “After you practically passed out in my arms, I had little other choice. You lecture me and guilt me over making you fret but you give me just as much grief.”

“What, you were that worried? Truly? About me?” Suguru’s grin spreads slow and warm. He cannot help but take the opportunity to tease. “A bossy little peasant?”

Satoru updates his previous description with, “Bossy and bothersome,” while practically folding himself along Suguru’s side. “And yes, I was concerned you were so weak you were going to drop dead on me, which would make all this time I’ve spent with you a total waste.”

Suguru hums behind his smile, finding Satoru’s frosty front indescribably… cute. For the moment, at least. “That’s very caring of you, Satoru. Shockingly considerate, even.”

“Suguru... do you think I am incapable of being considerate?”  

“No, no, not incapable… but I did wonder if perhaps you think too highly of yourself to really spare much thought for the plight of others,” Suguru says, cupping a hand under Satoru’s jaw and squishing his fingertips into his cheeks. The action is almost reflexive, the same sort of thing he does with the twins; Satoru doesn’t object, so Suguru keeps his hand there, thumb pressing into one of Satoru’s dimples. “I’m happy to be proven wrong like this. You should do it more often.”

The cheeks under the squish of his fingers turn a soft, pale pink.

“Yeah? I will, then. It’ll be easy.” Satoru lets the weight of his chin rest in Suguru’s hand. Almost petulantly, he adds, “Because you’re wrong about a lot.”

Suguru softly laughs, knowing too well it’s true. He’s been surprised by Satoru more than once already and likely will be again.

“And you’re never wrong, is that it?” he questions, light-hearted. Satoru’s skin is so smooth, so starkly pale, so uniformly even in complexion that it’s as if he’s never known a blemish at all. Suguru can’t help but run his calloused archer’s fingers along the sleek, strong line of Satoru’s jaw, admiring. He’s quite sure he’s ever seen anyone half so beautiful. “You didn’t misjudge me at all, either?”

“No, I—I mean, maybe—okay, it’s possible that I might have been a tiny, tiny bit undeservedly dismissive of you at times,” Satoru answers, his voice getting lower and quieter with every word, evidently somewhat abashed.

It’s the way he says it that has Suguru laughing, the suddenness of it leaving him a little giddy and light-headed. His laughter goes belly-deep at the sight of Satoru’s face quickly turning a bright pink-red, all worked up over nothing.

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to laugh that hard,” Satoru complains, pulling away from the hand cradling his face. “Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you’re teasing me.”

Pouring his heart out? Suguru rolls his eyes.

“Oh, it’s only out of affection, Satoru. Nothing less,” he assures him. Suguru is reminded, then, that Satoru’s arm is still resting under his clothes and they’ve spent at least a quarter hour like this. With a little stretch, he pats Satoru’s shoulder and says, “You ought to be warm enough now, I think. Here, let’s…” 

Suguru curls his fingers along Satoru’s bare bicep and gives it a small push, encouraging Satoru to pull his arm out. There is a moment of resistance, the muscles up to Satoru’s shoulder going firm and taut, before he slips his arm out from under Suguru’s layered shirts.

Suguru misses the contact immediately, as Satoru’s skin had been comfortingly warm by the end there. He is left with a slight dampness on his skin and innermost layer of clothing—the water that had still clung to Satoru’s skin and the beginnings of frost along his fingertips having melted into the fabric or onto Suguru's chest.

It’s no matter. Suguru fixes his clothes, trusting his outer layers will keep cold air from finding the wet spots down his front.

“I’ll go start the fire and prepare some dinner,” Suguru says while slipping his gloves back on.

Satoru clears his throat and sits up on his knees. “Let me dress and I’ll come help you.”

The offer gives Suguru another reason to smile. One little frostbite scare has made Satoru so amenable.

He gives Satoru a poke in the chest, keeping him from moving toward the tent’s opening, and shakes his head. “I appreciate it, really, but no. Your clothes are still soaked-frozen on one side and you’ve just barely gotten your arm warm again. You stay in here and I’ll bring the food to you.”

Satoru sulks but gives in, even allowing Suguru to take all his kosode so he can try drying their sleeves by the short-lived cooking fire. Stripped down to just his hakama, bare from the waist up, he reclines back on the futon and draws the covers over himself.

“Fine, but I’m not in here just lazing around, alright? I’m preemptively warming the bed for you.”

Suguru laughs as he ducks back out of the tent. “Thank you, Satoru.”

There’s little time to waste now before the sun sets completely, so Suguru races to build a fire. He uses his body to shield the flames from whistling winds while he scales and guts the already half-frozen trout. With several of his arrows, he skewers long strips of meat and props them by the fire to grill. The rest will be smoked and frozen and packed away for eating tomorrow and the days to follow.

He cooks a small portion of rice to go alongside the fish, its head thrown in to steam with it. Snow is melted down for tea. Suguru passes food and drink inside the tent as soon as it’s ready and then hurries inside after, eager to eat while it’s all still warm.

The meal is richer and heartier than anything he could’ve imagined on a death march like this. Satoru strips the grilled fish from arrow shafts with his teeth, grinning with satisfaction as he downs one skewer after another. Suguru eats almost as much, picking every bit of meat from the fish’s head and downing six cups of tea before flopping over onto his side, his belly the warmest and fullest it’s been in a good while.

Slow with satisfaction, Suguru wriggles out of his stiff jacket and slithers under the blankets with Satoru. 

Between the hide walls and the snow cave around them, it’s already nighttime dark inside the tent. The lack of light makes for clumsy fumbling to fit together on the futon, but otherwise it’s the easiest it’s ever been. There is no balking like their first night nor stilted awkwardness like the second. Maybe it’s them both feeling sleepy and content after a good meal. Maybe it’s just that they’ve spent long enough together now and seen each other low enough to do away with any further pretense.

Satoru shifts to make more room for him—without needing to be asked, without protest, without any resentment at all—and gives over to Suguru a space still warm from his body. Soft hums and grunts and whispers leave his lips as they maneuver themselves into a comfortable arrangement: curled together back-to-front this time.

An arm drapes across Suguru’s middle, preventing him from rolling off of the narrow futon. Keeping him close. Making sure some of Satoru’s heat reaches Suguru’s front, too, rather than solely baking against his back.

“That was amazing,” Suguru murmurs, a finger running along the curve of his bottom lip as he dwells on the taste, sighing happily at the indulgence of fresh meat in a time where it’s been so hard to come by. “Thank you for the meal, Satoru. I can’t remember the last time I ate this well. It’s been too long.”

A trickle of guilt follows the words, quickly souring the pleasant fullness he’s been feeling. While Nanako and Mimiko and the rest of his village are going to bed hungry tonight, he’s gorged himself. While his family still suffers, he is enjoying himself. Worse still is how much he’s missed meals like this: an entire bowl of food all to himself and no pressure to see that others’ stomachs are filled before his own; no gnawing hunger right after dinner; no tossing and turning while his stomach growls.

It’s selfish. It’s embarrassingly selfish. Suguru squeezes his eyes shut and scrunches his nose, missing everyone and everything he’s left behind. He twists his shoulders until his face is buried in the futon, forcing himself to breathe through its smothering cushion. But he doesn’t get to wallow for long.

The arm around his middle draws him in tight again. Satoru’s nose and chin poke into the back of his shoulder.

“So, my ice fishing was worth it, then?” Satoru asks once he has Suguru clasped against him. “I made the right call?”

The wantfulness in the words pulls Suguru out of his own spiraling feelings. He is too well-fed and warm to nitpick or deny Satoru his due praise. “It did work out well for us, despite the risks you took.”

“As I told you it would, if you recall,” Satoru breathes in his ear, making Suguru squirm and draw up his shoulders.

“And you were right on that count,” Suguru sighs out, if only to keep Satoru from fishing for more accolades. “Does that please you, hearing me say it?”

Suguru feels a low, humming rumble against his back, the note curling up in delight.

“Yes. Say it again.”

“Fine. You were right about this one very specific scenario, in which you were also quite lucky. There.” He grunts as Satoru squeezes even tighter around his middle, the muscle behind it catching him off-guard; the man is suddenly clingier than both Nanako and Mimiko put together. “How is your arm feeling now? And your fingers?”

“Perfectly fine.” Then, right after, “Wait, no. My fingers… they’re a little cold. Freezing, actually.”

Said fingers hike up the cotton of Suguru’s undershirt and find his bare waist again, pressing directly to his skin. Suguru lets him, but… 

“Cold? They feel fine, Satoru.” If anything, Satoru’s hand seems warmer than Suguru’s body is. But the only alternative then is that Satoru merely wants to touch for no reason at all, which is… well, Suguru has a hard time believing it of this wealthy, well-born man he met less than three days ago. “Here, I’ll show you cold.”

He bends his knees and pushes the soles of his feet back against Satoru’s legs, skin-on-skin wherever the fabric of his woolen hakama pants has hiked up around his calves; at any moment, he expects Satoru to knock his feet aside and complain in his ear.

“That’s it?” Satoru snorts, not even flinching at the chilly touch of Suguru’s toes. “If I was fine after an hour of sliding around on my belly while chasing fish under the ice, what do you think your weird, cold little feet are going to do to me?” 

“What do you mean, weird?” Suguru asks, leaning and twisting to look at Satoru over his shoulder. Or at his shadowed silhouette, at least, in the dark. “You’ve barely even seen them.”

“Saw them day one and they were all wet and boney. Eugh.”

Wet because of him! Freshly irritated, Suguru squirms a foot between Satoru’s legs and hooks it around the back of his calf, rubbing the boney top of it against pleasantly warm skin. There’s a toll to be paid for all of Satoru’s insensitive little remarks.

“And you weren’t fine,” Suguru points out. “Or have you already forgotten that you had to incubate your arm under my shirt?”

Satoru just hums at that, offering no real answer. Suguru turns forward and gets comfortable on the futon again, sighing out through his nose. 

“I want you to be careful, Satoru. Are you listening to me?” After getting a lazy grunt in response, Suguru goes on. “Especially over the days to come. I want you to think of what I’ve said. When you’re next off on your own and you start planning to go ice-fishing with your bare hands, I want you to hear my voice in your ear. Nagging. Making you think twice.”

Because even Satoru’s luck and resilience will one day fail him, and Suguru won’t be there to render him any sort of aid. Though they're only recently acquainted, he feels a mournful pang at the thought of Satoru being alone, being lost, being found by some poor farmer in the eventual spring thaw.

Satoru does not dismiss the admonition outright, the way Suguru worried he might. Rather, he does not address it at all—or only in the most roundabout way.

“You mean to reach the summit tomorrow, then?” he asks so softly it might as well have been a whisper.

Suguru nods. He can feel strands of his hair pull taut as he does so, Satoru apparently having laid his head atop the bulk of its length. “We’re not far off. If the weather holds, it will be tomorrow evening, yes.”

Today they’d stopped earlier than he intended—his own fault for struggling so badly after climbing the waterfall—but the peak and its dragon-claimed temple are easily within a day’s journey. If they break camp a little before dawn, he expects to reach his destination well before dusk.

And the last little leg of his journey is one he must make alone. Which means they will soon be parted and Satoru will be left to return to the valley on his own.

Suguru’s thumb absently traces along the back of the warm hand flat against his belly. Satoru has proven surprisingly capable and clever despite his lack of familiarity with the terrain. He’ll be okay, Suguru assures himself. Going down is quicker than going up. The worst bit will be the waterfall, and Satoru had honestly navigated that better than he did, so…

Honestly, Suguru needs to worry about himself from here on out. He closes his eyes and tries to think ahead to the crucial moment, the whole purpose of his coming here, rather than wondering how Satoru will fare without him. That had been his warning from the start, hadn’t it? It is dangerous out here, so high in the mountains and so close to an ice dragon’s dwelling. Satoru had willfully ignored it.

And perhaps… perhaps Suguru had given in a little too readily in allowing Satoru to tail after him. He could have fought harder to dissuade Satoru and spare him from this. To see that he made it home.

But here they are. While Suguru bears an inescapable measure of guilt for letting Satoru be looped into his desperate bid to bring this winter to an end, he is immeasurably grateful for the company, too. Selfishly grateful. He might’ve spent this last night alone, cowering in the dark and the crushing cold, miserable every minute until the end. Instead, he is—

“Warm enough?” Satoru checks while fussing with the covers, shifting them so the heaviest fur rests nearer their feet.

Suguru smiles to himself as Satoru’s arm curls back into place around him afterward. He’s not sure Satoru could possibly be any closer than he already is, nary a single gap for cold air left anywhere between his back and Satoru’s front.

“Mhm.” The quiet, low little moan of affirmation rolls right out of him. He is warm enough, full enough, and—for the time being—content enough. As close to safe and comfortable as anyone could hope to be in the state they are. With eyes closed, he whispers, “Thank you, Satoru.”

Chapter Text

He wakes to warmth plied against his back and arms ringing his middle, holding him close.

The tent is still dark. Satoru’s soft breath stirs across his ear and along his jaw. His chin is hooked over Suguru’s shoulder, cheek pressed to the side of his neck, once more using Suguru as some sort of pillow.

Suguru doesn’t really mind Satoru grappling him like an oversized octopus. Nanako and Mimiko have long since broken him of the expectation of personal space while sleeping, each of his arms usually gripped onto by one girl or the other. With Satoru, though, there is a comforting layer of security to the clinginess. For years now, Suguru has naturally filled the role of protector and provider to the twins, to his friends, and his community at large. It’s something of a treat to be provided for in turn, and Satoru… Satoru is admirably capable of it. When he wants to be.

The way Satoru is snoozing against his back tempts Suguru into laying here longer, soaking in his warmth, and delaying the inevitable. But he can’t.

Satoru wakes when Suguru sits up. Wordlessly, they both dress. They eat together. And as they break camp, Suguru is already dividing what he has into two categories: what he must keep, and what can be spared for Satoru to take with him.

Suguru finally puts the thoughts he’s been nursing all morning to voice. “We should go our separate ways here. It’s time. Satoru, you—”

“I’m going with you.”

Suguru is struck with a shade of the same surprise he’d had when Satoru announced as much down at the lake. “There is nowhere else for you to go with me, Satoru. The temple is practically within sight already.”

“But we’re not there yet, are we?” Satoru is a little too smug and self-assured as he adds, “I’ve come this far. I might as well see the summit with you.”

“No, no, no. You’re not coming with me all the way to the top,” he objects straightaway. It’s troublesome enough that Satoru has risked life and limb in coming here at all. There is no need to exacerbate the risk by following even further. “I won’t let you.”

For a moment, Satoru looks wryly amused. “Oh? Can you stop me?”

Suguru glares at him, resentful of the very idea. It is one thing to tag along thus far, where the only threats are the weather and the mountain itself. It is another to foist upon him the burden of either protecting Satoru from the dragon or watching him be killed by it. The last thing Suguru needs is the distraction of another person at the peak with him.

“Yes,” he says with an even voice and a straight stare. “I would hobble you and leave you to grub and crawl your way back down the mountain before I would ever let you near that dragon.”

One corner of Satoru’s mouth gives a slight lift. He sighs. “Not all the way, then, since you’re so stubborn.”

Suguru finishes arranging the last of his things in his pack, brow knit tight. Anyone else in Satoru’s position would be clamoring to leave, eager to return to the comfort of sturdy walls and other people.

“Fine. But you have to carry this, then,” he says, pushing his heavy traveling pack into Satoru’s arms. He keeps his quiver and bow, but little else. “If you want to come any further with me.”

Satoru snorts while slinging the bag over his head and around his shoulders, shrugging as if it weighs nothing to him. “What, too heavy for your delicate shoulders to handle?”

Suguru’s shoulders are far from delicate—years of archery and carpentry and farmwork have seen to that, even if his meals have been lean this season. Still, Satoru’s are a bit broader and better built in comparison; even if he carries no sword or bow with him, he surely must’ve trained in them for quite some time. All highborn types do, don’t they?

“Yes, that’s right.” Suguru pulls his scarf down to show Satoru a smile. Through it, he lays honeyed flattering on thick. “Can a big, strong clan master like yourself handle it for today?”

Satoru’s eyes blink wide at him before settling back to half-lidded, the telltale squint of a smile suddenly showing at their corners.

“Can I be your pack animal, you mean?” he translates, letting out a long, deep, contemplative sigh after. After pretending to ponder it, he says as if put-upon, “Yes. Yes, I suppose I can. I would hate to see you collapse twice in as many days, after all,” he snorts, purposefully knocking the bulky pack into Suguru as he passes by.

Suguru’s smile doesn’t falter in the slightest as he retaliates with the most readily available weapon on hand: a large fistful of tightly packed snow, which he aims at the back of Satoru’s scarf-wrapped head.

It connects. Or rather, it explodes, sending a spray of snow in all directions—including a large chunk right down the back of Satoru’s collar.

He stops in his tracks, turns in place, and fixes a cool glare on Suguru. A dangerously eager, predatory gleam fills his eyes. “Oh, Suguru, Suguru, Suguru… are we doing this? Consider carefully, because I’ll have you stuffed inside a snowman before you can make one more measly little snowball.”

Suguru is inclined to believe him, given Satoru’s youth was spent in harsh northern climes with year-round snow like this. He draws up straight, both hands shyly tucked behind his back, making himself as innocent and nonthreatening as possible.

“Ah, Satoruuu, there’s no need for that,” he says in the sweetest purr he can manage. He hastily drops a second snowball behind himself, out of Satoru’s sight, and flicks the lingering flakes from his fingers. “I only wanted to get one hit in on you as payback. Just the one! That’s it.”

“So, what, I’m just supposed to let you off?” Satoru poses, his brows furrowing in. He hums loud enough for Suguru to hear and pointedly looks to a shelf of crunchy snow beside him. “Seems I ought to do something to pay you back in kind, too… hmm…”

Suguru laughs nervously and makes long, hopping strides through the snow to close the gap between them, a little worried he’s going to end up with a handful of ice shoved down his shirt when he least expects it.

“No, no, you really shouldn’t. Here, let me make a peace offering,” he says, gesturing for Satoru to bend his knees a little.

Satoru ducks down for him, surprisingly patient as Suguru carefully dusts the snow from his makeshift scarf, brushes it from his shoulders, and scoops out melting flakes that found their way into his collar. Seemingly satisfied after Suguru’s fussing attentiveness, he straightens up again and continues leading the way.

“You’re supposed to put a rock inside, you know,” Satoru says, glancing over his shoulder at Suguru, “for maximum damage. Chunks of ice, too. That’s what I’d do.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Suguru can’t help but grin as he follows just half a step behind Satoru. It’s almost a leisurely stroll, navigating all this snow without the considerable weight of his pack to carry. “I don’t think I ever want to be on the receiving end of any of your snowballs.”

Satoru brows are haughtily arched when he shoots Suguru another glance. “Wise choice. You’re smarter than you look.”

Suguru is tempted to pelt him with another for that alone, consequences be damned.

Fearing the retaliatory consequences, though—Satoru does seem the type to put him headfirst into a snow mound—he instead makes himself stickily annoying. He loops his arm through one of Satoru’s, clutching on the way the twins will often do to him, and talks nonstop, as if they’re out on a garden walk rather than scaling rocky serow trails and avoiding cliff edges. He even asks Satoru to stop and retie his cloak for him, smiling behind his scarf while Satoru mutters and complains about how bothersome he is… but does it anyway.

Suguru cannot take too much amusement in the discrepancy between words and actions, for he himself is little better. For all his earlier protestations, Suguru is glad and grateful to have this company for a while longer. Alone, he would be far worse off—and not merely in terms of his physical state. He could never ask Satoru to stay, of course, knowing the risk it entails. Every further step forward with him is one Satoru will have to tread alone when he descends.

He wants Satoru here all the same, though, to ward off both the cold and the worst of Suguru’s gnawing fears around what he’s come here to do. Within hours of breaking their camp, the airy, mist-shrouded peak of the mountain looms into view. Suguru’s heart sinks lower in his chest at the realization that one last, inevitable goodbye draws near. In a matter of mere hours, he will be at the dragon’s doorstep.

But tides, winds, and fates can all turn in the blink of an eye.

A buffeting gale comes suddenly over the mountain ridge, cold enough to make Suguru’s eyes water and his tears freeze into a crust. It pushes at Suguru so roughly he almost loses his balance while halfway up a steep little switchback on the trail with Satoru following behind him, carefully navigating slick, frozen rock and dense snow.

“Oh, no,” Satoru says out of the blue, instantly drawing Suguru’s attention. “I think a blizzard is on its way.”

Suguru opens his mouth to question where Satoru got that idea—the wind shear up here is vile and the snowfall is picking up, yes, but it is nothing approaching whiteout conditions—when the gusts coming over the ridge turn uglier. The air is laden with moisture and clingy wet flakes of snow, likely to freeze anything in its path. The wind strikes them head on. The clouds above darken and roil, blotting out what sunlight had been seeping through the grey cloud cover.

“Wonderful. Perfect timing, really,” Suguru mutters as he takes in all the signs of a brewing terror—a snowsquall ready to wrap the mountain in ice and snow anew, if not the whole vale.

Even if they rush to set up their tent now, they’re liable to be buried under feet of snowfall for heavens knows how long. They won’t have any chance to build a fire whilst the storm rages. They could even suffocate if it wears on long and rough enough.

Satoru clears his throat. “We should take shelter, Suguru. But where to go, where to go… oh! Is that a cave I see?”

Suguru follows his line of vision and sees there is indeed a dark cave tucked along the snowy cliffside. Fortunate, that.

Not only does it offer them much-needed shelter from the storm, but it is surprisingly accommodating. Dry. Fairly clean. Set such that the winds generally low across its entrance rather than inside. If not for it being so close and accessible, they might well have frozen to death before nightfall.

Suguru stretches the hides of his tent over the entrance to block out what wind and snow would otherwise find their way deeper in. He then gets a fire going and melts some snow for drinking. The only tea leaves he has left at this point are powdery crumbles. He empties them all in, supposing it’s better to enjoy them while they’re able. There is no telling when this terrible weather will let up.

Suguru is too preoccupied with worries about this setback to make conversation—the delay means they’ll go through more food, spend longer in cold and inhospitable heights, and risk discovery by the mountain’s dragon, if they’re especially unlucky. While water melts and fish warms by the fire, he goes through his arrows and checks each head for chips. He taps a fingertip at their points, testing for piercing sharpness. He examines their wooden shafts for splintering cracks and discards any that are damaged. He lines his sights up with the fletching on each arrow to gauge that the feathers will still guide them true.

“Killing the dragon is the only way you’ll be satisfied?” Satoru asks from where he sits by the unpacked futon, eyes following the line of so many arrows laid out. “There is no other means?”

Suguru glances up and then back down at his quiver, sliding arrows back in one by one. “None. The beast simply cannot be reasoned with.”

Satoru sits up straighter. “And how do you know that?”

“Because we already tried.” Suguru pulls out his dagger next. He takes a small whetstone to it, smoothing out the dullness and slight chipping from where’d plunged it into stone-filled ice yesterday. “Offerings, ancient ritual ceremonies, etcetera. I gave the damned thing a whole deer. All it did was continue to crush us under one storm after another. Ones like this,” he says, staring hard and bleak at the wind ripping at the cave’s covering.

“Oh.” Satoru slumps, shoulders drawn forward and a frown set on his lips. Then he cocks his head. “You haven’t tried speaking to it, though. Have you?”

Suguru wrinkles his nose. “Speak to it? I’m not sure what good that would do at this point.”

If the dragon could be swayed to spare them, it surely would have been by the sight of the valley besieged by snow and the desperate offerings to purchase its mercy. The time for words and wishes has long since passed. The threat is too dire to simply hope their pleas will not fall on deaf ears again. And Suguru, maybe more than most, is willing to take the most direct path to solving the dilemma they’re in.

“Perhaps it would hear you out,” Satoru softly murmurs. He curls his lips in between his teeth for a moment. “Perhaps it only needs a… a nudge in the right direction.”

“Or perhaps it would devour me where I stood,” Suguru calmly replies, “and everything would go on as it has for the last five months. I can’t risk that. Not with so many others depending on the outcome.”

Satoru exhales out through his nose. His hands, resting atop his spread knees, bunch into the fabric of his hakama and curl into fists. “But—think about it, Suguru. Just consider it. Wouldn’t it be better to go in with a few options? Running in deadset on a fight is a good way to get killed, you know.”

“I don’t care if I die.” It’s something of an exaggeration, but true nonetheless. He cares about doing it in the right way, at least pointed toward a purpose that will make a difference. “Not if the cause is good.”

Satoru puts his face in his hands, fingertips rubbing along his eyebrows. Muffled into the heels of his palms, he says, “You’re so unreasonable.”

“Me?” Suguru almost laughs. “I’m taking an exceedingly reasonable approach. Anyone with the same abilities and responsibilities would follow the same course.”

The twins are young and still growing. Manami is a shopkeep with a talent for money-counting. Toshihisa is still a hunter-in-the-making, too inexperienced to face off with prey greater than wolves or boar. His fellow villagers know the land and work it tirelessly, armed with only hoes and plows and the like. But Suguru is excellent with a bow and skilled with a blade, too. His gifts will work toward one end, so that is the one he’ll seek. 

Satoru has a hangdog look about him, still slumped forward, his eyes and face covered.

Suguru’s mouth pulls in a smile, torn between fond exasperation and… something else. Satoru’s demeanor now is a far cry from what he’d exhibited only days ago, almost-gleefully excited, if skeptical, at the prospect of Suguru facing off with a dragon. Now he is prodding for a way out of the looming confrontation, distressed on Suguru’s behalf.

It’s sweet in a way that pulls hard at Suguru’s heartstrings.

“I… appreciate your concern, Satoru. I really do. But this was always the plan. I told you as much from the start. There’s no time or room to change course now. I have to try.”

Satoru lifts his head and sits up straighter, sighing through his nose. His mouth is locked in a grave frown, which causes the whole of his expression to dim. Without a trace of his usual mischievousness or humor or even annoyance, he looks more the part of an ancient clan’s master—the kind one would be wary to offend, to wrong, or even to look directly in the eye.

“Satoru?”

“I know,” is all Satoru says before getting up and turning his back. 

He strips down to his trousers and a single inner cotton kosode before unfolding the futon. Without even bothering to unpack the blankets or furs for covers, he lies down for a nap.

Suguru lets him alone for a while, though he glances over more than once. There is still preparation work to be done: testing the string on his bow, mending the splitting seams on his gloves, restitching Satoru’s mittens, fixing the straw insulation that’s beginning to poke through the weathered hide of his boots. He won’t be leaving tonight regardless of when the storm breaks—too much time and daylight has lapsed—but he ought to be ready to depart as soon as he can.

Once his many chores are taken care of, Suguru follows Satoru’s lead.

The fire is slowly burning itself down. The cave is decently warm, all things considered. Suguru strips off his heaviest outer clothes, intending to sleep in just his warm underlayers, when his eye catches on Satoru’s multiple kosode sloppily folded beside his pack.

He’d freely shared his own clothes with Satoru that first night. And if Satoru doesn’t intend to wear these additional layers to bed, then he could certainly make use of them for the night…

With a quick look toward Satoru stretched out on the futon, Suguru trades his own simple clothes for two of the nobleman’s white inner kosode. Their cotton is finely spun and wonderfully soft on his skin—though not quite as pleasing as the silk Suguru testingly rubs between his fingers, curious about what it might feel like all over. They’re warm, too, although his legs quickly take chill without the stiff quilting of his pants for protection.

Suguru grabs the fur and blankets and hastily makes for the futon, nestling down by Satoru’s side and covering them both to keep warm.

He lays there, breathing out and breathing in, thoughts bouncing from what if the blizzard takes days to break? to there’s not much food left to they’re so soft it feels like wearing nothing at all to is the weather this bad in Kurosaki too? to the temple is so close now...

And then, after who knows how long, he notices an absence—no hands on him, no arms around him, no Satoru pressed almost uncomfortably close.

“Satoru.” When there’s no answer, he wonders if Satoru’s already dozed off. But a turn of his head reveals blue eyes wide open in the cave’s semi-darkness, staring at him. “Satoru, are you okay?”

Suguru puts a palm to his cheek, cupping along it, feeling for sweat or clammy skin or fever. There is none. So instead he slowly combs his hand back through Satoru’s hair, the way his own mother used to do for him, again and again. There is no quick cure for simply being upset, which is all Satoru seems to be.

“Are you tired?” Suguru wonders, imagining Satoru has made few—if any—journeys this demanding. And the young master will soon have to make the same trek in reverse, all alone. Were he in the same position, Suguru would find it anxiety-inducing as well.

“Yes,” Satoru finally answers, closing his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

“Very.” His feet are sore, along with his arms and legs and back. If not for Satoru and the weak glow of the fire, he would be freezing to boot. “Hey. You wanted us to take a day off, didn’t you? Looks like you got your wish.”

Satoru makes a soft noise, the corners of his mouth giving a slight curl. “Mhm. I did. It's nice, having the chance to spend time like this.”

“It’s certainly not the worst thing in the world, having an excuse to lay around. It helps that you run so hot.” He’s so quickly become accustomed to Satoru encroaching on his space that the lack of limbs around him feels like a spurn. “Even a drafty cave feels cozy with you here.”

Satoru smiles in full, though that half-lidded moroseness never really leaves his eyes. “Oh, properly appreciating my company now, are we? After repeatedly trying to rid yourself of me? Just this morning you were ready to toss me aside like old food scraps.”

“Out of concern for you, to be fair. I very much enjoy your company, Satoru.”

Although… perhaps he has not made that plain enough, if Satoru doubts it. And that is his own fault, Suguru knows—he has never managed stress well, by turns rendered snippy or sullen when overwhelmed—but Suguru blames the dragon and its damned winter, too. These last months have not been kind to him, which has in turn made him a little less kind, too.

“I’m sorry for letting you think otherwise. I know that first night was not the most… I was quick to judge you, and not particularly patient or kind with my words. Had we met another way, another time, I’d have been less of a scold. Marginally less, anyway. Had we met in my village instead, we could’ve…”

Suguru falters there. Could’ve what? Been friends? Closer than friends? Spent hours talking of wildlife and food and places to travel? Shared meals and slept together? In any other circumstances but these, their lives would never intersect in any meaningful way.

“I’m better company in better times, is what I mean,” Suguru finishes weakly. “I would have liked you to meet me then, in spring or summer.”

A stilted silence forms and grows in the close, warm air between them.

“What on earth are you rambling about?” Satoru huffs in his face. “You’re the most pleasant company I have ever had.”

A little sound of surprise passes Suguru’s lips. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Do you really think I would hoof my way up an entire mountain with anyone who wasn’t to my liking?”

“You’re odd, so possibly. I wasn't particularly kind or hospitable to you that first night—which you complained at length about—yet you decided to stick around.”

“Not particularly kind?” Satoru snorts. “You saw me out in the middle of a frozen lake and came running in after me. Like a madman.”

Suguru hadn’t thought of it like that at all. “You were the madman, being out there in the first place.”

“You practically hauled me, a complete stranger of unknown intention, to your shelter," Satoru goes on, making his case. "You shared with me your food and your clothes and bed. And stripped naked right in front of me, might I add, which made for a very memorable introduction. You may be meddlesome and impertinent, but you have never lacked for kindness or care. And all without standing to gain anything from it.”

Suguru tucks a loose bit of hair behind his reddened ear, stuck on the reminder that Satoru has already seen him so bare… which of course leads to thoughts of Satoru shedding his wet clothes that night as well, the strong, lean sculpt of his body just as memorable.

“That’s not true.” He pointedly puts his slightly chilly feet on Satoru’s. “I have you for a personal heater.”

“That’s all I am to you, Suguru?” Satoru asks with mock hurt, some good humor regained. “A warm body to lay with?”

Suguru himself feels warmer at the insinuation—and how close Satoru’s face is to his, handsome in any light and at any angle.

He’s tumbled with enough men passing through Kurosaki to know what interest looks and feels like: covert but lingering glances, subtle brushes, innuendo that can either be taken for its true intent or left as plausibly innocent.

Satoru is nothing like any of that. Maybe it’s an inborn confidence that comes naturally for someone of his standing, but he treats Suguru as casually as if he is part of his household. Even in the dark, his stare is open in its wandering. His hands, too. He is plainly fond of unnecessary touch and far from shy—as evidenced by the hand now cupped along Suguru’s waist, thumb tracing along the curve of his ribcage.

“No. Not just that. But it certainly is a plus,” Suguru murmurs while running his slightly chilled fingers up Satoru’s chest, just beneath the fabric left undone and loose in the front, to feel him out.

Suguru has never before so much as crossed paths with a noble of any kind, much less bedded one, and he wonders what bearing that gulf of difference has on Satoru’s liking for him. It’s not as though the realities and limitations of usual life matter here, though, tucked so far away from the rest of the world. Neither of them has anywhere else to be. Anything they do now will be of no consequence in a day or two, when they’ve gone separate ways to lead separate lives… or to not live at all. Whichever. They’ll not see each other again regardless.

The hand on Suguru’s waist squeezes tighter, fingers sinking in around the curve of his lower back. Satoru’s grip remains firm as he gently rocks Suguru’s hips forward, pulling him in even closer.

Suguru likes it. He likes Satoru. He’d never thought it possible to care for someone so troublesome in such short order, but it seems now a shame to have met so late and had so little time to know one another.

Suguru’s fingers splay out over Satoru’s ear and into his hair as he cradles his head where it lay. And then he leans in, nose brushing alongside Satoru’s, before kissing lightly on his lips.

They’re as soft as they look, full and smooth against Suguru’s rough, wind-chafed ones—and smoother still when Suguru runs the tip of his tongue across them and leaves them wet. Another lick has Satoru’s mouth falling open for him, letting Suguru kiss deeper and moan into the warmth that meets him.

He closes his eyes for only a second, lost somewhere in the slow sensuality of breath held and shared between the soft crush of lips, and then abruptly finds himself put flat on his back.

There’s barely time for a sound to escape Suguru as he’s covered and pinned to the futon. A large hand squeezes around his jaw, Satoru’s thumb and forefingers pressing in at the joints to keep his mouth open—open enough for him to stuff his tongue inside and chase Suguru’s. Satoru pursues and kisses him with ferocious abandon, more than once catching Suguru’s lips between the clasp of his teeth.

Suguru’s muffled little noises of surprise give way to throaty moans against Satoru’s mouth. He’d thought any hunger he might be harboring for Satoru must be weak, but perhaps he’d only distracted himself from it; one taste has him voracious, greedy to be sated, eager to devour or be devoured. Or both. His hands slide under the open drape of Satoru’s clothing and over warm skin, pushing the fabric off his shoulders.

He lets his knees fall out to either side of him, thighs spread to let Satoru in closer. His fingers curl and claw into skin as he not-so-patiently guides Satoru where he wants him—which is between his legs rather than frantically humping against one.

A groan of hot breath hits the side of Suguru’s neck, followed by the sigh of his name.

“Shh, come here,” Suguru comforts, licking his lips as he finally pulls Satoru fully atop himself, situated about as close as he can be. “You’ve done this before?”

Satoru doesn’t bother answering, too busy pulling at the kosode Suguru has on. It’s only in the middle of untying the belt's loose knot that he notices, “These are mine that you're wearing.”

“I’m only borrowing them,” Suguru is quick to say, breathless. When Satoru merely continues to loom over him, staring down in the barely-there light of the dying fire, he offers, “I can chan—”

Satoru kisses him so firmly and enduringly that Suguru's chest starts to ache for lack of air, given no opportunity to catch his breath as Satoru presses in against him in every which way. The kosode he’s wearing are ripped open and pushed aside, baring him belly and all. Satoru rolls his hips down into him, heat and weight and friction plied right where Suguru needs it to be.

He tosses his head to one side and clasps his thighs tight around Satoru’s middle, squeezing him in closer. Leaving his hair loose was a mistake. Dark strands spill everywhere, sticking to his wet lips and damp skin, and it will be a mess to comb out come morning. 

Satoru is no help in that regard. He purposefully runs his hands over and through the hair fanned under and around Suguru, careless of how it will tangle. He makes a fist in long locks and pulls, the tension on Suguru’s scalp causing him to bow his back upward and whimper into Satoru’s kisses—which suddenly turn sharp, his pointed eye teeth bruising where they catch on Suguru’s lips.

In time, Satoru forsakes Suguru’s mouth to lick and suckle down the column of his throat instead, every so often sinking his teeth into tender skin. The last one is hard enough to maybe draw blood, Suguru fears, and he winces.

“Not so hard,” he breathes out while kneading along Satoru’s shoulders and stroking through his short hair. “Gentle, Satoru.”

The light admonishment works, at least for the moment—Satoru licks softly over the spot where he’d bitten too deep, and each time his teeth embrace Suguru’s skin after, it is in bites that linger on the good side of painful.

The plain white fabric of his underwear grows warmer and wetter with every grinding thrust of Satoru against him. At some point, the friction between them must’ve gotten Satoru’s cock free of its own confines; he can feel its solid, searing weight drag against his own and its slick head kiss his lower belly.

Between the fever building under his skin and long, unforgiving kisses, Suguru feels as if caught in a heady dream. The air around them is still cool enough to cause shivers but as long as he is arched up against Satoru and Satoru is pressed down into him, the heat he gives off wicks away the chill. Dizzy excitement buzzes through him. He has never found such raw, rough fumbling so satisfying, but there is something endearing in how desperately Satoru lips and nips at his mouth while rutting against him.

“I want inside you,” Satoru pants against his cheek, fingers already twisting and tugging at the fabric of Suguru’s fundoshi. “I’ll take you and make you—”

Suguru’s eyes fly open. Reflexively, he goes to push Satoru off of himself—just to make space until his rampant desire cools—and finds the man unbudgeable. “No, Satoru. No! Absolutely not.”

Satoru lets out a low whimper and buries his face in Suguru’s neck. His hips never stop bucking and rocking into Suguru’s. “Please?”

“No,” he cries out, sense that had briefly fled him flooding back. How is this even a question? “That thing between your legs is monstrous. I would rather not waddle up to face a dragon tomorrow with a sore backside—”

Satoru laughs at that, low and close to Suguru’s ear, clearly taking amusement in the thought. He doesn’t even bother trying to argue Suguru’s point, no doubt well aware he’s too big to be received with so little preparation and so much physical exertion to follow tomorrow.

“Going to push you off of me,” Suguru threatens, still red from the velvety sound of Satoru’s laughter. It’s a false threat, though, and Satoru knows it from how Suguru only pulls him closer instead.

“No, you won’t. You want me,” Satoru raggedly purrs with his lips brushing to Suguru’s ear, nosing into his hairline, “as I want you.”

It’s stated as truth but still begs for an answer. Suguru nods weakly where he lay, his want only tempered by the demands that will be made of him tomorrow. He stretches his arms up and around Satoru’s shoulders and draws him down closer, wishing to be kissed until his chapped lips are bruised tender and swollen—a lifetime of them right now in one night, if Satoru can give them to him.

And he would like more, yes, of course, but the dragon… if not for that wretched dragon and the way he is called to kill it, Suguru would gladly let Satoru leave him sore and raw for the morning.

Fingers pull at his damp, sticky underwear, the heel of a palm brushing the underside of Suguru’s own hard length. The fabric lifts enough on one side to let Satoru in, his heavier, longer cock pushing in alongside Suguru’s; slick skin meets skin, both of them squeezed into the fundoshi together, and the sensation is so much more potent with no barrier left between them. A few thrusts have Suguru worming down into the futon cushion under him. He’d be biting his bottom lip if Satoru wasn’t doing it for him.

“Stay with me,” Satoru’s shaky voice stutters against him as his pace picks up, the both of them too tangled and too close to peaking for steady words. “You don't have to go, Suguru. Just stay with me.”

Suguru’s blinks come slow and his breath comes hard.

“Stay?” He dazedly asks between the kisses laid across his parted lips. “Satoru, I can’t—”

But any further objection is stopped short by the mouth sealed against his. And any further thought of what Satoru is pleading for—things spoken in the midst of such moments are rarely meant anyway, else Suguru would not have awoken alone in bed so many mornings after—is lost as Suguru tenses up, breath caught in his lungs, and then comes with a quiet, sighing moan.

Hotter spend drenches his skin and softening, twitching cock as Satoru follows shortly after. And then a soft grunt is squished out of Suguru as Satoru gives out on top of him.

He’s like a heated, heavy, sweaty blanket. Still coming down himself, Suguru pets the back of Satoru’s neck and kisses his hair. Satoru nuzzles deeper into the crook of his neck and Suguru can only sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he blots out any thought of him soon being off on his own.

The rest of the evening passes in indulgent kissing and desperate touch. Satoru doesn’t leave him alone for anything more than a few minutes at a time, eagerly pawing between his legs and suckling at his chest. It’s almost too much attention, the affection more constant than any of Suguru’s past trysts… and it’s also not quite enough, some needier, senseless part of him wishing he could let Satoru really take him, as opposed to just rutting against him and making a mess on his skin.

The warm haze of pleasure leaves Suguru feeling better sated than yesterday’s dinner. And sticky. Awfully, disgustingly sticky.

Before Suguru can leave to melt down more snow and clean himself off, strong arms coil around him and squeeze him close. He lets himself be dragged into Satoru’s grip—though he may not have much choice in the matter, either—and tries to keep his smile small. It’s nice to be wanted, after all. It’s been some years since Suguru’s been with anyone else, and even those memories all fall flat. There is no other like this. There is no one like Satoru, probably, in the whole of this land nor in all the wide world beyond it.

“Suguru…” Satoru mumbles against him. “We could just leave this place. You and I.”

He stiffens in Satoru’s arms as the words drift over him. It's an impossible suggestion. It makes no sense.

“Suguru, are you listening?” A pause. A hand moves to cup Suguru’s face, fingers brushing back strands of his hair. “Come with me.”

“Come with you?” Suguru dumbly repeats back. “Where?”

“To my home. To my castle.”

Suguru’s brow furrows, his confusion quickly turning to bitterness. Satoru knows why he is here and what his purpose is. The thought that Suguru would abandon the people he cares for to run off and live as a… a pet? A concubine?

“And my village, Satoru?” he questions back, irritated that Satoru would disregard them so. “My home? My family there?”

Satoru’s smile fades down to a drawn line, “I’m… I’m sure the snows will melt after a time. After we leave. I could—”

“Satoru. Stop.” There is a tremble in Suguru’s voice. He is too weak for this, too freshly exhausted, swung too hard from warm bliss to uncomfortable reality. “Just… don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re only making this worse.”

Suguru lays his head back down. For a moment, he thinks it would be better to pull away and put some space back between them—to begin the act of separation now, in advance of tomorrow.

But he can’t. Satoru’s misguided offer is only that: a misguided attempt to avert what’s to come. A little too much fondness going to his head. It’s not a terrible thing, knowing he cares enough to try and spare Suguru from what he likely suspects will be a horrific end.

And he might be right. But Suguru is a quick, strong shot.

“Let’s not,” Suguru says, the words he means to say next getting caught in his throat. “Let’s not talk about tomorrow. I don’t want to think about it.”

Suguru pushes his face into Satoru’s shoulder and hopes he doesn’t pull away, displeased by the rejection.

Satoru doesn’t. He tugs the white material back up around Suguru’s shoulders, covering them, and adjusts the blankets, too. His arm goes around Suguru once more, pulling him closer, and his chin settles against the crown of Suguru’s head. He doesn’t say anything at all.

The storm outside rages on. Snow piles higher. The icicles at the mouth of the small cave grow into long, dripping fangs. But within, wrapped in waning firelight and blankets and Satoru’s embrace, Suguru closes his eyes and spends his last night in a warm embrace.

❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄

Suguru wakes early and quietly. In truth, he has not slept soundly at all.

In darkness, he cleans himself off and dresses in his own garments. He grabs his gloves, his bow, his arrows. Everything else he’ll leave behind: the futon and blankets; his family’s map of the valley, marked with hunting spots and hideaways; whatever food and firewood are left. There’s no guarantee he’ll have need for it. Satoru most certainly will.

He crouches there in the dimness of the cave and watches Satoru drowse on. Part of him thinks it would be easier for them both if he left now, no parting words spoken. But he gives Satoru a gentle push to wake him, feeling it only right to do this face-to-face. After last night, it seems important.

As soon as those pale eyes blink open, they lock onto Suguru… and his furred cloak and quiver and the scarf already drawn up over his nose.

“Suguru, what are you…” Satoru stirs and sits up, bewilderment already turning to distress. “You can’t seriously be trying to leave right now. There’s a blizzard on, Suguru. It’s still—”

“I can’t stay, either.” Even with Satoru’s catch of trout, they’ll be low on food in no time. Climbing, moving, merely existing at this altitude is hard on the body. Neither of them will last long if they linger here, and Satoru won’t walk away first. “The storm will slow me down, so I need to start moving now if I hope to reach the temple before nightfall. You wait here until the weather lets up and then start making your way down. I’ve left you a map.”

“No! No, no, no, you can stay here.” Satoru’s bare chest is already moving with quick, heaving breaths. His ghostly pale skin is marked with suckling red bruises that Suguru left last night, and the sight makes Suguru feel guilter about leaving like this. “You have to. Suguru, trust me, it’s not safe for you—”

“I’m leaving, Satoru.” Suguru finds the same detachment he’d managed when he left Kurosaki, the wailing of his own heart pressed down to a place where he doesn’t have to hear it. With a light, level voice and stiffened jaw, he tells Satoru, “I just wanted to thank you first. For being here. For coming this far with me.”

“Wait—”

“My village is called Kurosaki,” Suguru says over him, not wanting to chance another appeal from Satoru to flee with him. There’s temptation in it, especially in the cold, grey light of day. “It’s in the north end of the valley. It’s marked on the map. And my name is Geto Suguru. Once you go home, if… if you can or you want to, I’d appreciate anything you could do in the way of looking after them. Hasaba Nanako and Hasaba Mimiko. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Just anything at all.”

Satoru sits there, rigid and wild-eyed, staring at him.

“But you don’t have to,” Suguru adds after, softly. “They’re with a friend. They’ll be okay once… I mean, if I can do this, they’ll be fine.”

“Suguru—”

But Suguru is already on his feet and fighting through the snow piled against the entrance of the cave, moving as quickly as he can through the pelting of sharp icy flakes carried on the wind.

Satoru should never have followed him this far. Suguru shouldn’t have let him. Now, the best he can do is make sure the foolish man won’t chase him further into danger. He needs to act quickly, finish this, and let nature resume its proper course. He needs to do it before Satoru can catch up and get himself into trouble alongside him.

Suguru has barely made it twenty feet when he hears a voice behind him, shouted words reaching thinly through the howling wind.

“Suguru, wait! You’re going to walk off the mountain! You'll die out here! Just stop. Come back and we’ll… we’ll go together tomorrow.”

With a heavy sigh, Suguru stops and turns—with his bow drawn and an arrow aimed at Satoru.

Satoru is bare from the waist up, having dashed from the cave’s warmth without bothering to dress at all. It sets Suguru’s nerves on edge, frightened at how little the man seems to care for himself out here. Yet another reason that desperate, forceful measures are called for.

“You—you wouldn’t,” Satoru barks at the sight of the arrow trained on him, not backing down in the slightest. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The world all around them is grey and white, the storm obscuring them both. But Suguru is a fine shot even in heavy winds. He would never have given everything up and come this far if he wasn’t.

“Satoru. Go back inside before you freeze yourself to death out here.”

“Not until you come back with me.”

Suguru lets the first arrow go, watching Satoru startle as it sinks into the snow just in front of him. He walks backward with his bow drawn and another arrow knocked and ready, aimed to ride with the wind and scrape along Satoru’s cheek next.

“Let me alone, Satoru. Go back inside. I’m meant to keep going and you’re not meant to follow me any further.”

“Do you wish to make me beg? Please, Suguru. Please come back and let us talk.” With his hands raised, palms shown, fingers likely freezing as they speak, Satoru calls, “I… there’s something I should tell you.”

The moment Satoru takes a step forward through the snow, Suguru shoots again. The warning strike goes where he means it to, cutting across Satoru’s cheek before clattering on a slab of stone some distance behind him, the noise quickly swallowed up in the wind and muffle of heavy snows.

It succeeds in stopping Satoru. Long, bare fingers touch his wet cheek. He stares down at the crimson on them after, and then at Suguru—wide-eyed, almost murderous, anger and disbelief flashing so hot across his features that Suguru can read them even from here, through the wind and the snow and the ice bearing down on them both.

Suguru leaves him like that, turning and bolting away into the masking snow of the blizzard, almost grateful for the miserable weather. It will erase his tracks behind him, leaving nothing easy for Satoru to follow—not that he will, now. Not after that.

Suguru blinks against the quick-forming frost sticking his eyelashes shut and clenches his jaw. He sniffs wetly behind his scarf. He points his mind anywhere but the fresh memory of Satoru looking at him like that, not only wounded at being left behind but betrayed at the lengths Suguru would go to in order to ensure it.

He fights the blizzard with every step. The wind worms cold fingers in through the gaps of his cloak and jacket and undergarments, taking his breath and warmth away little by little. He moves with a purpose, though. Without Satoru here to distract him, to make him wistful for some other life and more time together, it’s easy to focus solely on what lies ahead.

He anticipates an unforgiving uphill struggle and a constant fight to avoid being buried alive, but the blizzard mercifully begins to taper off within the hour.

The snowfall turns almost-gentle. The daytime skies are grey and bleak, promising yet more wintry weather, but for now he’s spared the worst. Yet even without a devastating storm bearing down on him, the climb is brutal.

There are snowdrifts and wells as tall as he is, easy to fall inside and suffocate under. Shelves of windswept snow collapse off the mountainside from time to time, stone and ice tumbling down and snapping frozen trees along the way. Suguru has to step carefully to minimize the chance of being in such a spot when the packed footing underneath him begins to shift and break up, terrified at the thought of coming so close to the peak only to be dashed off on the rocks so far below.

Another hour or two pass. He walks on pins and needles. His fingers, too, tingle and burn. The skin along his ears and around his eyes prickles and grows hot—never a good sign, suddenly feeling warm while out in temperatures as brutal as this.

Suguru dares not rest. If he stops moving for any length of time, he’s not sure he’ll ever get up again. Trying to warm himself is a futile endeavor at these heights. He is in a race against time and the life-stealing cold that dogs his every step, nipping at his heels and toes and fingers.

On the final approach to the temple, the icy and uneven stone turns to snow-blanketed steps. Suguru takes them slowly and awkwardly. He is mostly numb from the waist down, where snow has soaked his clothes and seeped inside his boots to melt. The wind buffets hard around him, howling through the stone and withered wood of the abandoned temple.

Monks used to live here, it was always said. People were closer to dragons in the old days, able to beseech them for rain or an end to floods or plentiful fishing.

But no more. The temple is dark and half-ruined, its braziers filled with snow and dripping with ice. Splinters of wooden columns and cracked stone rubble lie everywhere. The once-holy space is now home to a cold-hearted dragon who has not a care for the mortals stuck crawling the valley below.

With his bow in hand and an arrow knocked in place, Suguru passes through barren courtyards and ruined rooms, his eyes tracking for any sign of movement. There are garden terraces filled only with snow, whatever blooms and fruits they once held now as distant as dreams. Ice hangs from curled stone eaves like uneven rows of teeth. And there is no sound but the lifelike screeching of wind and his own crunching footsteps across icy snow.

Suguru crouches low and takes the final stretch of stairs, ascending to the temple complex’s highest feature: its pinnacle, a grand, open courtyard with an entrance flanked by weathered stone dragons and the faceless, carven figures of the monks who once served them. It’s exactly the place a cold and ferocious dragon would likely roost, devoid of any need or desire for warmth of any sort.

Suguru peeks his head just above the low wall surrounding the courtyard and finds it is empty. No slumbering dragon awaits him, as he’d hoped. Nor a waking one. Just… nothing.

No, Suguru thinks, trying to get a handle on his thoughts. No, it can’t not be here.

Night is not far off. If he tries to lie in wait for the beast to return, he might well freeze solid first. Even now, the worsening cold has his hands weaker than he’d like. His fingers are stiff and unwieldy, burning with the agony of frost burrowing deep into his skin. To have a hope of making the kill he needs, he needs to do so now, while he still has the strength to do it.

In dumbfounded disbelief, Suguru takes the last step and wanders deeper into the expansive courtyard. Once, it must have been beautiful. There was a shrine, clearly, though its wooden remnants are cracked and split by years of thaw and frost, its altar sits barren, and no pilgrim nor monk in their right mind would dare make the journey here now.

It is desolate. It is hopeless. Wind whips loose locks of Suguru’s hair across his face and over his stinging eyes; frost steadily builds along his lashes, freezing the delicate skin along his lids. His bow is squeezed tight in hand, though his arms hang loose at his sides.

He’d abandoned everything to come here. He’d let his heart and everything else harden and freeze to reach the summit, this place being his only prayer of fixing everything the dragon had set awry. And it is all slipping through his frostbitten fingers.

A faint tremble stirs the snow around him and vibrates through Suguru’s boots. A crunching crackle of snow and ice sounds somewhere behind him, like a mountainside giving way to an avalanche. A gust of snowy wind hits his back hard, whipping his cloak’s hood and hair around, and Suguru slowly turns where he stands, already knowing what he’ll see.

A massive, serpentlike body fills much of the courtyard and the air above it. A mane of white hair runs all the way from the dragon’s antler-crowned head to the tip of its tail. Its pale scales gleam like sunlight on ice. Sharp, pearly teeth show between its split jaws. And its eyes are… blue.

A now-familiar shade of it. An unsettling, too-familiar shade of it.

“Suguru.”

Every hair on Suguru’s neck stands on end at the hiss of his name from a dragon’s tongue. How could it know him? How...

Suguru shakes his head slowly back and forth, unwilling to believe they could share some connection—no, not the beast cruelly starving out his village and the man he laid with just last night.

But to deny it is mere wishfulness. White hair and blue eyes are astoundingly uncommon for a man, but a dragon in a man’s skin? Of course such a creature would be able to disguise itself so. Then there is Satoru’s ease and comfort in the cold, his clan’s stronghold in faraway, snow-capped mountains, his irritation at having been drawn out of the frozen lake where he’d been bobbing without care or explanation…

I’m the stupid one. No wonder Satoru had tried so adamantly to dissuade him from coming here, and then to seduce him into leaving. In all likelihood, he’d only tagged along to keep an eye on Suguru and gauge whether he was a threat.

“Suguru,” it calls again. Its antlered head dips forward, the long column of its serpentine neck flexing with considerable muscle. “I would speak with you.”

An ember of rage ignites and burns hot in Suguru’s insides at the words.

Oh, he would speak now? With a dragon’s tongue? Only after laying snowy waste to every inch of the valley? Only after hiding in plain sight in Suguru’s company? Only after Suguru has already let his limbs go rotting-numb with frostbite to crawl this far?

Suguru puts any thought of Satoru—the man and his warmth, his touch, the way he’d kissed and held him last night—from mind. That is all a distant, distant second to what he came here to do. It means nothing anyway. The past few days were clearly never anything more than a game to provide some short-lived diversion to a bored wastrel of a dragon.

Suguru straightens up, knocks his bow, and forces his stiff, numb fingers to function. He looses an arrow in one swift, fluid movement, praying he’s too quick to be stopped or evaded. It whistles through the air, aimed at one glacial-blue eye, enough tension and power behind it to punch into a tree’s trunk. Suguru is already reaching for another arrow as he watches the first one arc toward his target, moving with the wind just as he’d intended it to.

It strikes true. And yet…

The well-placed arrow glances off of the beast’s eye, clattering somewhere over snow-blown stone. Suguru is equally quick to loose another, although he’s at a loss for how it… missed?

It missed. It shouldn’t have, though.

The second arrow doesn’t even have a chance to connect. Satoru whips forward and ducks low, the arrowhead skimming harmlessly across scales that are surely harder than iron.

In less than a blink, Suguru is sent flying from the strike of a muscular tail across his middle. A plume of snow shoots up as he skids across frozen stone and collides with the base of a carven pillar. The air is knocked clear out of him, his lungs left empty and gasping. His cloak’s been ripped off of him by the friction of his fall, allowing the cold to seep into him even more quickly.

But worst of all, his bow is knocked clear across the ruined courtyard, its limbs bent and broken. His quiver lays empty and out of reach, its arrows scattered. Suguru is defenseless and half-numbed, half-frozen, and closer to half-dead than not. 

Which means he has little left to lose, given the damage that’s already been done. He draws himself up on hands and knees, doubled over from the bruising ache where he’d been struck, and wrenches a dagger from the sheath on his hip.

Satoru is upon him well before he is ready. Forced down by another lash of the dragon’s tail, Suguru is roughly rolled onto his back. Three long claws rake into the ice and stone beside him, demonstrating how easily they might carve through Suguru next.

He still clutches the dagger in hand, the weapon gripped tight while Suguru clings to one last hope. Even if Satoru devours him, as long as he can still move an arm he’ll have a chance to do some damage, either to the dragon’s eye while he’s trapped in its jaws or from within as he’s swallowed. He can still do something. Satoru might be impervious from without thanks to those scales, but likely not from within.

The dragon’s snout rams into his chest, pinning him down there to the stone before he can even find the footing to rise. Massive jaws slip open, hot breath and saliva dripping down onto him and then freezing Suguru to the ground.

Suguru digs his heels into the frozen stone under his back and pushes against the warm, scaly nose, trying in vain to slip free and put distance between them.

“Suguru,” Satoru rumbles from low within that dragon-shape. It’s the same voice spoken from his human form but shades deeper. Those eyes are the same blue. For days Suguru has been in the company of the dragon that’s tormented them all for months on end, and too blinded by his regard for Satoru—low at first and then genuine admiration later—to realize.

Those large, eerily blue eyes roll from Suguru to the dagger in his hand and then back again. Up this close, Suguru can see it now: a third eyelid like a clear, glassy scale that rests over each eye, protecting even the one place dragons are said to be most vulnerable.

Trapped under Satoru’s nose and left with nowhere else to reach—and no real hope beyond being swallowed down whole enough to do some harm internally—he stabs the dagger into the side of the dragon’s long snout over and over, unsurprised when the blade buckles and slides across scales harder than steel.

Furious and frustrated, he aims lower. The blade finds soft purchase in Satoru’s gums, between his fangs.

Before Suguru can think to drive the dagger deeper or give it a spiteful twist, Satoru reels back with a pained hiss that has Suguru staring on in horror, his eyebrows pinched together. Then he remembers his own predicament and scrambles to get up, barely making it onto his knees before Satoru knocks him back once more—harder this time than the last, sending him rolling a few times before stopping on his back.

Satoru tosses his head and shakes the dagger loose, the blade skittering off across ice and rock. Now Suguru lays defenseless under a dragon he’s driven into a snarling, quivering rage.

With a heavy sigh, he lets the back of his head touch the ground, breathing hard. His midsection is wet and warm from Satoru’s salivating—and a trickle of blood, too, from the only blow he’d managed to get in.

“That hurt, Suguru,” Satoru says, nose pushing down into Suguru’s ribcage as he speaks, applying a pressure that leaves Suguru groaning. “And for naught.”

Suguru closes his eyes, strength sapped by the bitter cold and the futility of it all and some wounded sense of betrayal. The dragon is Satoru. The same Satoru that caught him food and fed him candy and kept him warm in the same bed. The one he’s told all about his village and his family, having trusted his intentions were better than he first imagined.

A growl rattles its way up Satoru’s throat, all low, menacing clicking at its tail end.

“You would kill me.” 

But you can’t is the unspoken thing that lingers in the air after, at least in the hollow ringing of Suguru’s wind-numbed ears. He came all this way just to fail miserably—to die at the jaws of someone he’d briefly considered a friend. And even more briefly, more than a friend. He's the blindest fool under the heavens and paying dearly for it.

“Even having known me, you would kill me, Suguru?”

Known him? Suguru has never known him, nor been more cruelly deceived.

“Had I known what you were I would never have swam to you in the first place,” he grits out. “I would never have—have opened my tent to you, much less my bed. But you knew that.”

The massive, white-glistening coils of Satoru’s body shift behind him, unfocused at the periphery of Suguru’s narrowed, dimming vision. “You hate me so?”

“Yes, I hate you! You are the source of untold misery,” Suguru spits out at him, tasting blood on his own tongue. He must have bitten the inside of his own cheek as he tumbled and rolled. “You have caused suffering the likes of which you cannot even fathom and you cannot even be made to care!”

“I did not know—”

“Your ignorance doesn’t absolve you! It doesn’t undo the days I have watched my sisters go without eating.” Suguru shakes under the dragon’s hold. “You would have killed us. So yes, I would kill you. If only I could.”

He bites back the sob that threatens to spill out after. The sorrow he feels, the deepening pang at having failed in so many ways, the worry over what Manami and his sisters will do now… those are for Suguru to keep with him. He’s already made the mistake of telling Satoru far, far too much.

The fine, shimmering scales along Satoru’s snout ridge and wrinkle with the makings of a snarl. His eyes remain fixed on Suguru, the black slits at their centers widening slightly as he stares Suguru down.

“If you could sacrifice yourself to save them, would you?” Satoru questions, his voice dropping to a chilling coldness. “Forfeit your life in exchange for theirs?”

Suguru’s chafed, cracked-bloody lips part in silence. He lifts his head as much as he can, eyes wide.

“Yes. Yes, allow me to do that much,” he all but pleads, not knowing if Satoru is truly offering or merely tormenting him. “If you vow to leave here right this moment and let this winter end, that no retribution will come to anyone I care about, I’ll surrender my life to you right now. Do with me as you like.”

It is an easy, obvious choice. The manner of his death matters little now—even if Satoru were to spare him, Suguru would succumb soon to the cold. Better to make use of his life while he has it, to leave something better behind in its absence. His sisters are with Manami. She and Toshihisa and the rest of the village will look out for them. He may not be around to protect them anymore, but once the snows melt and the green grows back, they will be better off because he is gone.

“Good,” Satoru says with something like a rumble afterward, the vibration of it felt through Suguru’s chest and belly. “I’ll vow that.”

The dragon lifts its head and allows Suguru some freedom of movement.

He takes a full breath for the first time in minutes, breath trembling on the exhale. Shivering and shaking, he pushes himself up into a sitting position—then onto his knees, stiff legs clumsily folded under him. Though afraid to look up and meet Satoru’s eyes like this, he forces himself to.

All Suguru sees is an enormous maw descending upon him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and his hands into fists, in this crucial moment filled with more fear than courage. Cowardly. Unable to look death in the face now that it comes for him, and after walking alongside it for days.

Hot breath envelops him as those jaws spread wide before clasping closed, a massive tongue snaking around and under his thighs to drag him up. Satoru’s mouth is dark and reeks of fresh blood. Blindly, Suguru is subjected to one strange sensation after another: the squish and firmness of the tongue under him, the wet rows of teeth on either side of him, the smooth roof of a long mouth. And the heat. This is the warmest Suguru’s been in weeks, though soaked in sticky saliva and terrified for what is to come—being snapped and crushed and swallowed down.

Only… the teeth around him are slow to close, hesitating whenever they encounter an arm or a leg caught between them. Satoru jerks his head and moves Suguru around in his mouth with his tongue, ensuring no errant limbs will be bitten, before closing his jaws completely. 

So there’s no pain, which is unexpected. Only heat and moisture and discomfort. Suguru feels Satoru’s tongue pressing up against him, pushing him up against the roof of his mouth, never quite still. Through the tiny gaps in Satoru’s teeth and the wind whistling through, he can tell they’re flying. He is a takeaway meal, he supposes.

But that’s good. It's better than good. Satoru is leaving the temple and the valley behind, it seems, and staying true to his word. With his departure, the snow will stop and the ice will melt.

But Suguru will not be there to see it.

Chapter Text

Trapped in Satoru’s maw, Suguru has little comprehension of how much time is passing or what distance they’re traveling.

The close, wet heat pressing in all around leaves him feverish and dizzy. Satoru’s warmth seeps into his numbed, frostbitten flesh once more—and with it comes pain, his reawakening nerves on fire. The frightful prospect of being swallowed keeps him on edge, feet pressed into various parts of Satoru’s mouth as he tries to wedge himself against the long tongue crowded in here with him, making himself sticky and hard to gulp down.

In time, Satoru’s movements shift from sinuous swimming in air to solid steps that Suguru can feel by the way he jostles from side to side. And rather than being thrown back and swallowed up, as he still expects at any moment, the jaws around him part and Suguru is spat out on the floor of another open-air courtyard.

This one is not abandoned. Its pewter braziers are lit and the courtyard is tidy, if somewhat barren. Winter-hardy trees line its perimeter: yew and black pine and dozens of blooming camellias. The sun has already sunk behind the frozen peaks around them. The air here is as cold and thin as it was atop the mountain they left behind; between wind and the freezing stone under him, Suguru and his warm saliva-soaked clothing are chilled through once more within a few heartbeats.

An informed guess tells him that this must be Satoru’s home. His clan’s stronghold. The mountains where it snows all year round but the springs run hot.

Some base instinct for survival keeps Suguru’s thoughts racing, his body desperate to marshall its waning strength and scramble for some kind of cover. But he struck a deal with Satoru—his life in exchange for many more at home—and he has no intention of even appearing to break it, which means he must ignore the natural instinct to flee no matter how it screams at him, every inch of his being too aware that he is weak, hobbled prey in front of a predator.

Satoru’s open mouth lunges for him again. Suguru winces and recoils, no braver this time than the last.

His expectation of being imminently eaten turns to muddled confusion as a heavy tongue instead licks him into the cold stone floor.

An unexpected, unrecognizable sound slips out of him as the slick muscle covers and drags its way from his knees to his hips—rolling down more firmly there, making Suguru squirm with nowhere to go—and all the way up to his head. The tip of Satoru’s tongue swipes along his cheek and all Suguru can do is stare up in a daze, surprised he’s not been ripped apart for a snack.

Suguru whimpers as he’s licked again, the heat of the dragon’s saliva almost painfully warm on his freezing legs and hands. His hips arch up without his even meaning to—albeit weakly, no strength left to put behind the reflexive motion—and are roughly forced back down by the press of that long, firm tongue gliding up the length of his body.

Suguru shudders, and not only from the leeching cold at his back.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he feebly manages when he realizes Satoru is about to do it again, hands pressing lightly to the warm snout and jaws hovering over him, bidding them to be still. His brows pinch inward as he breathes hard, fighting through pain and confusion among other things. “This is… you said I’d be giving up my life. You mean to devour me, do you not?”

He just wishes to know what to expect: the sudden skewering of teeth or death by a thousand licks. He can’t keep bracing for the agony of dying only to receive agony of another sort—strange and too intense stimulation, icy chill at his back and searing heat at his front, pleasurable touch plied alongside the thrill and terror of being so close to something so capable of killing him.

The long jaws poised above him split to reveal sharp, pearly white fangs. “Not in the literal sense, no.”

And this time, only the tip of his tongue snakes out, flicking down Suguru’s front and shifting across soaked, sticky fabric. Before Satoru can even object, it presses into the dip of his belly and then lower, making Suguru uselessly curl his nails into the smooth scales of the nose above him, already writhing—

And then Satoru lifts his head and abandons Suguru there, as lost and confused as he’s ever been… and sticky with rapidly cooling saliva and sweat, his hair already drying in half-frozen clumps, the bright flush on his skin giving way to pallor and shivers.

Not devoured? Does this mean he won’t be killed at all?

But… he’d taken aim at Satoru more than once. Suguru spat at him, cursed him, rammed a dagger into the softness of his gums and would have twisted it deeper if he’d had the chance. He made it amply clear he intended to slay Satoru—and he’d have done it, too, if he only had the strength.

Satoru does have strength enough to squash him, though, and in excess. He’d held all of Suguru in his jaws, as casually capable of consuming him as dropping him to a splattering death, and yet…

“Ijichi, you laggard! What took you so long?” Satoru calls to someone else, voice cold-hollow and more biting than Suguru is used to hearing. The stone of the courtyard reverberates with the dragon’s every step, air howling and swirling round as his tail lashes through it. “Have you forgotten what your master looks like? Get over here before I turn you to a fine, red slush.”

Suguru listens as best he can, dimly aware the conversation will likely concern him, but it is as if his aching ears are stuffed with cotton. He focuses on breathing out and in, trying to calm the rising panic needling him from within.

Even without seeing himself, he knows how he must look: like hell frozen and then warmed over, his skin bulging and blistering where the ice crystals within it have melted down. His fingers and hands and face must be swollen and mottled, ruined by first the frost and then the thaw—the same way wood and stone will crack and split as ice grows within their weakest points. The whole of his body is riddled with the worst kind of frostbite. Bits of him will blacken, harden, and atrophy. If rot sets in, he could lose whole limbs.

And that fate meant little when death seemed so close at hand. But if he is kept alive and forced to watch himself crumble away week by week—his archer’s fingers, his nose and lips and eyelids and all his most defining features, his feet and their fleetness and any chance of protecting or providing for anyone—Suguru doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear it.

“Take Geto-sama indoors at once. Bathe him. Tend to him. See that he is well fed. I want every hearth and brazier in the castle lit. Heat the floors, too.”

“B-But Gojo-sama—”

“Do it, Ijichi, or I will see that you are left worse off than he is.”

Cold wind and snow stir, blowing large, powder-soft flakes across Suguru’s face. His stiff eyelids flutter shut, then remain closed, and then he sleeps.

❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅

When he wakes, he is already in a bath.

The water is warm and milky white. Winter-blooming camellia petals scatter its surface and scent the air. The room itself is quite dark, the flickering of lantern light pushing at the shadows. It smells of cedar and winter pine, planks of which form the walls, the floors, and the deep, soaking tub itself.

And the pain is excruciating. And Suguru is not alone.

“I can bathe myself. Thank you,” he rasps to the attendant carefully cleaning under his nails with a soft brush, instantly self-conscious despite the throbbing agony wracking his whole body. When he’s not on a days-long mission to slay a dragon—and then rendered a mess by said dragon—he is fastidiously clean.

With weak effort, Suguru pulls his hand from the servant’s grasp. A fresh tremble seizes his fingers as he takes in the deep discoloration at their tips and the red blisters across his knuckles. He has only ever seen it this bad in others, less fortunate than he. Suguru knows what comes after this, in the weeks and months to follow, as the true toll of letting himself freeze so deeply makes itself known.

“If you say so, Geto-sama,” the attendant answers with a pleasant smile and a blink of wide, brown eyes.

Geto-sama? Between the elegant richness of the room and the servant by his side, Suguru feels as if he’s been spirited away into another life. Which… he supposes he has, actually.

“Just Suguru is fine,” he murmurs, still more distracted by the state of his bruised and frostbitten body. Pain keeps his breaths shallow and his head clouded, his ribs aching where Satoru’s tail struck him. Being unconscious and unfeeling was preferable. “I am no one’s lord.”

The attendant’s lips curl inward, apparently stifling some response to that, and his ears briefly pin back.

His rabbit ears.

“Okay,” the strange, rabbit-featured servant says with a tentative smile, his long ears lifting again and swiveling forward, “Suguru.”

It takes Suguru a moment to catch his winded breath. “When… how long have I been asleep?”

“Not long,” he answers. “It’s only the hour of the pig.”

Suguru makes a soft sound at that, still gaining his bearings. He’d passed out some hours ago, then. By the way his skin feels, he’s been in the water a while already.

The servant reaches for a small, shallow bowl resting beside him and offers it to Suguru. “Here, Ge—Suguru. I was told to give this to you as soon as you woke up. Don’t spill any! Ijichi said the ingredients came at great cost and peril and Gojo-sama will have our heads if you don’t drink every last drop.” 

Suguru’s brow, already knitted in distress, furrows deeper. Slightly slurring, he stares into the pale, milky liquid and wonders, “What is it?”

“Gojo-sama commanded we give it to you,” is all the servant says, bright and chipper, as if that is the only answer Suguru needs.

“But what is it?” he repeats even as he puts the shallow bowl to his lips.

“A decoction to help with the pain.”

“Should’ve said that first,” Suguru gently complains before downing the bowlful in one long gulp.

It’s unctuously thick and clings to the inside of his mouth like a film, but the taste is mild and not-unpleasant. As he licks his lips, he does find the burning ache throughout his limbs lessens. His joints feel not quite so stiff. He can breathe a little easier.

“That actually seems to have worked,” he says as he hands the empty bowl back, surprised at how much better he feels.

“I would hope so. Gojo-sama escorted an herbalist of great renown here to brew these for you,” the rabbit-eared servant explains, beaming while passing Suguru a bowl of some other mysterious elixir. “Here, this one is for healing.”

Suguru gives the liquid a gentle slosh, concerned by its inky blackness and a shimmer like billowing gold dust. He hesitates to subject himself to what looks like a deeply foul medicinal drink, well aware there is no point in trying to heal skin and flesh that is already ruined beyond saving. But with those round, hopeful eyes fixed on him, he pours it back and swallows it down anyway.

Suguru is here to serve his end of the quickly-made bargain with Satoru and offer the dragon no excuse to return to his valley-starving ways. If Satoru’s demand is that he drink some herbal tonic, he’ll do it.

The medicine is bitter swill. Acrid. It leaves Suguru gagging, eyes squeezed shut as he feels it working down his throat and chest and belly, where it rests with a strange heaviness.

“Where is Gojo-sama?” he questions while wiping the corner of his mouth.

“Away,” the servant says, shrugging.

“Away where?” Suguru tries again, willing himself not to lose patience with the rabbit spirit. He looks a bit younger, bright-eyed and joyfully-tempered, and it isn’t his fault that Suguru is in a foul mood and a miserable state.

“Oh, he doesn’t tell us such things. But he did say we should do as you wish, except in allowing you to leave. So, is there anything you need?”

As he sits in the warm bath, Suguru can think of little to request. There are clothes of splendor akin to Satoru’s draped over a nearby screen, likely intended for him. His fingertips and feet are still patchy and discolored, his damaged skin peeling off, but the first potion he’d drunk seems to have dulled most of the pain. The bath’s warmth soothes any lingering soreness in his muscles.

“Just a few minutes of privacy.” As he sinks lower into the tub, opaque water up to his chin and his hair swirling all around him, Suguru marvels at the luxury of such a deep, well-heated bath and hastily changes his mind. “More than a few minutes. An hour, maybe.”

“As you like, Suguru. My name is Haibara, by the way,” he introduces as he stands. “I’ll be by the door. Should you need anything, say the word!”

Once afforded a blissful modicum of privacy, Suguru spends an undue amount of time soaking and lazing in the water. And he thinks—of where Satoru is and what he is up to, how his family is faring, and what his future will be. Being taken alive, bathed, and tended to has Suguru reassessing Satoru’s intentions toward him. A trophy? A new servant? A caged companion? HE recalls odds and ends of stories of dragons and demons and other spirits who sometimes took mortals to husband or wife—though that didn’t necessarily save them from being eaten after—but he doubts Satoru is angling for a bedmate who will soon lose most of their digits and extremities.

When Suguru finally musters the resolve to gingerly wash his battered body clean, he is stunned to find his hands and feet look as usual again—no swollen blisters or bloodless white patches or dying, darkening flesh. He checks over every inch of himself while scrubbing his skin, hardly believing his own eyes. Not even chilblains remain. The bruising across his middle from the lash of Satoru’s tail has vanished. All the scrapes and scratches he’s gathered over the past few days are gone, too.

Suguru spends some time marvelling at it, almost afraid to believe he’s truly been spared such dire consequences. But no matter how many times he checks, it remains true: his frostbite is healed as if it never was.

Haibara returns to fuss over him once he’s out of the tub, as if Suguru cannot dry his own hair and skin. He chatters on, asking Suguru about life down south, as he helps Suguru put on more layers than he’s ever worn at once in his life. Each additional kosode is progressively heavier, more finely textured, and more elaborately embroidered. The last is quilted black silk with gold thread scales patterned across it, as if Suguru is donning dragonskin himself.

His hair is combed out but left undone, the long sweep of it falling past his waist. The cracks are buffed from his nails. Scented oil is dotted along his wrists. A balm is given for the rough, dry skin of his lips.

Jewelry is offered next, Haibara pointing out pieces on a delicate wooden tray for him to choose from: black pearl earrings, shakudo bracelets and rings, carved jade bangles and pendants, golden hairpins and ornaments. Each individual piece is probably worth more than anything Suguru has ever laid eyes on before.

“You have to pick at least one,” Haibara whispers when Suguru stares too long without moving. “Gojo-sama said so.”

“Gojo-sama this, Gojo-sama that,” Suguru mutters under his breath, wishing the man himself were here to have words with. “Fine.”

He selects a long golden hairpin featuring a dragon coiled and clutching a black pearl, and Haibara of course insists he must wear it. Suguru sits impatiently while his thick hair is parted and woven and knotted; the new hairpin is carefully slid in place to secure the heavy coils of his hair at the very end.

Dressing and readying him takes even longer than the bath, in the end. And once Haibara is satisfied, he calls another servant—Ijichi—to lead Suguru around the castle.

Suguru vaguely remembers the name, but this is the first time he’s laid eyes on him. Somehow, the poor man looks both older and younger than Suguru. Stress, perhaps.

Myriad other attendants—Suguru finds the variety interesting, each one sporting some different animal feature—scurry around them with armfuls of wood for massive pewter braziers and oil for lamps. Warm air is fanned under the floors with the pumping of massive bellows. Despite the late hour, the whole place is alight and alive and buzzing with movement, voices, and noticeable stares.

It quickly becomes obvious that Suguru is the only human present. Perhaps he is the first one they’ve ever seen?

“I apologize for the trouble,” Suguru murmurs to Ijichi, knowing all this fuss is on his account.

Ijichi is dark-haired and nervous and squirrely—quite literally, with ears and a tail that remind Suguru of the kind he often hunted.

“Oh, no, Geto-sama, it’s not an inconvenience at all. Most of us feel the cold, same as you,” he answers in low tones meant for Suguru alone. “Having an excuse to warm the place is quite welcome. Gojo-sama… Gojo-sama has never before seen much point in it.”

“Oh.” It does give him some relief to know he is not the only one benefitting from so much work.

“Some measure of this chaos is to prepare the castle for the return of its master,” Ijichi goes on. “It has been more than half a year since Gojo-sama, ah… chose to venture south and postpone his duties here.”

Suguru frowns to himself. “And he’s already left again?”

Ijichi sighs and rubs at one temple. “Yes.”

“Do you have any idea where?”

Ijichi lets slip a look of honest annoyance before schooling it back. “I’m afraid not. That is his way, I am sad to say, and always has been. N-Not that it is my place to comment! Not that he doesn’t have the right,” he hurries to say, as if caught being too frank and terrified about it. Almost nervously, he avoids meeting Suguru’s eyes.

“So long as he is not here to hear it, you may feel free to slander him to me,” Suguru mutters, a bad taste in his mouth at being dragged here and then abandoned without so much as a word. “He is certainly not without fault.”

Ijichi further quails at that, casting worried looks Suguru's way as they arrive at their destination. He opens the doors for Suguru, letting him into what he can only assume is Satoru’s room.

“Please, sit wherever you like. I will be back with your dinner in just a moment,” Ijichi says while bowing his way back out the door.

It’s spacious and beautifully furnished from what Suguru can tell. Being close to midnight, darkness is pooled in all the room’s corners. On the far wall is a closed sliding panel door that leads out to some garden or courtyard; he can see the moonlit shadow of thin trees swaying on the papered screen. Lit floor lanterns chase out some of the shadow and give everything a warm, soft glow that has Suguru feeling drowsy again.

The many layers of sumptuous fabric rest heavy on his shoulders and tender, freshly healed skin. Like a moth to lamplight, he wanders toward a beautiful metalwork brazier set in the middle of the open floor, squat and square. Behind the silvery grates—beautifully detailed and worked into the shapes of dragons, serpents, trees—hot coals and embers glow red and orange, radiating a heat that warms the room.

The wooden floors are covered in tatami, and the tatami with various furred pelts. Suguru settles down on one near the brazier, not one to shun even a lick of warmth after spending months so wracked by cold.

He folds his hands in his lap and waits, brewing anxiety all penned up inside him.

He had agreed to Satoru’s offer of sparing his home in exchange for his life without a second thought. He’d had little other recourse at the time. But now, with the nature of their bargain taking an unexpected shape and Satoru utterly absent, he is… concerned, to say the least.

How much of the man he’d come to know still lies under that scaled skin and how much was a facade Suguru had taken at face value? It’s impossible to say what was play, conniving, or otherwise. Is Satoru worthy of trust? He’d lied to Suguru from the very start. Could he have left Suguru here and returned to the vale to do worse? Satoru is capable of doing anything he wishes, really. Was the vow, too, a lie? A trick meant to appease Suguru and lure him here, blind and helpless to what his family back in Kurosaki is going through?

Suguru has no means of knowing. It’s like Satoru is a stranger all over again.

Ijichi returns with a small table filled to the brim with food, which he sets down in front of Suguru.

“Zaru soba?” Suguru questions, eyes alighting on the pile of noodles first. “That’s—”

“Ah, yes, I know it’s not a warm dish but Gojo-sama requested it for you specifically.”

His favorite.

That Satoru remembered—that before hastily taking off from the castle once more, he took a moment to leave such an instruction—shows a degree of consideration Suguru hadn’t expected. It gives him some hope that the dragon’s intentions are at least somewhat true and well-meaning.

Suguru is on his fourth bite of soba before Ijichi has even left the room. He doesn’t mind that the noodles are cold. The taste reminds him of summer days eating with his family, both blood and otherwise. Though he wants to savor every bite, he devours it all down too quickly. And once the bamboo soba tray is empty, there are still so many other dishes waiting that he hardly knows where to start.

Pickled radish. A whole poached fish. Skewers of yakitori chicken and gizzards. Seasoned winter greens. Tofu. Steaming soup and a generous portion of rice. Tea. A bowl of sweet red bean soup with mochi. He tries a little of everything, hungrily picking out the choicest pieces first. He thinks he could clear the whole table by himself within minutes. Instead, Suguru finds himself full after barely making a dent, almost sick from stuffing himself. It’s all delicious but the spread is so much more than he’s used to having set before him.

He sets his chopsticks aside and flops backward, arms stretched out on either side of himself, cushioned atop a massive white pelt. His full stomach cramps as it tries to accommodate everything he’s swallowed down. With his eyes closed, he trails his fingers through the dense, fluffy fur underneath him. It’s soft and coarse all at once, with some bristly guard hairs and then a plush undercoat. And Suguru is fortunate, he knows, to feel it—to have any sensation left in his fingers at all after the cold he’d subjected them to.

“Going down for the night already or did you simply eat too much?”

Suguru sits up at once, arms braced out to either side of himself. With wide eyes, he stares at the white-haired head poking through the doorway and is at a loss for what to feel.

That face is one he’s laid nose-to-nose with, its smile and pale eyes attached to memories of shared dinners over a fire and sleepy conversations in darkness. Suguru kissed those lips and cradled that body close. In what he’d thought might be his last request, he’d entrusted the man, Satoru, with so much of what matters most in his life.

Now Suguru knows that under the ghostly skin there is also a dragon: devastatingly powerful and terrifyingly impervious, capable of delivering destruction on a scale no human can really fathom. So much of the hardship Suguru and a thousand others have lived this past winter lies on the shoulders of the very creature in front of him.

“Where did you go?” Suguru questions back, anticipatory dread stirring in his stomach, mind conjuring only the absolute worst that could happen.

Satoru steps inside and draws from behind his back a familiar bow—broken and splintered, limbs held together by the string alone—and an empty quiver. He slides the door closed behind himself. “Your pack and tent are just outside as well.”

The bow being shattered is no surprise to Suguru. He’d glimsped it sent flying and snapping when Satoru tail-whipped him across that courtyard. But he’d never have expected to see it here, in Satoru’s hand.

A heavy swallow squeezes at his throat. “You went back for them?”

“It was a very quick visit,” Satoru says, taking another small step or two deeper into his room. His hair is swept back, as if freshly tousled by the wind. His heavy hanten has been traded for a light haori over his kimono instead; the motley, crudely fashioned scarf Suguru made for him is still looped loosely around his throat, out of place among everything else he has on. “Don’t worry. My presence there was brief enough that it should not have caused your village any further duress.”

Suguru watches as Satoru lays his broken bow and his quiver atop a long, lacquered chest of drawers. His dagger is drawn out and set beside them—the very one Suguru had plunged inside Satoru’s mouth, between his teeth, before Satoru had flung it away. The one that belonged to his mother before it was his.

It takes a moment before Suguru’s mind and mouth can agree on something to say. “Why?”

Why would Satoru go back to rummage for his things at all? Why bring him a weapon and let it sit within sight? Unless Satoru really sees him as no threat whatsoever, which perhaps is the most likely answer.

“As a hunter, the blade must be important to you.” Satoru shrugs a shoulder. “Same for the bow, though I hadn’t realized it was broken until I went to collect it. You’re actually quite an impressive archer, you know.”

“Yes, I know. You’re the one saying it like you’re surprised after I told you I was a good shot. More than once,” Suguru reminds him, stare lingering on the pile of his few recovered possessions. He can always make another bow, if Satoru lets him. “But not good enough to kill a dragon, apparently.”

In the lengthy silence that follows, Satoru smiles thinly at him.

“Do you still wish to?”

Suguru stares at him, eyes traveling from the top of his head down to his toes. He is so like the Satoru that Suguru remembers—and so unlike the massive dragon that had so effortlessly batted him around and pinned him and spat him out here. He looks and sounds like the companion and one-time lover Suguru quickly affixed so many fond feelings to, as opposed to the enemy he had spent months envisioning. 

Suguru licks his lips and shakes his head. He looks directly into Satoru’s eyes, which shine bright even in the gloom, warily looking for anything else he’s overlooked.

“Not as long as my home and family are safe. Are they?”

Satoru seems satisfied with the answer. “They are.”

“How can I trust you?” Suguru questions, desperately wanting assurance. “Have you any proof for me?”

Satoru takes slow steps toward him, stopping at the table still stacked with half-eaten dishes of food. He groans as he sits down opposite Suguru, legs crossed. “I could bring them here to you, if you would like to see them with your own eyes and hear the truth of it with your own ears. I imagine it will take a few days for the snow and ice to melt off first, though.”

“No,” Suguru answers at once. “I don’t want that.”

His own life resting in Satoru’s hands—or his mouth, rather—while being carried here is acceptable. Nanako and Mimiko, though? Suguru neither trusts Satoru alone with them nor any guarantee of their safety here in the castle.

But he doesn’t want Manami and the girls weeping at the thought he is dead, either. Once another week passes and the winter snow melts away, they’ll assume he succeeded in his endeavor. Another week after and they’ll surely assume Suguru fell somewhere along the way.

Suguru composes himself before asking, “Could I go home to see them? Just for an—”

“No.”

Satoru’s expression brooks no argument there, displeasure settled in the corners of his frown.

Suguru supposes it’s the answer he ought to have expected. In that temple, the dragon looming above him had demanded one thing in exchange for leaving the valley in peace: his life forfeited over for Satoru to do with as he will. 

Still, he meets Satoru’s stare again and softly questions, “Never?”

Satoru regards him for several long seconds, a hard chill to the blue of his eyes, before sighing. “Not never. But not soon. Don’t pester me about it.”

“My friends and my family—”

“You belong here with me.” There is a tense flex in his jaw as his teeth clench tight. Though his chest moves in the same slow rhythm and his posture remains unchanged, calm on the surface, the roiling look behind his eyes says otherwise. “Hate me all you like, but you will stay.”

“I have no intention of running off and breaking our pact,” Suguru assures, observing how immediately, if subtly, Satoru relaxes. He makes his voice as soft and agreeable as he can. “Indulge me a little, though, and I will be far more pleasant company.”

“Indulge you? And what would you like, hm?” He looks slightly past Suguru, eyes alight with some interest. “The hairpin suits you.”

The hairpin is a work of artistry, flattering to anyone who would wear it. It also feels like something of a mark, a little claim of ownership, akin to the delicate scaled pattern on the clothing Suguru wears. Less than a week ago, he had embarked on a self-made mission to slay a dragon; now he sits in a dragon’s company, in a dragon’s personal room, with a dragon pin nestled in his hair.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, though the compliment feels like one Satoru is paying to himself, given he had likely picked out the jewelry and ornaments for Haibara to present to him. “But what I want is food and firewood delivered to my sisters and the rest of the village. Salt, clothing, and other supplies, too.”

Satoru’s brows lift slightly—either surprised by the nature of the request or by Suguru asking for so much in exchange for such a small promise—but he shrugs. “Very well.”

“And the rest of the valley, too,” Suguru presses on, hoping to wring as much benefit out of his imprisonment here as is possible.

“What, all of it?”

“Every community that suffered from an unduly harsh and protracted winter, yes,” Suguru insists, taking care not to directly point a finger at the dragon sitting across from him. Heavens knows he made his feelings on Satoru’s culpability clear back at the temple. “I will list them out, along with the supplies they need and in what amounts. The headman of each village can sign to acknowledge receipt. I would be satisfied with that.”

“Oh, would you?” Satoru poses back, scoffing after. Sarcastic, he adds, “Feeding and clothing a dozen villages is all it will take to tide you over?”

Suguru glances sideways at gilded furniture, shelves of books, and elegant vases. “Can you not afford it?”

“I most assuredly can,” Satoru says, leaning forward with a smile that looks sharp under the lantern light. “Is this your bride price, then?”

The ribbing only serves to stoke his temper, Suguru’s face flushing hot and red. “No, it is your just compensation for the people whose lives you’ve made harder, if not impossible. Livelihoods you wantonly destroyed—”

“Wantonly? You act as if I was personally down there squishing your countrymen,” Satoru snaps, suddenly and sharply irritated.

“No, you only sent feet upon feet of snow to do it,” Suguru dryly retorts, realizing immediately after that he is in a precarious position and largely subject to Satoru’s mercy. Softer, he tries, “I mean… I mean, it makes little difference to people like us when the outcome is much the same. Whether you swoop down and eat a farmer or cause him to freeze to death in the fields, his family goes hungry.”

Satoru bites back whatever he’d meant to say next. He leans forward, an elbow on his knee and his chin propped on his curled fist. “How was I to know my presence was so detrimental to them? To you? It’s never been an issue up here…”

And that much makes sense, given how remote these mountains are. “But what about the cities you visited?”

Satoru shrugs. “What about them? It snowed for a night or two. People complained and shoveled it aside. No food-rationing or dragon-hunting involved.”

“It never crossed your mind that months upon months of snow and freezing temperatures might change a landscape that is unused to it? Or cause hardship for the people caught in it?”

Satoru gives him a little grimace. “I did not care enough to consider that far, in truth.”

Outside of holding the secret that he is a dragon, Satoru remains almost honest to a fault. If nothing else, Suguru takes some reassurance in that.

“There were offerings put out for you,” he reminds Satoru, exasperated. “And you took them! What did you think they were for?”

Satoru shrugs again, more emphatically, as if at a loss. “People offer things to dragons all the time! For protection, for rain, for river trade, for fishing. To curry favor. How was I supposed to know those were meant to drive me away? I figured the locals were sucking up and showing their gratitude, as they should. It’s what the humans here do.”

Suguru clucks his tongue against his teeth, plainly disappointed. “You owe me a deer, then.”

“Suguru,” he says, straightening his spine and fixing Suguru with an earnest stare, “I’ll give you that and more.”

Suguru squints at that, unsure what to make of the offer or what to feel about it. Nothing Satoru says or does lines up with his reasonable assumptions; he doesn’t act as a wronged, pride-wounded dragon ought to.

“I tried to kill you,” Suguru blurts, half-wondering if Satoru’s forgotten.

Satoru’s smile is slight. “That’s alright. You’re not the first.”

Suguru hardly knows what to say to that, knowing he must keep company in Satoru’s mind with the uncle who’d sought to do the same. Their motivations were vastly different, of course, but how much difference can that make when the outcome—an attempt on Satoru’s life—was the same?

“So,” Satoru says, his shoulders lifting, “will you be content if I make right what I can with your village and the rest? Will it put your mind at ease?”

It’s certainly a start. Suguru had left Kurosaki with the grim estimation that he was likely to perish in the attempt, even if successful in wounding or killing the dragon. This is in some ways a better arrangement: the valley freed of the unnatural winter Satoru brought with him and Suguru still alive to help protect it in some manner, even if only from afar.

Satoru is sweetening things by ensuring Suguru’s friends and sisters are well-cared for without him. And they’ll know he’s alive—somewhere, if not there—and thinking of them.

“It would.”

Satoru looks a mix of annoyed and relieved. “Good. You can dictate your list to Ijichi or Nanami in the morning, perhaps. Or can you write?”

Manami showed him enough to help keep the shop books in her stead while she was collecting shipments and deliveries. He knows sums and numbers and the characters for essentials well enough. He can manage simple missives.

“I can. Some.” Suguru scoots forward on his knees, closer to the table. Then, still uncertain, he asks, “You really care whether or not I am content?”

“I would prefer that you were. But I would keep you here regardless.”

Suguru clears his throat. “For what purpose, exactly?”

It’s not as though knowing will make a great deal of difference; whatever Satoru demands of him, however the dragon wishes to have him, Suguru is more or less bound to oblige. Do with me as you like. He’d said it in such haste, with short sight.

“Suguru.” He picks up Suguru’s chopsticks and uses them to start eating his unfinished food, eyeing Suguru all the while. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“I am.” Suguru suddenly wishes rice wine had come with his supper. It might calm him a little and quell his simmering temper. Or it might make his tongue even looser. “You have been nothing but deceptive until now. All I’m asking is for you to be plain with me.”

“Deceptive?” Satoru chews faster, a little pinch forming between his brows.

“Even if you think me a fool, don’t play dumb with me. You knew full well how I regarded the dragon I was seeking and not only did you decide to accompany me, you hid your identity from me the whole time.”

“What, I should have declared myself to the man who was fletching arrows meant for me?” Satoru poses back, incredulous. “Seems it’s you who takes me for a fool.”

“Arrows that couldn’t even touch you, apparently!” Suguru huffs, still irritated at having been so outmatched in the mountain temple. He yanks his chopsticks out of Satoru’s hands and starts eating again, anger having stirred his appetite once more. “Which you must have known going in.”

“They can’t pierce me in my true form, no,” he answers, grabbing a chicken skewer and stripping the meat off with his teeth. “But I’m a little less armored in this one. Which you saw firsthand, if you remember.”

Suguru’s retort dries up on his lips. He did see blood when he shot at Satoru to frighten him out of following any further, a line of crimson welling on Satoru’s cheek as he remained rooted there in apparent shock. His arrowheads might have found no purchase on dragonhide, but Satoru’s softer human skin had afforded no such protection.

“Could I have killed you, then?” he asks, voice hushed.

“Hm? No. I heal far too quickly for an arrow or two to kill me. That said, they can certainly make me bleed, and nothing is more annoying than pulling arrowheads out. Especially ones that are barbed like yours.” Satoru regards him a moment longer before saying, “It would’ve hurt, though. Worse, coming from you.”

Suguru recalls too vividly the way Satoru had glared at him then, wide-eyed with disbelief at being turned on and shot at. He chews slowly, for the first time feeling some wisp of… not quite regret, but a wonder at how differently things might have gone had he let Satoru convince him to linger. 

“You might’ve told me who you were earlier and saved us both some grief. Mentioned that you were the dragon and that you were open to… to negotiation,” Suguru blushes while searching for a word that isn’t reminiscent of human-offerings or maiden-sacrifice, though this is shaping up to be exactly that. “You knew the whole time and just let me run my mouth and spill my guts. You had me ascend an entire mountain for no reason.”

“Had I told you that I was your dragon,” Satoru says with a cocked head, “that first night, or the second, or the third, would you have listened to me in good faith for even a minute? Or would you have tried to kill me on the spot? I think the latter and you are very quick on the draw.”

Suguru’s jaw clenches. He can’t really argue, though.

“Why didn’t you kill me the moment I told you my intentions, then?” Suguru has to wonder. “If you were so convinced I’d try to slay you if I found out what you were. If you felt so insulted by my impertinence.”

“Well, I did halfway consider it at first. But only for a moment here and there.” Done picking Suguru’s dishes clean for now, he leans himself over and lies down on his side, head propped in hand, stretched across the same great white fur as Suguru. Satoru smiles and rests his cheek in his hand, blinking slowly at Suguru. “I found you strange and interesting. And an annoyance, obviously, but…”

He wiggles a hand as if that explains things. It’s hard for Suguru not to take some offense.

“Strange?”

“Oh, you think you aren’t? I went for a nice little dip and next thing I know, some human is screaming at me and dragging me out of the water—half-drowning himself in the process, mind you. Strange,” Satoru repeats for emphasis, eyebrows going up. “Within an hour of meeting you, I’d seen you naked and you were demanding me to strip bare—”

“You’re misrepresenting what was happening—”

“You insulted me, you sassed me, you admitted you were out to kill me,” Satoru goes on, ticking each item off on his fingers. After a slight pause, he continues with, “And you fretted over me, clothed me, fed me, tried to boss me right into your bed.”

Suguru ignores the way Satoru’s making it sound scandalous. The man’s hopeless.

Dryly, he says, “Tried? It would seem I succeeded.”

Satoru rolls over onto his back as he laughs. “No? No, you did not. Your whole argument was about needing to share body heat, which I had no need of. The only reason I put myself through the discomfort of sharing a futon with you that night was because you looked so pitiful, shivering even under all those blankets.”

Suguru pinches at his bottom lip, a faint blush on his cheeks as he thinks back to that first night in the fishing hut. Satoru’s heat had felt like a godsend after being soaked to the bone in the lake.

“So, even though you stood to gain nothing and in fact believed I would attempt to kill you if I had an inkling you were a dragon, you got into bed with me? And then decided to accompany me on foot to the designated battle site?”

Satoru opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he opens it again to say, “I was in need of entertainment and you seemed entertaining. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“That was all,” Satoru resolutely repeats. “At the start, anyway. The last thing I expected was to grow fond of a smart-mouthed man, but…”

Suguru studies Satoru for several long moments, feeling unduly warm. It’s the many insulating layers he has on and the dry, heated air from the brazier. It’s the blush building under his skin, which is mercifully cast in lantern-glow and shadow that will hide much of the color.

“Is that what my being here is? A fond whim of yours?”

“More than a whim, I’d say.” There’s a hint of defensiveness in Satoru’s voice. The short laugh he lets out is more from incredulity than amusement. “I mean, we laid together. A little shy of total consummation, sure, but still.”

Suguru’s lips part as his mouth falls open, taken aback at the insistence in Satoru’s voice—as if spending last night together is grounds to claim Suguru completely.

“Only one night. And I didn’t even know who you were at the time. That’s hardly…” He takes up his cup, refills it, and drinks it down, eyebrows pinched as he tries to put a word to what he’d had with Satoru—a messily desperate rutting session when he’d half-expected to die the next day and hadn’t known he was bedding a dragon. “Anything.”

“You didn’t know me?” Satoru sits up again, not a trace of a smile or good humor left on his face. “I wasted my breath all those days we spent together, then? I ought not to have bothered telling you anything about myself?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Do you hate me still, Suguru?”

Suguru bristles at the tone and the guarded look in Satoru’s eyes, because why is he the one here being made to feel cruel and unfair? Still, he exhales heavily through his nose and weighs what he feels with what he thinks he now knows.

It remains difficult to square the two halves of Satoru in Suguru’s mind. For months, he had imagined the dragon to be some wicked creature in a cold but frothing rage, deaf to any plea or threat to leave, hellbent on wreaking havoc and suffering. He could see no other way that made sense, honestly, to explain its malignant presence.

Taking Suguru’s protected silence for an answer, Satoru nods to himself. Resigned, he fixes a dour look on Suguru and asks, “How much?”

But while Suguru wouldn’t quite call Satoru benevolent, he is far from heartless.

The dragon had taken on human legs and plodded along with him for days on end. He’d kept Suguru comfortably warm in the night. He’d carried Suguru when he fell weak, fed him candy, and caught him dinner. He’d kissed Suguru and held him and begged him to run away together, no doubt hoping to somehow side-step the ugly confrontation that had happened in the temple. And even with an arrow aimed at him for a third time, Satoru had still sought to speak rather than simply overpowering Suguru from the start.

“I don’t,” Suguru eventually says, only halfway noticing the brightening flicker across Satoru’s expression. “Not as much as I did. Or should.”

No more than he despises boar who’ve gored him or thorny plants that prick him, he decides. If ice and snow are part of Satoru’s nature—not quite the malicious punishment Suguru had taken them for—it affects his judgment accordingly. It’s the lack of care that was the issue, the callous disregard, but Satoru has already shown himself capable of changing there, too.

“Even though I am the source of untold misery for you and your people?” Satoru questions, voice soft as he repeats the words Suguru had uttered in heartbreak and fury back to him.

“Well.” Satoru can’t think of a way to soften the sentiment because it was inarguably true. Even now, the ice and snow in the vale he calls home are only just beginning to melt. “You aren’t anymore, are you? You’ve left them in peace and will be sending them aid. You changed your mind for the better.”

“You changed my mind,” Satoru says, sipping tea from Suguru’s cup. “Not that I intended to give your little villages so much trouble in the first place, but…”

“I swayed you?”

“Who else?”

Suguru gives a slight shrug at that, surprised Satoru wouldn’t take a little more credit for turning a new leaf. “So, was all the abysmal weather really unintentional? You have no control over it?”

“Ah. Well, I have an effect on my surroundings without even trying, yes,” Satoru says, inching forward as he explains. Their knees and toes nearly meet under the table. “Passively, you know. But I can exert some influence over it as well—bigger ice packs here to feed the rivers there, flurries or blizzards, frost or a deep freeze.”

It explains a great deal. It also leaves Suguru feeling like he’d spent their journey wandering half-blind, looking past every sign his lordly traveling companion wasn’t human at all. 

“You know, I did think the weather was suspiciously nice for much of our trip,” he says, thinking back to the gentle drifting of snowflakes and the sunny, cirrus-y skies that had shone down on them. “Until we got close to the peak, of course. That snowstorm—that was all you, wasn’t it?”

Satoru purses his lips out, not saying a word.

Guilty.

“You ravaged half the valley with a snowsquall just to delay me a while? Satoru.”

“I kept it contained! It only wrapped the mountain,” Satoru insists, almost moping over the accusation. “I just wanted a little more time together. To be together. To think of the right words to say to you. I thought, surely it can’t be that hard to convince you to pick me over a futile, freezing death march. And then I’d break the news to you gently, and you would be so taken with me—as taken with me as I am you—that killing me wouldn’t even cross your mind.”

The corners of Satoru’s eyes crinkle with a smile that isn’t really one at all.

Suguru’s ears burn hot at how casually Satoru says such things—as taken with me as I am you. He clears his throat and rasps out, “My mind was very made up.”

“So I discovered when you took those first shots at me,” Satoru says with a grim little smile. “You know, when I first took a liking to you, I told myself that when the moment was right I could simply carry you off and smooth things over after. Easy. But as time wore on, I realized that really wouldn’t go over well with you.”

Suguru agrees, shaking his head. “Not at all.”

“And the more I tried to think of another way to make you come with me, to not be frightened or murderous, the less I knew what to do. I could only hope to slow you down and entice you to stay. I didn’t want everything between us to go up in smoke,” he glances at Suguru, “the way I suppose it has on your end.”

Suguru takes a deep breath, meaning to summon some sort of reassurance or explanation, only to find he can’t give voice to one. Everything between them? Everything between them was like a snowbridge built atop a crevasse, disarmingly solid until it gave way. Satoru had grown close to him under a false pretense, fully aware that Suguru was fully in the dark. Up until mere hours ago, Satoru was his long-time tormentor, whether wittingly or not. Suguru had helplessly watched his sisters and friends shiver and starve as a consequence of Satoru’s presence. He’d blistered his hands raw trying to dig graves in frozen, snow-covered earth. He’d nearly died trying to break the hold the dragon had over their home.

And the memory of being flung across that temple courtyard lingers, even if the wounds have already been cleansed away. The terror and humiliation of being disarmed and pinned and helpless is painfully fresh. And Suguru need never have known the agony of having his fingers frozen through if only Satoru had been forthright sooner.

“Even if you feel nothing for me now,” Satoru says, his eyes not quite meeting Suguru’s, “you might in time. I don’t intend to let you go regardless, so—”

“I don’t feel nothing for you. Far from it.”

Satoru’s eyes flit to his, searching, before blinking away again. “Even if you hate me—”

“I don’t,” Suguru interrupts. “I already told you so.”

“Then what?” Satoru asks, his voice lilting up. “If you don’t feel nothing and you don’t hate me, then what?”

As if Suguru could condense it all down into something easily explained or digested.

“It’s complicated,” he says. “As I’m sure your feelings are toward me.”

Satoru frowns at that, giving his head a slow shake. “No. Mine are very straightforward.”

Suguru almost laughs at that. At least one of them is certain of what’s going on here.

He licks his lips and contemplates how just last night, he’d lamented how little time he’d had with Satoru—how he’d wished things could have worked out differently.

And now they have. Out of the tumult of Satoru’s unmasking and their confrontation, Suguru has it all: his home freed of an ice dragon’s undue influence, his family to be well-cared for, and ample time to spend with the man he’d… he’d come to care for rather deeply in just a few short days. While the betrayal still stings—it will be ages before his embarrassment at missing what now seems blindingly obvious fades—Suguru isn’t so proud that he cannot be glad at the unimaginable turn in his circumstances.

Had he not met Satoru, there is a very real chance he would have perished before even reaching that mountain temple. And had Satoru no affection for him, he would most assuredly be dead.

“I like you, Satoru,” he says, because that much remains certain. The ensuing flicker of surprise—and a there-and-gone grin—across Satoru’s face speaks volumes. “I feel no small amount of gratitude toward you. Some resentment, too. You cause me concern and frustration and… curiosity. And more. I regarded you as a friend.”

“Regarded?”

“I might still,” Suguru says, going back and forth on it. Does a friend drag you from home and keep you for himself? Perhaps one with nothing and no one else. “I haven’t had much time to think on where things stand between us. I hadn’t had a chance to hear from you. You ran off and left me here with your servants,” Suguru reminds him.

“I did. And with haste,” Satoru says, nodding, “to ensure your arm didn’t fall off or whatever. You were… I tried keeping you warm in my mouth, but you seemed well beyond saving with the same sort of measures you used on me.”

Touched as he is to know Satoru was so concerned, it occurs to him in the same moment that Satoru had never once at any point been in danger of developing frostbite or succumbing to the cold on their journey. Meaning that after Satoru’s little fishing incident, Suguru had forcefully jammed Satoru’s arm under his clothes and awkwardly laid there with him for no one’s benefit whatsoever.

And the incorrigible snake let him do it!

“I assume you feel better now?” Satoru asks, holding out a hand over the table, fingertips curling and motioning for Suguru. “Ijichi said you drank everything you were supposed to.”

Suguru keeps his own hands folded in his lap, hidden in his sleeves.

“I just want to make sure it worked, Suguru. I went through a lot of trouble to gather the ingredients Shoko needed,” he adds, and that makes Suguru offer up his hand at once, “and her visits aren’t cheap. If you aren’t fully healed, I’ll drag her back to do it right.”

“No, I’m fine. Really. Believe me, I checked everywhere.” He watches as Satoru looks closely at his knuckles and his thumb and his nails polished to a glassy shine; Suguru lets him see his other hand, too, for further confirmation. “I was afraid…” Suguru has to suddenly fight to swallow. “When I first saw myself in the bath, it terrified me, realizing how much of myself I might lose. Thank you for going to such lengths to tend to me.”

“Of course,” Satoru says, flashing him a smile that lingers. He takes the opportunity to wind his hand around Suguru’s slim, cold fingers, his palm dry and warm against them. “You’re mine, fingers and toes included. I won’t let anything happen to them. Or the rest of you, for that matter.” 

“Ah, that’s… right. And you…” Suguru shifts in place, a little awkward at broaching the topic. “Are you feeling better?”

Satoru is still more interested in studying Suguru’s fingertips, gently poking them with his nails and watching the blood flood back to their reddened tips. “Better from what?”

“Where I sliced you,” Suguru says, not seeing so much as a scabbed scratch on Satoru’s cheek. “And where I, um… stabbed you.”

“Oh, that? I’m fine.” Satoru smiles to bare his teeth and gums, showing no evidence of the wound he’d been given in his dragon form. “As I said, I heal quickly.”

“Good.” A little sigh escapes Suguru as he draws his hand back and sets it in his lap once more. Though he’d had his reasons—valid ones—he’d still feel immeasurably guilty if he had to sit across from Satoru while he bore scars Suguru had dealt him. “That’s good.”

“Mhm. The wound to my heart, on the other hand…” Satoru goes on, now sadly stirring the sweet red bean soup left on the table.

The touch of teasing in his voice makes one corner of Suguru’s mouth curl. He hadn’t realized he was leaving such an impression on Satoru these past few days… but there seems to be a lot he overlooked.

“Am I meant to balm it for you?”

“Your presence will do so whether you wish to or not. Of course, I would rather you enjoy your time here, but…”

But Satoru will keep him here regardless, as he has made exceedingly clear. Suguru is captive company of one sort or another.

“Is that all you wish from me? The presence of some peasant you picked up by happenstance?” Suguru wonders, notes of skepticism creeping into his voice. Low, he asks, “And when I speak too casually and embarrass you, what then? Or do I need to start calling you Gojo-sama and treat you like the servants do?”

He’s not even fit to serve in a daimyo’s household, honestly, much less a castle filled with youkai and ruled over by a full-fledged dragon. And as the head of a wealthy and powerful clan, shouldn’t Satoru have a legal wife already? He must, or at the very least someone betrothed to him. Where does Suguru fit in, then, as some common-blooded human concubine plucked from a rural backwater? He’ll no doubt be scorned and relegated to an abysmally low rung here, especially while Satoru is away.

“No. No, no, you’re nothing like them, Suguru,” Satoru tells him, drawing Suguru out of his swirling and uncertain thoughts. “Call me by my name. Speak freely. Treat me… treat me as you did before. I want you to be as you were—yourself—and carry on just the same with me.”

“Really?” Suguru sucks on his lower lip. It’s not an unpleasant or onerous demand; if anything, it seems too generously lax to be true. “Truly?”

“Yes, really. What need do I have for another servile mouth to feed around here?” Satoru complains under his breath. “Even believing I was some rich nobleman, you had no qualms about teasing me or educating me or cleaving close to me.”

Cleaving close? Suguru holds at bay the desire to roll his eyes as he sips from his teacup. As if Satoru himself isn’t magnitudes clingier.

“You give me a lot of credit,” he says instead, a little unsure how he’s wound up in such special regard. “I probably wouldn’t have been half so bravely vocal if we weren’t alone out in the woods together, and you without a weapon.”

“I think you’d have a hard time biting your tongue regardless, actually,” Satoru says, his nose giving a slight scrunch. “I think you can’t help but try to correct what you think is wrong, hence your mounting a whole expedition to kill me in the first place. Even when I appeared before you as a dragon, thinking you might be intimidated into backing down and listening to me, you stood your ground. And your actions spoke even louder than your words.”

Suguru sits there, stockstill with uncertainty at how to respond to that.

Satoru then gives him a small smile, and says, “It’s late. You must be tired. We can talk more in the morning.”

Suguru nods back, very much tempted by the thought of rest. His eyelids are heavy and his thoughts slightly fuzzy, days of hard travel having caught up to him. Without pain or fraught nerves to keep him on edge, sleepy stupor is already setting in. The emotional toll of the past few hours hasn’t done him any favors, either.

While Satoru picks up the table of empty dishes and sets it outside the room, Suguru sets to letting down his hair. The golden hairpin comes out first; Suguru treads to the shelf where his dagger and splintered bow lie and leaves the pin beside them, afraid of losing or bending it. It takes him a few minutes to undo Hairbara’s handiwork, finger-combing through his coiled tresses to loosen them and shake them out. By the time he’s finished, his hair spills around his shoulders in a heavy curtain, the lantern glow catching on freshly oiled strands. The scent of camellia blooms stronger in the air with it loose.

He nearly jumps when he turns his head and finds Satoru standing at his shoulder, just behind him and shrouded in shadow. Suguru’s eye is drawn to a long lock of his own hair, separated from all the rest; it is held between two of Satoru’s pale fingers, thumb brushing along the very ends.

While Suguru watches—and while Satoru holds his stare, unflinching—Satoru brings his hair up to his nose. “You smell good.”

“Better than I did the past few days, certainly,” Suguru murmurs in agreement, offering a slight smile while slowly drawing his hair out of Satoru’s loose grasp and gathering it over one shoulder. “A proper bath works wonders. Especially one as nice as the kind you have here.”

He reaches behind himself and starts loosening the belt snug above his hips, only to feel a light tug at his sleeve.

“Here,” Satoru says, already undoing the knot himself. “I’ll help.”

Already yawning, Suguru lets him—and notices the way Satoru’s hands brush and linger while carefully slipping off his outermost kimono. The featherlight touches cause heat to creep up the back of his neck, keeping Suguru’s skin hot even as he removes one layer after another. The attentiveness is almost too much.

“Where will I be sleeping?” Suguru asks while eyeing the large futon and even larger quilt still neatly folded on the tatami.

The hands at work lifting another kosode from Suguru’s shoulders go still.

“What do you mean?” Satoru questions, already back in motion. “Here, of course. We’ve slept together every night we’ve known each other.”

All four of them.

“By a necessity that’s no longer present,” Suguru reminds him. It’s not as if he gets into bed with anyone he just meets—there were pressing circumstances in play from the moment he first encountered Satoru. Or so he believed, anyway. “And I didn’t know then that you were…”

He turns his head and meets Satoru’s stare sooner than he expects, those blue eyes narrowed beneath furrowed in, upturned brows.

“What? What, Suguru? I’m no different now than I was when you were so comfortable twining with me all night. Is it that you can’t stomach my being a dragon or that you can’t forgive me?”

“It—neither, Satoru. But it hasn’t even been a day,” he whispers, almost too tired to argue. “Can you forgive me for not embracing all of this with open arms?”

“Suguru...”

“I need some time to myself,” Suguru says more firmly. After the recent revelations, he can’t imagine crawling under the covers together as if nothing has changed. “It’s too soon for… this.”

“Suguru, this doesn’t have to be an ordeal.”

“I’m exhausted, Satoru, and need some quiet reprieve to sort my thoughts. To sleep on things.” He’d rather reassess all this in the morning, with clearer eyes, a rested mind, and a less troubled heart. “Will you really not spare me a separate futon?” 

“I… can be quiet,” is Satoru’s answer to that. “And this one is roomy enough to allow you plenty of space.”

Suguru drags his palm over his mouth and exhales through his nose. His stare flits back up to meet Satoru’s. “You said my pack is outside?”

Satoru lurches into motion at once, grabbing Suguru’s sleeve before he can take a single step.

“No, no, no. You’re not sleeping on that thin, ratty thing. Come here.” He spreads his own luxurious bedding out across the tatami and then takes a step back. “You can have mine and I’ll just… curl up over here like a dog.”

He points at an empty stretch of nearby tatami and gives Suguru sad, kicked dog eyes to match.

“Surely there’s another futon somewhere in this castle,” Suguru gently suggests, trying not to stare as Satoru unceremoniously strips off his haori and the kosode underneath. Just because he’s not in the mood to have Satoru wrapped around him doesn’t mean he wants the man miserable. “Or another room I could stay in?”

But Satoru merely drags a fur closer and lays down upon it, a slight distance away from the futon he’s given over to Suguru. And that’s that, Suguru supposes, as they put out the lanterns and he lies down for the night.

He isn’t complaining. Given their relative positions—Satoru the master of his clan and this castle, Suguru the out-of-place human entirely at his mercy—it would be simple for Satoru to force him into the same bed and demand his touch. He could order Suguru to throw himself at him, dangling the welfare of his loved ones over his head. He could punish Suguru for the insolence of refusing him in any capacity.

Instead, Suguru has the entirety of the large, plush futon and matching quilt all to himself. It would be the most comfortable bed he’s ever had if not for the unfamiliarity of it. The downy material is so much softer than he’s used to. It smells faintly of cedarwood and fresh mountain air. And Suguru has never felt silk on so much of his skin all at once.

Some wary, watchful part of him warns that he shouldn’t close his eyes or let his guard down around someone so powerful—man or dragon or otherwise—no matter how charmed or charming he may be. But if Satoru intended to kill him, he might have done so earlier and saved himself some uncomfortable conversation. And if he decided to do it now, there is honestly not much Suguru could or would do to stop it. He is running on something like gifted time as it is.

It’s more surprising that Satoru is willing to lie asleep in a room with him, really, given their recent history. Suguru’s dagger still sits on the chest of drawers nearby, beside his broken bow and quiver. Even if he can’t kill Satoru outright, he could certainly inflict a good deal of pain and damage before Satoru can heal it away. But Satoru doesn’t seem to care, apparently trusting that Suguru won’t make him bleed a third time. And Suguru doesn’t intend to make him regret that, nor risk his valley paying the price for the futile effort.

The nearby brazier continues to hold the night’s chill at bay. The heavy quilt pulled over Suguru holds his own warmth close. And there is an aching exhaustion tugging at his eyelids, his body begging for real rest after so many days of hardship and strain.

Sleep comes to him in drowsy little fits, the strangeness of the location and this new bed keeping deeper slumber from taking him. Suguru cracks his eyes open, unsure when he’d closed them, and is met with a pair of eyes peering back at him through the dark.

They really do have a dim glow to them, like the moon reflected on night water.

Satoru seems to have inched himself slightly closer while Suguru’s eyes were shut. If Suguru sticks his leg out from under the covers and stretches, he’d be able to poke the dragon with his toes.

“Go to sleep, Satoru,” Suguru tells him in sleep-slurred words before trying to take his own advice.

He dithers a while somewhere between slumber and consciousness. His blanket has a comforting weight, his bed is warm, his body is clean and free of pain… and yet there is something that feels lacking.

Suguru shifts, finding the space at his back too empty and his body too light without some limb cast over him. Without breaths passing close to his ear, it’s almost too quiet. And though Satoru’s thick quilt is keeping him perfectly warm, Suguru still expects a more intense heat baking at his back or along his side.

In time, he grows too tired to miss all of that. His eyelids droop down and in the last foggy moments before sleep takes him, Suguru sees again the faint shine of blue eyes in the dark.

Chapter Text

Come morning, Suguru blinks his eyes open to find Satoru already awake. And staring at him.

“Do you not have anything better to do?” he wonders, sleep heavy and raspy in his voice.

“Not really, no.”

Suguru closes his eyes for a few minutes more, well beyond caring whether Satoru is gawking while he drools. Whatever strange decoction Haibara gave him last night might’ve undone his frostbite and other wounds, but exhaustion isn’t so easily cured and Suguru’s runs so deep that it’s in his marrow. Enjoying accommodations fit for the head of a dragon clan—a thick, silk-covered futon and a heavy quilt in a heated room—makes it even harder for him to stir fully awake.

Eventually he sighs and rouses himself anyway. He has more pressing concerns than stealing a few extra hours of slumber.

As Suguru sits up and rubs his eyes, he finds Ijichi and another servant already carrying in a substantial breakfast for two. He draws the quilt up higher around his shoulders, unused to having strangers come and go while he’s undressed. As soon as they leave, Suguru pulls his night robes tighter around himself and shuffles over to the table where Satoru sits. The first whiff of breakfast has his stomach growling, any lingering drowsiness traded for fresh hunger.

It’s everything he could ask for and more: heaping rice and a generous bowl of soup, persimmon slices, grilled mackerel, eggs with bright orange yolks, soft tofu, and pickled vegetables. Since Satoru is already eating, Suguru sets in. If he waits too long, Satoru might clear the table by himself.

Each mouthful lifts Suguru’s spirits. It’s been so long since he’s been able to eat to true satiation, stopping when he’s full rather than run out of food. His stomach is delighted, if a little pained, at being fed again so soon. But it feels strange, too, having more than plenty to spare yet no family here to share it with.

It’s also a strange mix of normalcy and the surreal, sitting for breakfast across from his… he doesn’t know what to think of Satoru as, actually. His captor? Suguru had all but begged to forfeit himself over, though. His friend? Yet he holds Suguru under his thumb, jealously guarding him like stolen treasure. His master? He has let Suguru have his way in everything but leaving him.

Last night half feels as if it was a waking dream: the extraordinary and mysterious locale, the deep shadows and hazy lantern glow, the magic of potions and being adorned like a lord himself… but morning’s light brings with it a dawning sense of finality—of reality, its walls solid and edges sharp. This is no fleeting fantasy. There is no safely worming out of a pact made with a dragon like Satoru. This will be Suguru’s life from here on out, until he either dies or Satoru grows bored of him.

There are worse fates, surely, than sleeping in a dragon’s chambers and taking banquet-sized meals. The binding nature of it still chafes.

“Did you sleep well?” Satoru asks between large bites of grilled mackerel. With a pout clearly meant to guilt Suguru, he tacks on, “Without me?”

He speaks as if he was not asleep in the very same room as Suguru, little more than an arm’s length away.

“I did.” He’d been warm and full-bellied. A deep, dark, dreamless slumber took him and for a while, Suguru forgot all that has transpired these past months. “And how did you sleep?”

“Miserably.”

Suguru lets out a soft huff of breath, always caught off guard by Satoru’s unabashed remarks. And it’s pleasantly curious, someone of his status being willing to be pushed out of his own bed—and then complain about it.

“You could send me to another room and have your futon back,” Suguru reminds him while pouring tea over his rice.

Satoru shoots him an unamused look over the rim of the soup bowl held to his lips, silently assuring that no, that will not be happening. “I would sleep even worse.”

It’s a little pitiful but Suguru supposes that’s the point. It’s also why Satoru refuses to have another futon brought in and spare himself the discomfort of lying on the bare tatami—to wheedle Suguru into showing mercy and reverting to their previous sleeping arrangement.

He sighs into his cup, not particularly moved at the moment.

As soon as they’ve finished eating, Suguru requests ink and paper to write a note for Manami, explaining his predicament. It takes several attempts to find fitting words—his limited written vocabulary doesn’t much help here—and even then Suguru still cringes and blushes at what he is putting to paper in the basic characters he knows. How to explain that he’d inadvertently run into the very ice dragon he sought to kill but ended up sleeping with him instead? Or that said ice dragon will be sending supplies to the village as recompense, but only if Suguru remains with him as collateral of sorts? Because he has somehow, without any sly craft or sweet talk, captured the interest of the Gojo clan’s head dragon?

It’s tricky, but Suguru does his best to save a little face by going vague on details here and there. He then tallies out everything he can think of that will help his village and their neighbors get back on their feet after such a late start to spring: fish and grain from outside the valley, fabric for new clothing, wood and straw to burn, hides and bedding, and myriad other necessities.

“How soon can you have this delivered to my village?” he asks Ijichi while handing him the letter. “And the supplies, too? I expect it will take several trips,” he adds with a glance at Satoru, wondering if he’ll be the one hauling it all there.

With the letter in hand, Ijichi nervously looks to Satoru, as if expecting some sharp rebuke.

Satoru merely waves a hand and says, “Gather it all and see that it gets where it’s needed. Have Yuta do it. He needs to get out more.”

“Oh. Of course, Gojo-sama.” Ijichi gives Suguru a quick glance before bowing to Satoru and heading to the door. “I will see to it now.”

Suguru sighs softly, the set of his shoulders relaxing. That’s the worst of the worry still weighing on him significantly lessened, and he can rest easy once he knows Satoru has made good on his promise in full.

Curiosity gets the better of him. “Who is Yuta?”

“A young, distant relative of mine. He’s small and quick and won’t cause any snow. He’ll be there in half a day. You may even have a return letter by nightfall.”

Suguru smiles broadly at the thought, his excitement growing as he imagines Manami cooking a full spread for Nanako and Mimiko for the first time in ages. It’s worth the cost of being here—of having done and endured everything he has—if they’re able to go to bed with full stomachs and a warm hearth again.

Suguru combs his fingers through his hair, absently appreciating how soft and silky it feels, freshly washed and oiled and safe from harsh, unforgiving winds. “And until then, what am I to do?”

“Whatever you like,” Satoru says without looking at him. Then, “To a point.”

Suguu ponders it for a minute. Part of him would like to crawl back into bed to sleep half the day away. Another part wants to pace and fret until he hears back from Manami and the twins, assured they’re still okay. But neither of those are very productive uses of time.

“To a point,” Suguru repeats, musing on it. With a gnawing worry that he might be confined within the castle, cultivated courtyards his only exposure to sun and wild air, he asks, “So, what is forbidden to me? Are there floors I’m not allowed to visit? People I cannot speak to?”

He’ll go stir crazy if he’s expected to sit around indoors all day like some primping nobleman. He’ll snap within a fortnight if he can’t slink off alone somewhere sometime.

“You may wander the castle and its grounds as you please,” Satoru says, “but not one step beyond the outer walls.”

Suguru presses his lips together, thinning them out. The restriction rankles. He’s spent half his life in the wild, coming and going at whatever hour his hunts require, roaming wherever he needs to go.

“Do you really think I would run off and break my end of our vow?” he asks while playing with the brush he’d used for the letter. His eyebrows raise as he turns his stare up at Satoru. “Knowing what you could do to punish me for it?”

Suguru might push back a little—he can’t help himself, especially when Satoru gets under his skin—but he would never squander the protection he’s purchased for Kurosaki with his own life. And Satoru must know it, having seen firsthand what lengths Suguru is willing to go to in order to keep his family safe. There are plenty of screws to turn to keep him in line, if Satoru ever wants to go about it that way.

“No. I don’t.” Satoru says it like it’s a concession, something he can’t argue but nonetheless fears. “But I’m in no mood to risk losing you at all.”

Suguru chews the inside of his cheek as he considers the boundary Satoru’s drawn. Though far from ideal, he could do much worse. Suguru doesn't even know how big the castle and its surroundings are.

“Fine. But if I’m restricted to the castle grounds, I should know the lay of the land,” Suguru decides, never before having been in a place so deeply unfamiliar. “I’d like a tour.”

Satoru brightens considerably. “Right! Right, you’ll need to know how to get around. As soon as you're ready, we can get started.”

“You’re going to be my guide?” Suguru asks as he stands, having assumed Haibara or Ijichi or some other servant would be ordered to show him around.

“Of course. Who better? I know every inch of this place.” 

“I assumed you would be busy with family matters, considering you’ve been away so long.”

Satoru makes a face at that, nose scrunched and his lips pushed out, and Suguru is freshly reminded of how boyishly endearing he can be.

“I can put all that off a while longer.” As if it’s a secret, he whispers, “No one outside the castle knows I’m back yet.”

That won’t last for long, Suguru imagines. Not for someone in such a prominent position.

He lets an eager Satoru help him dress for the day, not wanting to bother Ijichi or the other attendants. Satoru’s fingers brush along his nape while helping him into one kosode after another, carefully making sure each lays and fits just right. They run through Suguru’s hair while pulling it back over his shoulders, making sure the shiny, ink-black curtain of it falls neatly down his back.

It’s not so different from yesterday’s attire, but this time his outermost layer is all soft gold with a pattern of dragons winding through camellia blooms. And given the motif, it’s surely something intended for a member of the Gojo clan to wear… but Suguru supposes he won’t be taken to task for dressing well above his station if Satoru himself has picked the pieces. While Suguru pulls the top half of his hair up into a quick, neat knot, Satoru finds the hairpin from yesterday and brings it to him on an open palm; his faint smile grows as Suguru takes it and slides it into his hair.

Before letting him leave the room, Satoru also insists on putting him in a hanten—black and padded with cotton—and gloves, too.

It gives Suguru a funny sense of reversal, reminded of how he’d previously corralled Satoru in much the same manner, worriedly covering his pale hands in makeshift mittens and wrapping a scarf around his head. It also feels a little like being a child again, quietly impatient while his mother and grandfather took forever to bundle him up before letting him out to play in the snow. These days, it’s Suguru who serves to do the same mother-henning for Mimiko and Nanako, and there is so much reward in caregiving, but…

There is something different about being tended to and looked after. Cared for. Which is how Suguru feels now, with Satoru lacing the dragonfly-patterned deer leather archer’s gloves for him, tying them tight, and making sure every finger is snugly protected. He wonders if Satoru has had many chances to feel the same assurance, given his parents died young and his uncle was far from fond of him. The obligatory assistance of servants—especially if wary of Satoru or mistrusted by him—surely doesn’t register as anything close to affection.

“I’m sweating, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs when Satoru produces a heavy scarf to drape over his shoulders and head. He’s blushing, too, as much from the building heat of his ample clothing as the close and protracted proximity.

Satoru flashes him a quick smile, apparently satisfied to hear it. “Good! That might be enough layers, then.”

“More than enough,” Suguru mutters under his breath as he waddles his way to the door, ill-used to wearing so much fabric. It seems like a sin to complain of being overdressed and too warm, though…

As Satoru leads him downstairs and across wooden rooms and through hallways lined with narrow archer’s slits, Suguru uses the daylight to take in as much as he can: the furnishings, the chirping floorboards, the lanterns, the tapestries and wall-hangings…

A massive, mural-like ink painting catches Suguru’s eye as they move down yet another long hall. He lags behind, letting Satoru double back to find him standing there and staring at it. Amid the snow capped mountains and black pine forest, there is a castle with sprawling gardens surrounding it. This castle. Delicate ink strokes form every roof tile and tree branch and wispy cloud. And at the mural’s center, atop the winding stairs that lead to the central courtyard, there are two dragons tangled together: one white and one silvery blue.

“Is this you?” Suguru asks, though he can’t imagine it would be anyone but Satoru. “Or some other relative?”

“Who else could it be?” Satoru says from beside him, echoing Suguru’s private thoughts. “It depicts the banquet on my sixteenth birthday. It was a gift.”

Suguru finds it hard to look away, eyes drawn from detail to detail: the fine, pale ink of the scales, the careful drips of crimson, the smaller figures all bent and bowed before the white dragon as it devours the other.

“From whom?”

“Some of my uncle’s allies. To try and flatter me, I think,” Satoru adds, cocking his head as he looks over the elaborate painting with Suguru.

“Did it work?” Suguru wonders.

“Of course!” Satoru steps forward and lines himself up beside the small, blue-eyed dragon with a writhing, serpentine body crushed between its teeth. “It’s a pretty good likeness, right? I know you’ve only seen me in true scale the one time, but—oh, you mean, did it trick me into showing them mercy?” he quickly realizes. “No. In that respect, no, it did not work.”

“Did you eat them as well?” Suguru swallows down a bad, queasy taste after he asks, some residual concern that he might meet the same fate resurfacing. 

Though he doesn’t appear particularly bothered by the question, Satoru wrinkles his nose.

“Those decrepit old windbags? No, thank you. I didn’t particularly enjoy my uncle—tough, stringy, mostly gristle. But needs must. I wasn’t full grown yet. Injured, too. If the rest of his ilk were to challenge me then and there…” There’s a soft break as Satoru’s smile drops. And then it returns. “I couldn’t let them think I was weak.”

“You ate your uncle as a deterrent.”

“Well, it wasn’t for the taste,” Satoru mutters under his breath.

Sixteen. It wasn’t a kind age to Suguru either—he’d already lost his grandparents, and in his sixteenth summer his mother passed away without warning—but at least he never felt driven to such dire straits to protect himself.

“Do you eat humans?” Suguru has to ask, recalling how it felt to be trapped in Satoru’s mouth, one swallow away from being devoured whole. He’d assumed so, but…

“I have,” Satoru casually answers, “on occasion. They’re not my favorite, though.”

It’s not a glowing reassurance. On occasion could mean a lot of things. Not my favorite. Well, burdock isn’t Suguru’s favorite and he still has it several times a month, so…

Suguru purses his lips. “What is your favorite, then?”

“Sweet things.” Satoru takes a side step closer to him, the corner of his mouth curling. In a sing-songy tone, he adds, “So, you’d better watch out or I might eat you up.”

“You think I’m sweet?” As his heartbeat picks up, so do his volume and pitch. “Me? The hunter who tried to shoot out your eye? Have you forgotten that only yesterday I stabbed you, Satoru?”

It’s then that Suguru notices two servants—both serow, judging by their horns—standing stockstill at the near end of the hall, their mouths open and eyes wide. Upon being noticed by Satoru, who just barely turns his head to follow Suguru’s line of sight, the pair hurry to bow low while frantically bolting by, muttering panicked apologies all the while.

“Say it a little louder next time, Suguru. You’re undoing all my hard work,” he adds, gesturing to the wall-sized spread depicting his violent triumph and subsequent cannibalizing of his uncle.

“I said nothing untrue.” As if anything he’s gotten away with can lessen the gory impression Satoru must’ve made with such a display. He gives the ink painting another once-over, comparing his own lavish reception to the sight of Satoru eating another dragon alive. “And I still don’t understand it. I did no less than your uncle in trying to kill you. You ought to hate me.”

Considering how Satoru apparently reacted the last time one of his own kind tried to kill him—evisceration and consummation—Suguru isn’t quite sure how he, a mere human known to Satoru for just a handful of days, is getting off so easily.

Satoru’s smile is surprisingly gentle. “I don’t mean to insult you, Suguru, but physically speaking, you did quite a lot less. My uncle’s hired assassin nearly sliced me in half and left me for dead. You mostly just broke my heart.”

Suguru’s shock at the thought of Satoru cut in twain morphs to a scorching flush along the back of his neck. He scoffs. 

Broke Satoru’s heart? How on earth could Suguru have had access to such a thing in such short order? Then again… he supposes he himself is little better. His heartstrings had been wrung in knots at leaving Satoru on the mountainside and then cinched numbingly tight upon subsequently meeting him again at its top.

Wryly, Suguru asks, “Is it not the thought that counts?”

Satoru laughs back, maintaining awfully good humor given the topic of discussion.

“Oh, it is. And if I hadn’t known you first, I might have hated you for so much as taking aim at me. But when you struck me across the cheek, it was out of care to keep me from following you into danger. When you tried to take my eye, it was out of care for your family. I… I can’t say I wasn’t upset each time, in the moment,” he adds, actually looking halfway ashamed for once. “But I knew your intentions. You’re painfully sincere, in how you care and how you hate. I take no issue with that. I admire it, even.”

Standing there before the mural, Suguru turns to him. “That is… I mean, yes, I was doing what I thought best in an impossible situation. And you—you were trying to talk me down, there at the end. I see that now. But at the time…”

He’d been in a frenzy, freezing to death and frightened by his waning strength and panicking at how quickly his only chance was slipping away. The thought that he’d been lying side by side with someone who would be his undoing was gut-wrenching. Finding that he’d swiftly fallen for the worst possible person, the enemy, the harbinger of the very storms and snow that might have taken Nanako and Mimiko from him…

“I felt betrayed. Humiliated, too. It seemed it had all been a ploy or a game… that even the night before was just some amusement of yours at my expense.”

Satoru’s head whips toward him, his brows furrowed.

“No? No. Meeting you might have been a funny trick of fate and accompanying you might’ve been a whim, but everything else… everything after, that was real. And you kissed me,” Satoru reminds him, suddenly leaning down and in, his mouth close enough to Suguru’s cheek for warm air to caress it. “Remember?”

“I…”

Suguru’s eyes dart to Satoru’s lips—soft and plushly full and pale pink—while nervously licking his own. When he meets Satoru’s stare again, it’s apparent that he is taking him in just as intently. 

“Let’s keep moving,” he says while grabbing Satoru’s elbow to steer him in front. Suguru presses a hand to the middle of his back, over the dripping wisteria pattern of his purple haori, to get him leading the way again.

Satoru pushes his heels into the floor, the combination of his size and the resistance making him near impossible to budge.

“I remember,” he says over his shoulder, grinning broader at the sight of Suguru’s affected expression and rosy ears. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace since. Even last night, I could only lay there and think of how much I wanted to feel your mouth on mine again. And perhaps on other places—”

“S-Satoru! Quiet, quiet, quiet,” he all but pleads as he spies another pair of servants turning the corner up ahead, heart racing for more reasons than one. “What are you—can this not be—save this for later, please.”

Satoru’s laughter makes the servants at the far end of the hall jump in place. But he only has eyes for Suguru, all flustered at their personal business being aired in the open like this. “Later, then.”

Suguru lets out a heaving sigh and gives Satoru a brusque shove forward. He’s really sweating under his clothes now.

The deferral provides the bare minimum of relief. Given Satoru’s initial disdain and prim reserve at being expected to share a bed and body heat when they first met, Suguru had half-expected him to revert to some similar decorum here in his own castle. Instead, Satoru seems to have no concern over creating a public scene and giving rise to all sorts of gossip. It’s as if he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of him whatsoever—not even his remaining family, who will no doubt hear one scandalous thing or another eventually.

“You really are accountable to no one, are you?” he realizes while walking by Satoru’s side, muttering out the side of his mouth so neither of the mouse-eared servants by the doors can hear him. Even here in his own clan stronghold, with eyes and ears everywhere, Satoru speaks as freely and carelessly as a drunk, rakish lord with the benefit of anonymity might. “No wonder you’re… the way you are.”

“No need to say it in that tone,” Satoru replies, squinting as they step out from the castle’s dim interior and descend the entry stairs. “And what, would you rather I have six different geezers in my ear telling me what to do, who to kill, who to marry? Threatening to usurp me if I step out of line?” He scoffs and smiles. “No, it’s better to be alone and on top. Not to worry, though. I keep myself in check.”

Suguru has to stop halfway down the staircase while he laughs. Satoru keeps Satoru in check? The same Satoru who gave himself permission to abandon his seat here and travel south for fun and fancy candy, with some passive terrorization of an entire valley on the side? Satoru, who whisked home to his castle a human he has known less than a week?

“Alright, now you’re the one making a scene where servants can see,” Satoru complains, snapping his fingers to hurry Suguru along.

“Sorry.” Suguru stands up straight, wiping at each of his eyes with his sleeve. He holds onto Satoru’s shoulder for stability as they descend the last few steps, still a little woozy. “That was funny, though.”

Satoru shoots him a quick little glare, petulant. “It really wasn’t.”

The mood of the castle is completely different from night to day. Under clear skies and a bright sun, its exterior is all fresh white plaster with snowy eaves, picturesque in its dripping icicles and sparkling frost.

The thin mountain air carries the scent of nearby pines, reminding Suguru of home and days spent traversing its thick woods. The breeze has no real bite, thanks to the sunlight and mild weather. It’s a different kind of winter compared to the one he left behind, but that’s strange… being Satoru’s home and far further north, the climate ought to be more severe, snowier and icier by every measure.

Perhaps his hanten and fully lined, padded layers of clothing are making it feel far more bearable than it is. Perhaps he can simply appreciate snow and ice better while properly prepared and attired for it.

Satoru shows him around the castle’s many wintry pleasure gardens and frozen pools first. Under a crystal layer of ice, fish and eels unlike any Suguru’s ever seen move through murky water. The trees cultivated around the castle grounds have been twisted by its winds and shaped under ice and snow. Suguru marvels at them up close, amazed they’ve survived in what seems to be a perpetual winter here among the mountain peaks.

They visit the castle’s kitchens next, as Satoru is already in the mood for a midmorning snack. The kitchen servants are quick to offer up plates of doughy sweets for him, all of them relieved when Satoru likes the taste of the first enough to scarf down several more in quick succession. While he chews, he wordlessly tips his head toward Suguru standing beside him. One of the servants—reminiscent of a salamander or something of the like—then hurries to present Suguru with a similar plate of treats.

Suguru’s stomach is still mostly full, but with so many eyes upon him he feels obligated to taste one anyway. After a single bite, he smiles broadly and compliments the kitchen staff, who all look doubly relieved to see he likes it.

“Best you ever had?” Satoru asks as they leave the kitchen, licking his fingers clean while they walk. Unlike Suguru, he has no need for gloves or mittens of any kind.

“Well, I’ll always be partial to the kind my grandmother used to make,” Suguru says, slowly picking the bun apart and eating one morsel at a time, “but this is certainly the best quality I’ve ever eaten. The sweetest by far, too.”

“That’s what makes it the best!”

Suguru smiles at that, thinking of how Nanako and Mimiko would most certainly agree. A pang of missing them follows, sharp and slow to abate. Despite his better sense, he wishes they were here to split a treat like this with.

“I’m still full from breakfast. Will you eat the rest?” Suguru asks, holding out the remaining half of the sweet bean bun. “I hate to waste it.”

He wonders for a brief second whether Satoru, back in form as the prestigious head of a major clan, will turn his nose up at the thought of eating another’s leftovers. Any such concern is banished as he instead grabs Suguru’s wrist, pulls his hand closer, and eats directly out of it.

“You’re really shameless, you know,” Suguru flatly tells him, turning his head round to see if anyone else is out here to see this grown dragon of a man doing his own hand-feeding.

Satoru shrugs and Suguru gets the feeling that if not for the gloves, his fingers might be licked clean, too.

“You offered.”

The castle grounds are impressively substantial. Several enormous baileys sit placed within each other, each like its own terrace built into the mountainside. They spend another hour touring just the land set aside for training, with its sparring pits and archery range all sitting empty. After that, Satoru points out the servants’ quarters and smaller two- or three-story buildings for visiting guests and other members of the clan. There is a forge with its own bullish blacksmith at the bellows and wolfish guards posted along the walls. At least a portion of the castle’s food appears to be grown here on site, in places where the mountain’s thermal heat warms and softens the earth.

After hours spent wandering outdoors, Satoru leads him back to the castle itself. 

The warmth within its wooden halls is a welcome change, especially for Suguru’s chilled nose. He soaks it in as Satoru guides him through room after room, offering short explanations as to their purpose. Having never really been in a building with more than two or three rooms total, Suguru is continuously surprised by just how much living space the seven-storied castle contains within—and how empty it is, aside from the occasional attendant who steps aside and bows as he and Satoru pass them.

“I have something for you,” Satoru says as he pinches the end of Suguru’s sleeve in his fingers and draws him along, up several wooden sets of stairs.

The fourth floor is dark and cool despite the light filtering in through narrow archer’s slits and a single lit lantern by the stairs. But its most unusual feature is this: a wall of ice, floor to ceiling, with mist gently wisping off of it.

Though the castle air is warmed, there is no sheen of melt nor a dripping puddle at the walls base. With a light tap, the frost crackles under Satoru’s touch; a thick, heavy door behind the layer of unnatural ice opens with ease.

Suguru follows Satoru inside it, his breath visible as the chill around him grows. Two steps in, he looks around himself in awe.

An armory. The kind a warlord would have. 

“This is…” Suguru doesn’t have words, really, for the array of weaponry that lines the walls and fills racks around the room. There are long swords, naginata, spears, daggers, cudgels, and bows. Several bows, in fact.

Suguru steps toward one that is mounted with a massive quiver beside it: a warrior’s yumi, larger and longer than the simple hankyu bow Suguru had made for himself. The laminated wood and bamboo are stained a deep, lustrous black; a few decorative rings of gold adorn its asymmetrical limbs. Its top and bottom knocks feature delicately carved plum blossoms. Suguru is tempted to touch its polished surface more than once, and then thinks better of doing so each time.

“These are amazing,” he says as he moves to examine another bow, narrower and of lighter wood but no less well-crafted. His eye continually drifts back to that first one, though. “They must be a dream to shoot with.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Satoru says with a shrug, attentively watching Suguru. “I don’t use them. I have no need to.”

Suguru tsks under his breath, shooting him an annoyed look. “Of course you don’t. What a waste.”

Suguru continues admiring them, fingers itching to pull one of those arrows out of its quiver and study it up close. But with the way Satoru is keeping a hawk’s eye on him, he imagines touching such valuable clan assets is strictly out of the question

“It is a pity, isn’t it?” Satoru sighs as he steps up beside him.

Before Suguru can say another word in agreement, he watches as a pale hand extends and simply pulls the black bow down from its mounting on the wall. With wide eyes, he swivels his head to get a good, up-close look at it: it’s a masterwork, crafted and carven well beyond what his own skills could ever achieve. It is as tall as he himself is. The range must be—

“Well, don’t just stand there drooling over it,” Satoru huffs, pushing the yumi toward him. “Making me jealous of this stupid thing.”

“Don’t—don’t call it stupid,” Suguru weakly protests as the bow is unceremoniously passed into his clammy hands. “Satoru, wait. Why would you just hand me this?”

The weight feels good in Suguru’s hold. Comforting. He’s not really accustomed to going anywhere unarmed, much less a strange new place, and having something as familiar as a bow is like the reassurance of a heavy blanket on a winter’s night.

“What better courtship gift could I give you? Haibara said you were being fussy about the jewelry.”

“I wasn’t fussy,” Suguru objects automatically, staring at a spot on Satoru’s chest as he tries and fails to swallow the first part of what he’d said. “I’m just not accustomed to such things.”

“Hence the bow,” Satoru says, giving the string a pluck that sets it vibrating. “I figured you would prefer it to a bangle or necklace. Not that you can’t have both, or all of it, but—”

“Satoru. You would really let me use this? Even after…”

His hands tighten on the bow, finding the wood already warm to the touch.

“You’re a fine shot, as you said. I wouldn’t take that from you.” Satoru grabs the quiver next, passing it off to Suguru with a slight smile. “Just don’t aim your arrows at me.”

Suguru’s shock is slow to dissipate. It’s stunning enough that Satoru would trust him with a bow at all, but one of the Gojo clan’s? It’s almost outlandish to lend something this valuable to him. A courtship gift. How unbelievable…

But it’s not as if Suguru can turn it down, really. It would be rude. And an utter shame, if the alternative is leaving the bow here to sit unused and collect dust.

“I won’t. And thank you. This is… I never imagined I’d be able to have something like this. I promise, Satoru, I will be so, so careful with it.”

“It’s yours to treat as you will,” Satoru says with a shrug. “You could smash it to bits, if you like, and I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“I would never.” Suguru is all the more protective of the bow in knowing it’s less a loan and more a gift. As he runs his fingers along its curves, he finds himself desperate to try it out. “The archery range on the training grounds… could we go back there? Please?”

“Hmm,” Satoru considers, eyes wandering the room as he thinks it over. “No. No, I have somewhere better in mind,” he adds before Suguru can be too disappointed. “Come with me.”

Suguru does so eagerly, trailing after Satoru as they climb stair after stair in the towering castle. The last set is small and narrow and leads to a closed wooden hatch above. Satoru goes up first and holds the hatch door open as Suguru clambers up after him.

The wind immediately buffets against him, loose strands of his hair sent whipping. He nearly loses his scarf but Satoru is quick to snatch hold of it and fix it around Suguru’s neck, held in place with a snug knot.

They’re on the castle’s topmost floor: an airy, open-walled space with an elegant roof above and wooden rails all the way around. From this height, Suguru can look around and see the entirety of the castle’s grounds, the snow-covered and forested mountainsides beyond its walls, and more.

“It’s for moon-viewing,” Satoru explains while walking toward one of the carven rails. “Though it serves other uses, too. It’s not bad, right?” 

“Not at all. It’s beautiful up here.”

Suguru likes the view and the quiet, the only thing around them being the soft howl of wind. He closes his eyes and pictures stargazing on a calm night, seated out here with tea and cushions to watch the moon rise and set.

Fingers run lightly down the curve of Suguru’s back, pressing in on layers of heat-preserving material and gently pushing him forward. His eyes snap open again, blinking as he finds Satoru close beside him. That touch encourages him to step a little further forward and closer still.

“Show me what you can do with a bow like this,” Satoru says, his mouth somewhere near Suguru’s temple.

As if Suguru needed any further incentive.

He draws an incredibly long arrow from the quiver, which is itself a work of art, inlaid mother-of-pearl forming twisting white serpents and chrysanthemums across its surface. Behind the railing, he steps up and takes aim.

The yumi’s height and weight differ from his own half-yumi hunting bow, which had been smaller for ease of travel and use in close, dense forests. It takes a minute for Suguru to find the right manner to hold this new bow and position himself accordingly. With a slow exhale, Suguru fires and watches the arrow fly until it is a distant speck, almost untraceable. It disappears among the snowy crowns of trees far, far beyond the castle walls.

He laughs out loud, a hand braced on the railing as he leans out a bit to get a better look. “Did you see how far that went?!”

“I did.” There’s a smile in the low, lazy way Satoru says it. “Let’s see you land a target this time.”

Suguru nods and straightens up, satisfied with having gotten a feel for the bow’s capabilities and the way the wind works against the arrow across such a long distance.

A buzz hums under his skin at the feeling of Satoru watching him all the while, paying close attention. Growing nervous, Suguru licks his lips. The last thing he wants is for Satoru to feel that giving him such a bow was a waste. He may not be a dragon or a spirit or even a fraction as powerful, but he has his own strengths nonetheless. This is perhaps his finest.

Suguru readies another arrow, slowly drawing back and putting tension in the string. This time, he has a target in view.

“The tallest tree over there,” he says, pointing with his knocked arrow. “There’s a pinecone on the third branch down. See it?”

“Of course I can. I am surprised you’re able to, though. I’ll be even more surprised if you manage to hit it.”

Suguru scoffs before letting the arrow loose. After a seconds-long flight, it connects with the pinecone in a small, distant spray of snow and tiny wood bits.

He wheels on Satoru, grinning. “What was that you were saying?”

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you a second time,” Satoru breezily concedes, his hands clasped behind his back and his hair ruffling in the wind. He doesn’t seem displeased at all, a smile locked in place as he looks upon Suguru. “You’re a quick study. You’d put plenty of samurai to shame.”

Suguru tucks a loose lock of windblown hair behind his ear, shying under the weight of Satoru’s stare and the too-generous praise. With warm cheeks, he murmurs, “I could be better. Can you shoot?”

“Obviously. But I neither need to nor care to.”

“Well, I would like to see you do it.”

Satoru’s mouth splits in a grin at that, the points of his canines showing. “Would you? Then I suppose I have no choice. Give it here.”

Suguru happily hands over the bow and steps aside. He takes note of Satoru’s loose, careless form as he lets an arrow fly.

It whistles through the air almost quicker than Suguru’s eye can track and strikes the same tall tree—but Satoru’s shot hits hard enough to cause a shower of wood splinters and shake the snow from its branches. The narrow trunk shatters and snaps, and the tip of the tree falls away completely.

“Satoru! Satoru, you shoot like that but you ‘don’t care to?’” He grabs hold of Satoru’s arm and pulls him close just to shove him away, playfully disgusted. “The gods do have their favorites.”

“What can I say? I do everything well.” Satoru preens as Suguru squeezes up his arm, feeling out the muscle under his layers of clothing, in need of confirmation that he hadn’t overlooked something in those nights of seeing Satoru shirtless. Their upper arms are close to the same size, and yet… “That does not mean I care for it.”

“You have no passion for shooting but you can show me up like that,” Suguru sighs, tipping his head back. “It’s so unfair.”

“Well, I am about a century older than you,” he says, elbows resting on the wooden rail, looking out over the snow-covered walls and buildings and mountaintops, “and have been training in such things longer than you’ve been alive. It would be a bit embarrassing if you were outshooting me.”

A fair bit older, Satoru had said some nights ago. Suguru would never have guessed that meant a hundred years.

“You trained in all those weapons though you have no need to use them?” It does make sense that Satoru shirks swords and armor in favor of his clawed, scaled dragon form. That’s a lot of time wasted on extensive training if it’s never used. “Why?”

Satoru tips his head to one side and shrugs. “I had few other ways to entertain myself here. It was this or read all day or handle clan affairs. Or go around killing things that need to be killed, but after a while you start to run out of them.”

Suguru hums softly at that. “What’s the hunting like here?”

“Abundant. What few humans live near here know better than to chase prey this far in,” Satoru says with a soft smile. “So there is no shortage of fat, happy game taking refuge in these woods, if you’d like to seek it.”

“I might, if you let me outside.” He wonders if there’s much of a point in doing so, though—wealthy types don’t rely on hunting the way common folk do, and there’s little reason to shoot down game if the castle has pigs and egg-laying fowl on hand. “Does the weather keep the local people away or do you chase them off yourself?”

“Well, the snow surely discourages them,” Satoru says, “but it’s not an intentional effort on my part. The humans here leave me offerings and I leave them alone, unless they cause trouble. But these mountains are home to other clans and creatures as well—dragons, youkai, oni, ghosts, whatever. Any human caught in the path of the wrong one is liable to go missing.”

Suguru swallows, a little shiver coursing down his back at the thought of a mountain crawling with youkai. But, funnily enough, he himself is the perfect example of a human going missing after being caught in the path of a dragon.

“Is that why you don’t want me out there alone? Worried someone else will get me?”

“Yes, in part. I also can’t afford to have my herbalist fixing your frostbite again if you wander off and get lost out there,” he says, giving Suguru a warning look. “She took half my wine stores for the last visit.”

Suguru has to bite back a smile at the thought of Satoru giving up so much to have him taken care of. A considerable twinge of guilt hits him right after, making his guts knot together... until he reminds himself that his frostbite had only advanced that far thanks to Satoru’s bitter snow and delayed unmasking.

“If you want to spend time out there, I’ll go with you,” Satoru offers. “Whenever you want. There are the hot springs—the big ones, whole mountainsides dotted with them, macaques all over the place—and ice fishing and shrines and lots of brown bears. Plus the hunting.”

“I would like that. Grand as the castle’s grounds are, being stuck here all the time sounds maddening.”

“It is.” Satoru sighs, staring out over the complex and the snowy mountainside forests beyond it. He glances at Suguru out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t intend to put you through the same sort of captivity my uncle subjected me to, Suguru. But being human in a place like this, it’s… you need a bit of safeguarding.”

Safeguarding. The protective sentiment is something Suguru can appreciate, though he’s more accustomed to being on the other side of it. 

“You’re making me nervous,” he half-jokes, "that I'm the prey out here."

“No, don’t be. I mean, no one will touch you so long as I’m near. And once I’ve reasserted myself here with a public statement or two, they’ll know better than to touch you at all,” Satoru says, something stern at the back of his voice. Not necessarily aimed at Suguru, but there all the same.

Suguru gives him a smile, rather glad Satoru casts a long, intimidating shadow. Having already been snatched up and carried off once, he’d rather not go through it again—and certainly not with some stranger who has no fondness nor care for him.

While Satoru watches, he shoots until the quiver feels light and his draw strength begins to wane. As they descend back into the warmth of the castle interior, Satoru promises to have more arrows crafted for him, along with a more compact and practical hankyu bow for hunting.

They take a midday meal within a small study, its shelves piled with scrolls and books. The spread is delicious but Suguru is accustomed to two meals a day spaced further apart and his appetite hasn’t yet recovered in full. He makes himself try a little of everything regardless, enjoying the variety after so many weeks spent eating only the most basic and hardy of foods.

When Satoru excuses himself to tend to some clan affairs—with a great deal of grumbling and glaring at a nervously fidgeting Ijichi—Suguru peruses the small library and picks a few interesting-looking books to try.

He’s never had access to so many before in his life. They aren’t the sort of books that Manami usually deals in, either. One larger tome he finds is a bestiary, artful drawings of animals—some familiar, some not—found up and down the land. Some are even from across the sea. Suguru has to wonder how accurate the material is, given how outlandish some of the creatures are.

After a couple of hours alone, Suguru gives up the study and wanders the halls until he finds a familiar face: Haibara’s. Unsure what else to do with his time, he accepts Haibara’s offer to prepare another bath. This time, Suguru doesn’t mind having him sit beside the tub and make conversation.

After some lighter chitchat, Suguru drops his voice and asks, “Does Gojo-sama have a wife?”

He can’t shake the feeling that Satoru ought to, being over a hundred years old and so significant to his clan.

Haibara’s head tips back as he laughs, grinning from ear to ear. And then the smile drops from his face. “Oh, you’re serious? No. No, Gojo-sama isn’t one to let anyone that close.”

Suguru pauses in scrubbing at the calluses on his palms. Satoru’s hands being so soft has turned him self-conscious. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean? You’re the only person he’s ever let stay in his room,” Haibara says while holding thread between his teeth, working on sewing a split seam in one of Suguru’s cotton kosode. “Or spent the night with. At least as far as I’ve heard.” Then his eyes go bright and he leans in. “Speaking of what I’ve heard, some of the other servants said you tried to murder Gojo-sama—not once, but twice! Is that true? It can’t be true. Nanami says that if you had, Gojo-sama would have ripped you into a hundred pieces and rained you over your village.”

“I—what? He’d what? No. No, I didn’t—it was one time and it wasn’t murder. He started it,” Suguru argues in a panic, sinking down in the tub. “I mean, it was self-defense, really. I barely even managed to draw blood.”

Suguru looks up from his sunken spot in the bath and finds Haibara staring back at him, mouth agape.

“So it’s true?” He gasps, reeling back where he sits. “And Gojo-sama didn’t freeze you solid on the spot!? Nanami isn’t going to believe this! You’re going to be the talk of the table again at supper.”

“Oh. Wonderful.” Suguru supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that the servants are abuzz about him. “So, you’re going to run off and gossip about me, then?”

“Me? No, no, not at all. I will be setting the record straight,” Haibara says with a smile and a resolute nod. “It’s completely different from being a gossip.”

“Sure.” Whatever. Having grown up in a small village—and with Manami as a friend, no less—he knows that trying to quash a rumor only gives it more life. And it’s the truth, anyway. “Um, is that something he does often? Freezing people? Ripping them apart?”

Haibara makes a quick little grimace, shaking his head while lifting his shoulders. “I mean, not recently-recently. But I did once see him tear a demon in half for insinuating his uncle ought to have won control of the clan,” he says conversationally, still nimbly sewing while he chats.

Suguru nods and nibbles his bottom lip, making a mental note. Not that he would ever say something of the like, but…

“And since you were asking,” Haibara says, always a bit louder than Suguru is comfortable with, “you really don’t have to worry about any rivals for Gojo-sama’s affection.”

“Oh, no, I’m not… that wasn’t really—”

“The other clans are nervous he might end up killing and eating their offered brides, I think,” Haibara continues with a shrug, heedless that he is speaking to someone in basically the same position. “And he’s spurned every match his family ever managed to find for him. So, I think he’s all yours.”

“Good. Great.” Suguru licks his lips, weighing the reassurance that he will not be some ostracized concubine against the knowledge that his current position is apparently very undesirable.

But also… if Satoru has never behaved this way with anyone else, perhaps he really does see something of special value in Suguru—something worthy of attention and affection and bringing him here to stay.

It seems vain to think so. Suguru stirs the perfumed water with his hand and watches camellia petals swirl with the current.

If not for the lake and his own hasty misunderstanding of the situation, Satoru would hold him in no higher regard than any other human. That they got to know each other at all is its own strange miracle—one that averted a bleak fate for his home and landed him here, in the lap of luxury and still somewhat confused over it. Satoru could demand anyone he wants, as demonstrated in the way he’d given Suguru a choiceless choice to be his. So why him, aside from the fact that an accidental meeting pushed the two of them together? What on earth could Suguru have done to trigger such a powerful reaction and need out of someone like Satoru?

It had started before they even kissed. And it had kindled so quickly. And Satoru clearly wants it back.

Come supper time, Satoru returns. They eat together in his room and talk about their respective afternoons—Satoru’s spent sorting written petitions and messages that apparently piled up over his more than half a year’s absence, and Suguru’s spent leafing through that bestiary, which he’d brought here to continue reading into the evening. Suguru is stuffed within a few minutes, having had more to eat today than he has in the last week. Fortunately, there is no need to feel guilty over wasted food as Satoru gladly helps himself to anything Suguru doesn’t finish.

The best possible news comes when Ijichi arrives to collect their empty dishes: a return letter from Manami, dropped off as Yuta collected another batch of supplies to ferry back to Suguru’s valley home.

Suguru opens it with haste, lips silently moving as he reads a short letter that addresses all his most pressing concerns: the weather there is improving, Nanako and Mimiko are in good health, and food and other essentials have been delivered on the back of a small white and black dragon whose meek sweetness is already improving local opinion of them. And they’re ecstatic that Suguru is alive, if far off, and miss him dearly. The whole village does. They’ve already spread word to the villages south of Kurosaki, too, letting them all know the good news: Geto Suguru seduced the dragon into leaving.

Which is...  not how he would put it, though it may be technically accurate given the overall outcome. This makes it sound like he was making bedroom eyes at a dragon! Which, yes, at one point, fair enough, but he hadn’t known at the time. He went out with the intention to slay a dragon, not lay one.

There is likely no salvaging his reputation now. 

Suguru sighs, unable to find it in himself to be truly upset. There is no peace of mind quite like the assurance that everyone he cares for is faring well and Satoru is true to his word. And perhaps there is a bright side to the possibility of being trapped here forever—he will not have to show his face around elders and friends who believe he threw himself at the dragon he’d claimed he would kill.

He folds the letter away and tucks it with his other belongings. He’ll write back in the morning and see if Yuta can deliver it on another trip south. He might even ask Ijichi for help so he can properly describe to Nanako and Mimiko the icy castle and kitchen sweets and hot baths. He needs to make sure they don’t worry for him while they're so far apart. He'd rather they think he’s living something out of a fanciful bedtime story than a cautionary tale.

Which he is, in many senses of the idea. It is as good as something out of a dream, having beautiful shelter and plentiful food and every other comfort imaginable.

There's just the small matter of his being here stemming from a pact with a dragon, and therefore all the favors and finery come with binding threads attached. Dragon pins and courtship gifts and Gojo crested clothing... it is a lot. And so is Satoru.

Suguru recalls his first meeting of the man he hadn't known was a dragon: a coldly dismissive nobleman looking down his nose at a waterlogged commoner, almost sneering at the thought of touching him. And from everything he’s seen and heard in this castle, its master has always been lonesome and aloof and quick to kill out of displeasure.

Yet none of that squares with the Satoru who had willingly kept him warm, whispered in his ear until they fell asleep, and carried him when he fell. Here they are now, a week after first meeting, and Satoru has already proven himself quite thoughtful and dependable. A bit romantic, even. Generous, too, and not only with Suguru. He imagines there aren’t many dragons in the world who would empty their coffers and storehouses to feed humans they don’t care for and have never met.

Satoru gives an outward impression that is all sharp, cutting ice, cold and deadly and impervious—a deliberate one, cultivated since he was barely more than a boy and wolfing down his own kin in an effort to make himself too terrifying to touch. But under that exterior, he’s a bit more like powdered snow. There’s some give to him. Some softness. He can melt in a hand or under a touch or at a word.

From his spot in the middle of Satoru’s oversized futon, Suguru watches as the Gojo clan's head curls in on himself and flops over, dejected, to sleep. He’d find it almost funny, a full-grown dragon behaving so pitifully, if it didn’t pull at his heartstrings like a bow drawn taut. How much of Satoru’s life has been spent alone and colored by betrayal, starved of touch and the trust to let someone give it to him? And how much more acutely that absence must sting now, having known some comfort and lost it?

“Satoru.”

Satoru doesn’t so much as move, already resigned to his new nightly fate. “Suguru.”

“Last night I was more than warm enough without you, you know,” Suguru says, “thanks to the heated floors and brazier and these blankets.”

Satoru lolls his head to the side and fixes him with a glum, stony frown, dull eyes blinking slowly at him.

“But even so,” Suguru goes on, smoothing out the quilt around him, “I had a hard time getting comfortable without you. I’m still used to you clinging onto me and snoring in my ear and—and just being close. I miss it, actually.”

And in time, he could probably wean himself off of the feeling and comfortably sleep alone again, but… he’d rather not. It seems more like a punishment for the both of them.

Satoru abruptly sits up. “Really?”

“Yes.” Suguru peels down the quilt. The futon under it is more than large enough to accomodate the both of them. “So, if you would rather spend tonight to—”

Satoru crawls so fast on all fours that Suguru jolts and scrambles backward, trying to get himself out of the way before he’s bowled over in Satoru’s haste to get under the covers with him.

He’s too slow, of course. Strong arms cinch around his middle and an embarrassing, yelping giggle escapes Suguru as he’s pulled down to the futon and dragged in close. Satoru hugs him tight, maneuvering them both until he’s flush against Suguru’s back and their legs are tangled together. A little shudder snakes down Suguru's spine at the breath on his nape and warm body plied all around him.

“I missed this, too,” Satoru says in his ear, as if they've spent a month apart rather than a single night. “Blow out the lantern, Suguru.”

“Let go of me a little and I will,” he wheezes in answer, a hand on Satoru’s wrist as he squirms in the dragon’s grasp and tries to inch himself forward.

It takes longer than it should, thanks to Satoru’s reluctance to give up even a sliver of touch, but Suguru is able to put out the lantern light. It leaves them in a room that is almost full dark. Only the faint, paper-filtered light of the moon and the lit brazier’s roasting orange-gold embers provide some glow to see by.

Suguru settles himself deeper into the cushion of the futon, making soft noises while he gets comfortable in Satoru’s grasp and radiant heat. In the room’s otherwise-silence, the breaths right behind him are the perfect tempo to fall asleep to. He closes his eyes, worn out after such an eventful day. Between the deep, lingering exhaustion he hasn’t fully slept off and the security of having Satoru beside him again, Suguru expects he’ll be fast asleep within minutes.

Until he feels fingers slip inside his sleeping robes and down his belly, wandering along the trail of coarse hair below his navel.

Suguru’s eyes fly open. Under the covers, he smacks the offending hand and turns his head to fix an eye on Satoru’s shadowed face.

“I just let you in bed with me, Satoru,” he huffs, in disbelief that he’d try to make a move so fast.

Satoru has the audacity to sound confused. “What? Seriously? But we—today was so good. I thought you liked me again.”

“I never stopped,” Suguru admits, self-conscious that underneath his fury and hurt those softer feelings had somehow lingered on. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not still upset with you. Too upset for… that.”

Satoru makes a soft, skeptical sound with his tongue against his teeth. “You’re upset with me but you invited me back into the bed?”

“Yes,” Suguru says, unsure what’s so difficult to understand. “Intentionally or not, you put me and my family through hell for close to half a year and then you lied to my face about it for days.” Just talking of it has him bothered all over again. “You haven’t even apologized for it. For anything.”

“Why would I apologize for something I didn’t intentionally do?”

Suguru pushes into Satoru as he rolls onto his back, wedged up against his chest, and stares into the frowning face hovering inches above his own. “So, if you accidentally stepped on me in your dragon form, you wouldn’t apologize because it wasn’t on purpose?”

“I won’t step on you, Suguru.”

“That’s not my point,” Suguru says, rubbing at his eyes.

“I thought making good on compensating all those little backwater villages was enough to please you. A few little words matter to you more than actual action?”

“If it’s just a few little words, then say them,” Suguru pushes, his own stubbornness ratcheting up to match Satoru’s. “Unless you can’t think of a single thing you wish you’d done differently.”

Satoru’s well-cut jaw works from side to side, perturbed. For a long moment, Suguru can’t tell what’s going through his head.

After a few moments of quiet, Satoru haltingly murmurs, “I’m sorry that you got frostbite on my account. More than once. And that you went hungry because of my snowstorms. And that I made you worry so much for your sisters and all. I’d never let the same happen again.”

The corner of Suguru’s mouth twitches in a little smile.

“That’s… good. Those are very good, Satoru. But very specific.” Extremely Suguru-specific, in fact. Suguru would hope that Satoru’s sense of remorse extends a little beyond his personal attachment. “You’re not sorry for, say, roosting in our mountains and almost burying the whole valley alive?”

“Mmm, no, not really." Before Suguru can sigh and implore him to empathize a little more, Satoru adds, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Suguru’s lips part, at a loss for words.

It should bother him more than it does, how unrepentant Satoru is about such matters. Instead, Suguru feels tingly where he lay, like he’s young again and being sweet-talked for the first time. Except no one—not even in the throes of passion—has ever credibly claimed to want him so badly. Men who’ve come and gone from his life could not muster enough desire to give up others’ beds or disappoint their families for his sake, but here is Satoru, who has felt Suguru’s ire and arrows and harshest words and still wants him at any cost.

Satoru blinks in surprise when Suguru’s palm meets the side of his face—gently, carefully pressed against his cheek, thumb stroking over the spot one of his arrows had cut. “I’m sorry for refusing to hear you out. And for shooting at you when I left that morning. It wasn’t… It was a bad way to do things. I should’ve gone while you were sleeping and spared us both.”

“No, no, waking up with you already gone would’ve been worse,” Satoru quietly protests. “I’m glad you said something. I would rather be struck with an arrow than abandoned without a word. And by the way, I was too out of my mind to properly appreciate it then, but…” He lets out a low whistle. “Cutting right across the skin? In that wind? With that awful visibility? Amazing.”

Suguru closes his eyes and curls his lips in as he smiles. Praise from Satoru makes his cheeks warm and his limbs fidgety; he rubs his feet together under the quilt, toes curling.

“Thank you,” he murmurs back, blinking up at Satoru. “Flattery isn’t going to get me to spread my legs for you, though.”

Satoru huffs, smiling before he turns serious. “What will, then? I mean, I thought… we kind of did it once already, so…”

“So?” Suguru’s expression shifts flat and stony. “The circumstances were different, weren’t they? A little bit has happened between then and now, wouldn’t you say?”

In the dark, Satoru remains quiet and unreadable. Then he sighs, heavy and drawn-out.

“Look, can you keep your hands and other parts to yourself?” Suguru questions as he rolls back onto his side, ready to either push Satoru out or take the quilt and bundle himself up on the floor instead. “Or do we need to sleep separately after all?”

“No, no, no. I mean, yes. I can. I will.” Audibly dismayed, he asks, “Does this mean I can’t touch you at all?”

Suguru exhales sharply through his nose. He reaches behind himself, finds Satoru’s wrist, and grabs it. Impatient, he drags it around to his front so Satoru’s arm is curled around him once more and they’re flush back-to-front. “This? This is fine. Trying to mount me isn’t.”

Behind him, Satoru makes a strangled sound.

“For how long? Forever?”

“Not forever. But not soon,” Suguru tells him, pettily picking his words.

Satoru’s soft scoff stirs a few loose strands to tickle Suguru’s cheek and nose. His forehead plunks softly against the back of Suguru’s neck, face buried in his hair and breath heavy on his nape, sulky and clingy at the same time.

“Give me time to get to know you again first,” Suguru whispers, laying his palm over the back of Satoru’s hand and keeping it close to his belly. “It feels as if I’m starting from scratch with all these new sides of you I’ve been seeing.”

“So… that’ll take, what, another three days? Four?”

“At a minimum,” Suguru mumbles back, wanting Satoru to set his expectations accordingly.

Even beyond what had befallen the valley as a whole, Satoru had let him scale a mountain, endure a blizzard, and sustain deep, debilitating frostbite, all while knowing his mission was in vain. Even if the physical damage has healed and the hardship passed, it’s just not something Suguru can roll over and forgive, much less forget.

He does wonder how long Satoru’s patience—and his interest—can stretch, though. In just a week, the two of them had come together and then apart. That’s not much time to work with and Satoru is untested, as far as relationships go. Though he’s been quick to talk of courtship and make romantic overtures, his passion might fizzle out while Suguru keeps him at arm’s length. Metaphorically.

If this all ended in Satoru dropping him back where he’d found him, well... that could be tolerable. But it would still crush Suguru, just a little, after being promised so much.

“It depends on how much time we get to spend together,” he tells Satoru, unsure himself when he'll be in a place to pick up again where they left off in that cave. “I imagine you have some overdue duties you’ll need to attend to.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Satoru groans, squeezing tighter while nuzzling in between his shoulders. “I thought about turning Ijichi into an icicle when he brought me that giant crate of petitions and disputes I’m supposed to address.” 

“Hm. That reminds me, actually,” Suguru says, figuring he ought to do some good for as long as he’s here. “You should speak a little more gently to the servants. Especially Ijichi. I’m surprised you haven’t already frightened him to death with those glares you give him.”

“What are you worried about him for? You should be concerned that I'm going to keel over out of boredom tomorrow,” Satoru complains, borderline pouty. “Besides, he’s tougher than you’d think.”

“Still.” Maybe Satoru knows better, but Suguru can’t help but worry he’s going to see Ijichi faint dead one day if his master doesn’t lighten up. “If you’re only teasing him or in a bad mood, you should make that clear. If nothing else, I would appreciate it if everyone wasn’t so jumpy around you.”

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” Satoru concedes, for whatever that’s worth. “But never say his name while we’re in bed together again.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, not bothering to respond to such a ridiculous request. He hadn’t even been the one to mention Ijichi first.

It only takes minutes of quiet for Suguru to turn drowsy again. Absently, he brushes his thumb back and forth across Satoru’s knuckles, enjoying the weight of the arm slung across him. Even without the threat of deathly cold pressing in around them, Satoru provides a solid sensation of reassurance that Suguru hasn’t felt since… well, since a day ago. But before that, it had been years and years.

As for Satoru... if Haibara’s gossip is to be believed, he’s never shared a room or a bed with anyone else. Yet he’d done both the first night they met, even knowing where Suguru was headed and what he intended to do.

And Satoru has the gall to call him strange?

“Goodnight,” Suguru says with a small yawn, only to hear nothing back.

The breath dampening his hair and warming the back of his neck is deep and steady. Suguru slips his fingers through Satoru’s and finds them limply curled, not so much as a twitch running through them as they’re laced together. All of Satoru’s weight is leaned in against his back, his chest pushing into Suguru with every slow inhale. Asleep already—and deeply, too.

Suguru smiles to himself as he shuts his eyes, his hand still clasped over Satoru’s.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass in a similar vein.

They take meals together three times a day and often with snacks in between. They walk the gardens and the grounds together, feeding songbirds and fish while talking about everything from their favorite dishes to dreams to childhood memories. They spend time at the archery range together, with Satoru content to sit on the side and eat sweets as he watches Suguru keep his aim honed and true. They while away hours together in Satoru’s room, Suguru writing his letters home while Satoru sifts through stacks of documents that accumulated in his long absence. 

When Suguru itches to see beyond the castle complex’s high walls, Satoru is true to his word. It almost feels like they’re back in Suguru’s home valley as they wander together along snowy slopes and through icy forests and overlook the steaming hot springs that dot the mountainside. Come nightfall, Suguru falls into bed happily exhausted from a full day of trekking in the wild again.

And the more time they spend together, the more confident Suguru grows in… whatever this is. Flirtatious friendship. Casual courtship. A mended start. Still, he is in no rush to leap back into bed with Satoru. In the non-literal sense.

In the literal sense, yes, they do share a futon each and every night. Both of them sleep better for it.

It isn’t for lack of desire that Suguru insists on a degree of separation. The want is there—and how could it not be, when he spends his nights beside the most eerily beautiful person he’s ever seen, bar none, and his days being flattered and attentively accompanied? But he needs to keep a clear head and open eyes. He must needs maintain a measure of control here, at least over himself, and some meaningful say in a place where he is otherwise to be kept regardless of his wishes. He has to know if Satoru means what he promises and if his affection can endure a little rebuffing, if only to know what to expect in the longer term. Suguru wants time before opening himself up to Satoru again, heart and body, even if the dragon’s claws have already sunk their way into both.

He requires the satisfaction of some just retribution, too, and the restitution paid to the villages doesn’t quite cut it. He is still putting weight back on after months of freezing starvation—as are his sisters and neighbors back home—and will be for some time. A few days of luxury hasn’t made him forget the long, bitter winter his valley nearly succumbed to. Making Satoru wait a while and work his way back into his good graces is small, small recompense, as far as Suguru is concerned.

And while he would like to say it’s all righteous principle motivating his withholding of something Satoru desperately wants, perhaps he is also a little petty and his pride still wounded. It’s allowed, he thinks, after being put through the physical and emotional wringer that was those four days spent crawling up a mountain.

Admittedly, Satoru doesn’t make it easy to keep nursing that lingering bitterness. For a dragon of ominous strength and terrifying repute, he is quite capable of being sweet. Doting, even. But Suguru has held grudges over less than what Satoru's done and nearly-done. For longer, too.

He doesn't intend to fold anytime soon.

❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄

Bright sunshine pours over the wintry garden where they’re spending the afternoon. Between the cloudless sky and the comfort of his layered, cold-suited attire—and if not for the puffing mist of his breath—Suguru could almost forget he is high atop a peak in the midst of unmelting snows and eternal ice.

While Satoru snacks from a platter piled high with doughy sweets from the kitchen, Suguru takes his time picking flowers and thin, blossom-dotted branches to bring indoors with them. They’re intended for Satoru’s room, mostly. Well-furnished as it is—and with its own private engawa, garden, and hot spring to enjoy, too—Suguru nonetheless hopes to spruce it up a little. The space could be brighter and livelier and homier. Amid all the luxuries life here affords him, he likes finding little ways to remind himself of the forests surrounding his humble village: the smell of pine sap, cut wood, and the tender green shoots and buds of spring. The castle's myriad gardens offer plenty to choose from.

A flash of white against the blue sky catches his eye and, after a startled gut-reaction that sends his heart hammering, Suguru quickly surmises who it must be. His suspicion is confirmed when Satoru lazily waves at the descending dragon, not even bothering to move from the spot where he is comfortably lounging in the snow.

White-and-black scales ripple as Yuta swoops down and lands, careful not to step on Satoru. He shakes out his crest of black fur, that long, pale head twisting from side to side. Then he freezes.

The dragon's dark-ringed eyes stare across the snow-covered garden to fix on Suguru, who stares back.

And then Yuta twists his head toward Satoru and begins to speak.

For a dragon—at least in comparison to Satoru, who is the only measure Suguru has to go by—Yuta is tiny. Noodle-thin. Scrawny-legged, like a crane. His small stature only makes it more impressive that he has been the one hauling everything south to the vale Suguru will forever think of as home.

Suguru lingers where he stands, dagger still in hand, set a bit apart from the two of them. After a moment to collect himself, he continues slicing snowy white narcissus blooms at the stem and filling his woven basket. He’s not trying to eavesdrop but in the open air, their voices carry. And he doesn’t mean to keep stealing glances, either, but it’s so curious to see Satoru interact with someone who is neither himself nor a servant.

“...last delivery, so that’s taken care of,” is the surprisingly soft-spoken murmur that drifts from the dragon’s tongue. His gaze slides past Satoru and once more finds Suguru standing among the snow-covered hedges and beds of hardy flowers, catching him staring. He looks back to Satoru. “Your guest should be satisfied.”

“He is, I’m sure. Oh! You haven’t actually seen each other face to face yet,” Satoru realizes, spinning and eagerly gesturing for Suguru to come over to them. After an awkward shuffle in place, fumbling to sheathe his dagger again, Suguru straightens out his hanten and treads over. “Suguru! Suguru, come here. Hah, this is perfect. This is Yuta! Yuta, Suguru. Can't believe it's taken this long to have you both in the same place.”

With just a few paces separating them now, Suguru observes Yuta up close. The wiry dragon has a floppy black mane of fur and stands only a little taller than Suguru himself. His legs and claws are black, as if he waded through pitch, while his long face and body gleam as white as Satoru’s scales. The tip of his tail snakes back and forth as he dips his head, those doleful, sullen eyes fixed on Suguru.

Yuta's speech is polite but muted as he says, “Nice to finally meet you.”

Suguru doesn’t take offense at the low energy greeting. His sudden arrival and residence here must be beyond strange to everyone who isn’t Satoru.

“And it’s very nice to meet you as well. I can’t thank you enough for your help looking out for my village. The other ones, too. They’re all incredibly grateful and so am I.” He gives Yuta a low, proper bow that has Satoru muttering tch, you never did that for me. “I look forward to seeing you more often.”

Yuta merely bobs his head at that. Shy, maybe?

“Alright, well, Yuta’s going to be busy with training and errands, so don’t count on it,” Satoru almost grumbles, edging in between them. Then he brightens with a sudden realization, hands clapping together. “Oh! Wait! I have something for you, Yuta, before you go. Sit here and I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, casually tapping one of Yuta’s scaly shoulders before fleetly bounding back toward the castle.

The mountain wind stirs and rattles the chimes hanging in the nearby trees, which drip with icicles and plum blossoms alike. The voices from the nearby laundry bureau faintly carry their way into the garden. It’s serene. And awkward.

Left alone with Satoru’s young relative, Suguru licks his lips and tries to think of some pleasant small talk to make.

“So,” he says, smiling up at the lithe little dragon, “did you grow up here in the castle as well?"

“You tried to kill Gojo-sensei.”

Suguru’s mouth drops open, taken aback by the blunt accusation. Or rather, the fact of it. After a blink, he recovers—though not from the frigid chill of Yuta’s wary glare and guarded tone.

“Ah… yes. A while back. Whole days ago, you know,” Suguru says while worrying with the narcissus stem in his gloved hands, realizing as he speaks that it sounds less like levity and more like insanity. As if it will help matters, he adds on, “And unsuccessfully, obviously.”

It goes without saying. Still, Suguru gives a helpless little shrug and a self-deprecating smile. Bygones and water under bridges, so on and so forth. It’s not as though Satoru didn’t do him worse.

Yuta doesn’t find his efforts to be charming, if the little backward flick of his ears means anything. He draws himself up a smidge higher, fur rising stiffly along his spine as he warns, “Don’t dare do it again.”

Suguru’s faintly stunned amazement is quickly covered with a smile meant to placate. “I don’t intend to. But I’m also incapable of doing so, if it makes you feel better. I mean, he is invulnerable. Or close enough to it.”

Yuta’s glare shifts across the courtyard garden, in the direction Satoru went, less darkly suspect and more concerned. “Whether or not you would actually succeed in killing him isn’t the point. Merely trying would be…”

The dragon shakes his head, looking glum, and Suguru’s masked irritation withers. It’s not a bad thing, Satoru having a staunch little defender trying to watch his back. And if he were in Yuta’s place, Suguru would be equally suspicious of someone with his history traipsing around in Satoru’s company—left alone with his food, allowed beside him when he sleeps, given access to nearly every inch of the castle fortress.

“The only thing that could even make me consider such a thing would be him going back on his word,” Suguru admits, his voice dropped soft so as not to carry. But Satoru surely knows that already. “And he doesn’t really seem the type."

Or so he hopes.

“No,” Yuta quickly agrees, the stiff set of his shoulders marginally easing. “He isn’t.”

And then they stand there, an even more awkward silence stretching on between them until Satoru returns.

“I should’ve introduced you two sooner,” Satoru says as he approaches, plainly excited to see them standing side by side… even if they’re several feet apart and feigning polite amicability. In his hand is a tied-up bundle of papers, his fingers looped under the hemp cord knotted around them. “Alright, Yuta. Here you go.”

Yuta lifts a three-toed hand and hooks the string-wrapped bundle on a curved claw. He tilts his head and peers down at the stack, tail swishing back and forth. “Gojo-sensei, what is this?”

“Administrative paperwork that I don’t have the time or patience for.”

Yuta visibly deflates, his tail and ears going limp.

“Oh, don’t be a baby! You might end up running the clan one day,” Satoru says, already shooing him off, “so you might as well get some experience with the worst parts of it now. And don’t worry, I’ll take you out to do something more fun later. Alright? We can train or do whatever you like.”

Yuta brightens at that, long whiskers lifting along with his mood. Yet Suguru still feels some pity at seeing the small dragon slither off with a bunch of paperwork clutched in his claws after his goodbyes. It doesn’t exactly feel like a reward for a job well-done.

He turns to Satoru as soon as they’re alone again, eyebrows raised. “Yuta might be the head of your clan?”

“Well, yes. If I had to pick a successor,” Satoru says, scratching the back of his head, “it would be him.”

A successor? Suguru never imagined Satoru needed one; he could probably live forever if no foe stronger than him comes along.

“He’s a little…” Suguru isn’t quite sure what to think, given Yuta clearly does not care for him—and sees him as a possible threat, even. Nevertheless, he owes the small dragon a great deal. “He certainly cares about you.”

Satoru’s brows go up. He’s already in the middle of eating another large, sticky mochi from the wagashi platter, licking his fingers between chews. “Oh, does he? Makes sense. The rest of the clan doesn’t exactly like Yuta either, so he’s kind of stuck with me.”

That’s not the impression Suguru took away from his brief encounter with Yuta, who seems nothing short of protective—and of a dragon twenty times his size.

“Have you known him a long time?”

“Uh, no. It’s probably been… a year? Maybe less,” Satoru guesses. He sits down on a snow-covered stone bench, his platter of sweets in his lap. “And I was gone for half of that, traveling south.”

“Oh.” Given the prickliness Yuta had displayed, he assumed the two had more history. “How did you meet, then?”

Satoru chews around another mouthful of mochi, head bobbing as he tries to get it down quicker. Impatient, he ends up half covering his mouth to say, “Showed up and stopped his execution.”

Suguru stares while Satoru keeps chewing. When nothing else is forthcoming, he rolls his eyes and gestures for Satoru to keep going. “And? A little context, please?”

“Oh, no, it’s a long story,” Satoru dismisses, lips vibrating as he pushes out a puff of air. At Suguru’s persistent stare, though, he sits up straight and reconsiders. “Fine, fine, fine. When Yuta was a hatchling, he was friends with a human girl, right? And then another dragon killed her. A Zen’in, which really tells you all you need to know.”

It doesn’t. Suguru has never even heard the name before. The way Satoru says it, though? That does tell him quite a lot.

“A few years later, Yuta went after him. For revenge, you know. Normal stuff. He didn’t even kill the guy,” Satoru adds, his tone one of open disappointment, “which is honestly a shame. I mean, if you’re going to wind up on the chopping block anyway—and if you kill another dragon over a human, of all things, you definitely are—you might as well go all out.”

Suguru squeezes and squishes his bottom lip, neither surprised nor enthused about the clear hierarchy in terms of human versus dragons’ lives. “He attacks another dragon and gets an execution order, but you killed your own uncle and get to run this place. Is that right?”

Satoru grins and holds out his arms, almost shrugging. “Yeah. That’s the way it goes. I had a valid reason and, uh, effective deterrence. But if you’re a smallfry like Yuta, you’re an easy target. Easy to dispose of.”

“You saved his life, then," Suguru huffs, wondering why Satoru wouldn't just put it like that from the start. "Even though you didn’t know him before that?”

“Mhm." Satoru doesn't even look up from the flower-shaped bun he’s now picking apart so he can eat straight sweet bean filling first. “He was just a kid, barely grown. He still is. Probably not that far off from your sisters in age, actually.”

“Really.” Suguru wanders over, brushes off the snow blanketing the bench, and plops down beside him. For a few long seconds, he studies Satoru’s profile while the man is busy stuffing his mouth with sweets. “When I first told you about Nanako and Mimiko that night on the mountain, you acted like you couldn’t fathom what I was attempting to do for them. Like I was mad. But you’d already taken in a random child yourself? And barged in on an execution to do it?”

“You’re making it sound like a big deal,” Satoru says, as if it isn’t. His focus remains on picking at little candied fruits and nuts as he explains, “Yuta is pretty self-sufficient and stepping in on his behalf cost me nothing. I got to show up at the ancestral judgment grounds, make a public scene, and scare a bunch of old lizards shitless. You were doing everything in your power to sacrifice whatever it took. Not really the same investment. Not really equal levels of concerning.”

“It's still incredibly kind of you to defend him. And to take him under your wing as you have. It’s no small thing, devoting time to teaching and guiding someone who looks up to you.” Suguru loops a lock of hair around his gloved finger, absently rolling and twirling it. The luster it had held before winter began draining him is back on every strand. Perhaps it's even shinier than before. “So… you like children, then?”

Satoru wrinkles his nose as if the question has come out of the blue. “I don’t know that I’d go that far. But I don’t think a bunch of backwards old codgers should get to kill off whoever offends their sensibilities. That, and Yuta's useful to keep around. He’s got potential, I mean. Granted, I really kind of thought he’d have hit his growth spurt by the time I came back, but…”

Suguru hums to himself while watching Satoru for a few moments longer, re-imagining him all over again—the way he had while standing before that mural that painted Satoru in a harsher and bleaker light, wrathful and terrible to behold. There likely aren’t any grand tapestries or paintings of his storming in to safeguard Yuta’s life, though, the way there are of his taking his uncle’s.

Suguru’s residual surprise at Satoru’s rather benevolent intervention mellows into a soft sense of reassurance. He smiles to himself and leans over, his shoulder resting against Satoru’s.

Satoru stops snacking and offers Suguru his pick from the tray of sweets. Or what’s left of it, anyway. “Want some?” 

Suguru’s smile broadens as he goes to reach for one, is immediately told, "No, not that kind. Try this," and redirected to pick one of Satoru’s favorites instead.

It’s a flavor he’s never had before, sweet and soft and creamy on the inside. Suguru likes it enough to try another—the last one, making eye contact with Satoru as he takes it and pops the whole thing in his mouth.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Satoru half-teases, half-grumbles, making Suguru laugh closed-mouthed around the mochi and its sweet filling. “Only my kitchen makes that kind of daifuku, you know. To my tastes. You can’t find it anywhere else.”

“I really am lucky then,” Suguru says, quickly licking the tips of his fingers, “that you’d share with me.”

Satoru’s shoulder presses into his, casually leaned onto Suguru in turn. It’s a comfortable closeness.

“You know, I never mentioned it to Yuta but I always thought it was strange how upset he was over a human he only knew for a year or two.” Satoru lets out a deep, dramatic sigh, his head tipping back and his hair flopping to follow. His stare cuts sideways to Suguru, eyes soft at their corners. “And look at me now.”

Suguru gives him a smile that lingers. He knows the feeling, having gone from thinking nothing of dragons to hating one with a killing intensity to… this.

Fate or chance has played funny with both of them. It’s probably for the best.

❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅

A week of quiet reclusion in the castle stronghold proves remarkably restful. Suguru doesn’t have to wake early to fish or hunt or rekindle a fire in the hearth for breakfast. There are no obligations that only he can address. No one prods him out of bed to come deal with a viper or to see to their ailing ox or to kill a wild boar trampling through their fields.

But some mornings, like this one, he does wake to something prodding him. In the darkness, he can feel the steadiness of Satoru’s breaths and the occasional twitching of his arms and legs. Dreaming. Of what, Suguru can take a wild guess…

The hard outline pressed to him makes his cheeks warm, even knowing Satoru is unconscious and entirely unaware of what his body is up to.

Suguru tries wriggling and inching himself to the side, hoping to put a little breathing room between his hip and the third leg that won’t leave him alone. He is dragged back each time, his miniscule efforts countered by the reflexive squeeze of Satoru’s much stronger arms. Once secured again, Suguru receives redoubled nuzzling, a heavy thigh thrown over his, and another sleepy, grinding press of hips against him.

He exhales through his nose and closes his eyes, giving in and accepting his fate. Satoru is somehow even clinger asleep than he is awake. And for all that he chides Satoru when he is awake, Suguru is inclined to let him slumber on in peace.

Only days ago, while Haibara had been trimming the rough ends of Suguru’s hair, he had mentioned off-handedly how nice it is to no longer have Gojo-sama patrolling the castle at night—and how scary it always was to turn a corner and run into him, or to see only his eyes in the dark at the end of a long hall, or to glimpse his imposing silhouette moving behind a moonlit shoji screen door. He and the other servants hardly knew when their master actually slept, if he did at all.

The passing remark had left Suguru, who has only ever known Satoru to be a sound, lazy sleeping companion, at a loss.

He twists at the waist and angles himself toward Satoru, almost nose to nose in the dark. And though Satoru’s face twitches as Suguru's fingers comb through his messy hair, slivered whites of his eyes briefly showing, he quickly settles down again into deep slumber.

Suguru knows he probably ought to be offended that Satoru clearly considers him such a non-threat that he’d dozed comfortably by his side for hours on end, night after night, in that tiny, cramped tent. Instead, the strange chasm between Satoru’s behavior around others and his comparative laxness when alone together only softens his heart further. It’s a bit like having the village stray who spurns and hisses at everyone suddenly decide to curl up in your lap and lay docile.

It shouldn’t surprise him how much there is about Satoru he doesn’t know.

Everything they had before took root in a rush, in a void of isolation, their closeness quickened by the mounting pressure of Suguru’s mission to break the winter that was swallowing his home whole. It had started when they barely knew one another. It had bloomed under stress and short sight. It then withered even quicker—at least on Suguru’s end. Not completely, not dead, but… a seed bulb buried underground, slow to put out new shoots, wary of a false spring and a cold snap.

He’s warmed once more to Satoru, though. They’re friends again, he thinks—or whatever you call a traveling companion who becomes a friend, then a lover, then an enemy, then a courting kidnapper, and then a friend once more. And the courting… there’s not much of that back home. Not to the degree Satoru does it, presenting him with some new little gift each day. And certainly, no one would ever have looked at Suguru and thought of romancing him.

Certainly not the traveling strangers who would sometimes stay with him for a night or two while passing through the valley. They had reputations to keep pristine—and wives or lovers elsewhere, too—and no coin or wares to spare on a fleeting fancy in a rural backwater. Even time was a limited commodity with such men, any effort to know Suguru confined to the hours between sundown and sunrise. The flirtatious conversations never went anywhere deeper. There was never any serious intention in such dalliances and no point in asking otherwise. Suguru had learned that young. Younger than he ought to have, maybe.

But while his tastes were something of an open secret in Kurosaki—his neighbors politely avoided remarking upon who they saw come or go from his house—plenty of would-be matchmakers from nearby villages eagerly sought to set him up with their farmers’ daughters, clearly expecting him to leap at the chance to show up with furs and do some wooing. Suguru even briefly entertained the idea, supposing the twins would fare better with someone else to look after them while he was away on long hunts. If not for Manami coming along and setting up a stall in Kurosaki, a fast friend and frequent helper in looking after Mimiko and Nanako, he might’ve gone through with it. He's glad he didn't.

Being chased and pampered and showered in constant, open affection like this… it was never meant for him, Suguru had believed. And he’d have survived just fine without all that if not for Satoru upending all of his expectations.

Suguru shimmies lower and worms closer, snugly fitting himself under Satoru’s chin and against his chest. He breathes in deep, ever more drawn to the way Satoru smells—always clean, like crisp air that promises snow, and something bright. Yuzu peels, maybe, but a little bit sweeter. Long after the woody, floral scent of oil-perfumed bathwater fades, Satoru’s subtle scent is there on his skin. It lingers on his clothes. It clings to their bed.

The heavy arm draped over Suguru shifts, curling in closer, and Satoru mumbles something in his sleep. He’s still excited from whatever he’s dreaming, the telltale evidence poking harder into Suguru’s belly with every small shift.

Suguru bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pretend he doesn’t feel Satoru’s arousal through two measly, gauzy layers of fabric separation. This is a sleeping dragon he is content to let lie for the time being, appealing as the obvious attraction is. The idea of going one step further and really consummating things… well, it’s been ages since Suguru has been intimate with anyone to that degree, and never with anyone remotely approaching Satoru’s intimidating size. Never with someone he is so fond of, either.

Tucked within Satoru’s grasp, he soon slips back into sleep. When Suguru wakes again, dawn has already come and gone.

Satoru has waited on him for breakfast, though. And if he is at all disappointed or frustrated with his nightly needs going unaddressed, Suguru lying right beside him yet forbidden, he disguises it well.

Satoru’s spider-featured tailor arrives shortly after, brought right into the room to work. With multiple sets of arms moving in tandem, she swiftly takes Suguru’s measurements.

Being on the notably taller side, only clothing borrowed from Satoru fits him properly. The kosode and hakama pilfered from the hinoki chests that once belonged to other Gojos who resided here may be beautiful, but their hems fall a bit high on him. Soon enough now, Suguru will have a full wardrobe of his own, sewn to match his stature. Not that Satoru ever seemed to resent sharing his clothing, really.

He is next ordered to leaf through a hundred different samples of rich, sumptuous fabric and pick out all the ones he likes best. Satoru, seated beside him, intervenes every so often to single out colors and patterns he says will suit Suguru. Suguru takes his word for it, marking them down as well.

They spend the rest of the morning in another area of the gardens, Suguru teaching Satoru various card games and Satoru quickly figuring out how to win at each one. Suguru would think he's cheating except he hasn't glimpsed a single suspicious move.

After their midday meal, Satoru is summoned away by a sweating, nervous-looking Ijichi. Suguru can only give the poor man a wan, sympathetic smile as Satoru’s temper immediately sours—and the clouds above dim to match, the wind and snowfall both picking up in intensity.

Suguru quickly shushes Satoru’s complaints about leaving, encouraging him to go deal with whatever actual responsibilities have arisen.

“And with less gloom, please. You’re making the whole mountain look depressing.”

“It’s not as if I’m doing it on purpose,” Satoru huffs. And then he groans, fighting the pull of his obligations as the head of the clan. “But Suguru, what will you do without me? Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? Say the word and I’ll make Ijichi go entertain whoever came knocking for a few more hours. He’s a terrible dancer, but—”

“I have plenty to occupy myself with for a while,” Suguru assures him, patting Satoru’s shoulders before turning him around and giving him a little push. “Go on. Do what you need to do. I’ll see you later.”

Satoru goes, but not without casting long, glum looks over his shoulder at Suguru, bottom lip jutted out.

Suguru spends the afternoon alone, busying himself with writing and reading and fletching his own arrows for the archery range. Come evening, he retires to Satoru’s room and waits, trying on jewelry from a small lacquerware box Satoru insisted he take.

It’s all unimaginably beautiful and well above his personal worth. Though he is no expert, Suguru is quite sure some of these pieces must have once belonged to actual royalty. The hair combs and pins are his favorites by far. The rings are too bulky, strange-fitting on fingers unused to adornment; they’d make it hard to take proper aim, he thinks, and so he leaves them largely untouched. A few necklaces and earrings catch his eye. Especially the gold. He has never seen so much gold.

There are three precious sets of coral earrings, too, all of them bright red. Suguru sets them aside, intending to—whether Satoru ever knows or approves—eventually pass them along to Manami, Mimiko, and Nanako. Aside from the well-crafted dagger his mother left him, there’s not much his family has in the way of heirlooms. He wants the three of them to have a little treasure of their own to keep, and maybe something that will serve as a reminder of him, too.

Supper is eventually brought to the room and, for the first time since the night he arrived here, Suguru takes a meal entirely alone.

As the tray of half-eaten dishes is cleared away, he asks, “Nitta, do you happen to know where Sa—uh, Gojo-sama is? Or when he’ll be back?”

Her eyes blink wide at the question.

“If you can’t say, that’s fine too,” Suguru quickly adds, not wanting to put her in a tight spot.

“Oh, no, I don’t think it’s a secret. I heard a few members of the Gojo clan arrived this afternoon. Unexpectedly. Unannounced. Gojo-sama’s been in talks with them all evening. The kitchen had us bring them dinner at the same time we brought you yours, so he might not be back for a while longer. It… it didn’t sound like it was going well,” she finishes in a whisper.

“I see.” Suguru gives her a grateful smile. “Alright. Thank you. And goodnight.”

Nitta bows before scurrying out, her mousy ears standing up tall. “Goodnight!”

It is stiflingly quiet without company here. Suguru hardly knows what else to do with himself after so much time already spent alone, having become so accustomed to Satoru lingering around him at all hours, talking and touching and teasing him.

The room further dims as the sun fully sets. Suguru ends up sprawled out on the futon with a book, reading by the light of a lantern. He’s made a decent bit of progress by the time the door slides open and Satoru finally shuffles in.

“Satoru.” Suguru flips the book closed at once, rolling onto his side to get a look at him. With only one lantern lit in the room, though, Satoru mostly remains obscured in shadow. “You’re back awfully late.”

“Sorry,” he says, stepping forward as he shrugs off his pale haori. “It was an ambush by my family. One with lots of unbalanced account ledgers and petty grievances. Some significant ones, too. Apparently some of the other clans got comfortable treading on Gojo territory and taking advantage while I was away. I shouldn’t be surprised, but…”

Suguru isn’t sure he’s ever seen Satoru look so stonily blank while he speaks, his expression—or lack of it—fixed like a carven mask.

“It’s okay, Satoru.” Lightly, he adds, “I guess it’s safe to say the word is out that you’re back, then.”

Satoru rolls his neck, grimacing. “Seems so.”

“Are you tired? You look it.”

The sparse, flickering lantern light surely doesn’t help.

“Do I?” The corner of Satoru’s mouth ticks up, amused, and his features soften to something more familiar. He opens an unassuming sliding door and the lacquered cabinet behind it, peering inside. “My head is killing me from poring over so many long-winded complaints with people whining and grating in my ears all afternoon.”

“You can’t heal that away?”

“No,” Satoru says, shaking his head. He continues pushing around jars and pots on the cabinet shelf, searching for something. The room’s lack of light makes little difference to his eyes. “Unfortunately. It’s not—this isn’t something torn or cut or bruised. It’s just…”

Suguru hums at that. “So, even an impressive ice dragon like yourself has some vulnerabilities. Like the rest of us.”

Satoru braces a hand on the cabinet and hangs his head for a moment, apparently abandoning his hunt. His eyes have that faint hint of a glow, always more pronounced in the dark dead of night, as he looks to Suguru. “Just a few, but yeah.”

Even hearing it straight from Satoru’s lips, it’s hard to believe. Arrows mean nothing to him, nor stab wounds, but headaches plague him? How mundane.

“What are you looking for in there?” Suguru asks, wondering if he should get up and help. Not that he’ll have an easier time finding anything than Satoru did.

“Ah. Just some medicine Shoko usually makes to help soothe my head. I suppose I forgot to mention I needed more the last time she was here.” He runs a hand through his hair, raking it back, and sucks his teeth. “Which means I’ll just have to wait it out.”

The last time she was here was on the night of his harrowing arrival to the castle, Suguru knows with some guilt. His little frostbite scare likely took precedence over any other considerations Satoru had.

“It probably won’t help much, but I could try… I mean, would massaging your head help?”

Satoru is silent. Then, “Are you offering?”

Suguru shrugs back. “I can’t claim to have any particular skill in it, but yes.”

That’s good enough for Satoru, apparently. He strips as he crosses the room, careless of how rough he is with his clothes or where he leaves them. By the time his toes are at the edge of the futon, all he has left on is the simple silk kosode he’d been wearing under everything else.

“Here,” Suguru says, guiding him to lay his head in his lap.

As Satoru complies, a pleased smile forms on his lips. Suguru hasn’t even touched him yet.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Behind my eyes,” Satoru says, closing them. His throat flexes with a swallow. “And everywhere else. Front, sides, back.”

“Okay. Okay,” Suguru says, mostly to himself, hands hovering while he figures out where to begin.

His fingertips settle at Satoru’s temples, skimming under the messy fall of his snowy hair. He starts with a gentle pressure, working in slow circles. His touch slowly migrates, working its way around Satoru’s ears and forehead and the joint of his jaw. Suguru doesn’t have any special technique or experience but if Satoru’s soft little groaning noises are anything to go by, he’s making things better rather than worse.

He pauses to rake Satoru’s hair back and out of the way, nails scratching lightly across his scalp. He then works his thumbs down the middle of Satoru’s forehead, smoothing them outward across his pale eyebrows. Satoru’s closed-mouth hum suggests he likes the area around his eyes being worked—the main source of his headache, he’d said. Tentative about applying pressure so close to somewhere so vulnerable, Suguru delicately presses his fingertips in along the underside of Satoru’s brow bone, working from the bridge of his nose outward.

“Oh, oh, more of that,” Satoru murmurs, catching Suguru by the wrist and dragging his hand back where it was a moment prior. He sighs, satisfied as Suguru pays a little more attention to the juncture of his eye sockets and nose. Then, better late than never, he tacks on, “Please.”

“Please?” Suguru can only think of two times he’s heard Satoru utter the word: when he was begging between Suguru’s legs and then begging him not to leave the next morning. “That’s a bit of your vocabulary you don’t frequently dust off.”

“I’m—” Satoru interrupts himself with a low moan as Suguru gently pinches the lobes of his ears between his fingers. “Oh, that’s nice, too. And I’m glad you noticed the effort I’m making.”

“Very impressive use of basic manners.”

He squeezes lightly along Satoru’s ears—something that makes Satoru shiver down the back of his neck—and it takes longer than it ought for Suguru to realize something about them is… different. Unexpected. Now curious, he runs his thumb up the shell of Satoru’s left ear, feeling it out. And then he does the same on the other, comparing the two.

The room is dark at this late hour but they’re sitting close to the sole lantern that’s lit. Suguru leans out of the way of the light to see better and finds—

“Satoru, are your ears… they’re longer. And pointed.”

“Oh.” Satoru’s eyes flutter open. He doesn’t sound shocked. “Are they?”

Suguru squints and double checks, drawing the pad of his thumb over the delicate point at the crest of Satoru’s ear. “Mhm.”

“That’s, uh… pay it no mind. Just a little slip-up,” he says while reaching up to shoo Suguru’s hands from his ears. “I can change them back.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean?” He knows Satoru can switch between the form of a massive dragon and that of a man, but he doesn’t recall ever seeing Satoru with anything but rounded, unremarkable ears. “Is this how they normally look?”

For several long moments, Satoru doesn’t answer. Then, “Yes, it’s a little more natural.”

The reluctance puzzles Suguru, but the rest slots neatly into place. Of course. Everyone else in the castle bears some animalistic trait or another: furred ears, horns, tails, claws, too-wide mouths or wet, salamander skin. Aside from Suguru himself, only Satoru lacks any such features… and it seems so oddly conspicuous now, the absence of them.

“Then why the rush to change them?”

Satoru clears his throat and glances off to one side, avoiding Suguru looming over him. “When I started visiting human cities, I adopted a more publicly passable look. And over the months, I got in the habit of defaulting to it. But being back here… being so relaxed, I just… my concentration slipped. That’s all.”

Suguru frowns at the apologetic tone in Satoru’s words. “If it’s easier, why not just go with your more natural state, then?”

“It makes it incredibly obvious I’m a dragon.”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t sure you’d like that.”

“Satoru…” Suguru sighs. It occurs to him only now that other than the night he first arrived here, he has not seen Satoru in his dragon shape even once. “I’m aware you’re a dragon all the time, you know. You don’t have to try and avoid reminding me of it. I like you,” he adds, smoothing his hand over Satoru’s light, short-shorn hair, “regardless of shape.”

Satoru looks up at him from his lap. “You’re sure?”

Suguru throws up a hand, exasperated. It’s not like Satoru being a dragon was ever the crux of his grievance—it was his being the dragon who brought the worst winter imaginable with him for his extended stay.

“Yes! No need to be shy around me. I’m honestly shocked you would even be self-conscious about this.” He cups his hands around Satoru’s face, squishing at his cheeks. “I’m sure you look very handsome with pointy ears.”

“I always look handsome.”

Satoru squeezes his eyes shut as Suguru pokes his thumbs into the dimples of his grin, delightedly squirming down deeper in his lap. Low, contented laughter fills his throat before tapering off to something like a purr.

“There’s the Gojo Satoru confidence I’m used to,” Suguru teases. “How is your headache now?”

“It’s barely a twinge, thanks to your skillful hands,” Satoru says, a dreamy expression set in place as he looks up at Suguru. “That said, I think next time you could just squeeze these around my head,” he says, tapping at the thighs currently cradling his skull, “and I would be cured just as effectively.”

“Alright, I think we’re done here,” Suguru says, shifting as he prepares for Satoru to sit up so they can get to bed.

“Wait, wait! Suguru. Suguru, please.” Satoru wields those big, pleading eyes even better than he does a bow. “Can’t you keep going a little longer? It feels nice.”

Suguru settles back as he was. He was mostly teasing, anyway.

“If you want me to, sure,” he says with a smile. It’s good to know he can be useful for something like this, a passable substitute for whatever medication Shoko usually fixes for him. “Though I’m sure it would be even nicer coming from someone without calluses all over their hands.”

“No. It wouldn’t.”

He catches Suguru’s right hand by the pinky and stops it short. After drawing it down to his mouth, his lips press against the rough, hardened skin along the heel of Suguru’s palm. It’s soft and tender. Sweet.

Then Satoru freezes, stockstill. His eyes dart up to find Suguru’s, a question in them. “Too much?”

“No.” Suguru doesn’t mean it to come out in a croak. He clears his throat and swallows. “No, I liked that.”

He can feel the brush of Satoru’s lips again as he smiles. And then Satoru lets go, apparently satisfied in having made an inroad.

Suguru returns to massaging along Satoru’s brow and under his hair, watching as his eyes slide shut and the tension along his jaw goes slack. His palm still tingles where Satoru kissed him.

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Later that same night, Suguru rouses to Satoru groping at him under the covers.

It’s a handsy new twist on his habitual clinging. With a low huff of a sigh, Suguru roots around under the padded quilt and snatches Satoru by the wrist.

Or… what he’d expected to be a wrist. Instead, the pads of his fingers brush over smooth scales and soft wisps of fur. Drunk on sleep and thoroughly puzzled, Suguru tugs it up from under the blanket and discovers the appendage to be a ghostly white tail—a miniature version of the kind he’d seen Satoru whipping around in his dragon shape.

With furrowed brows, Suguru rolls over to find a different sort of Satoru dozing beside him: one with backswept, branching horns and finely pointed ears. Through pale, parted lips, Suguru also spies the pronounced points of longer eye teeth. And then there’s the tail, of course, which is twitching against his palm, weakly battling his grasp. It reminds Suguru of the rat snakes he used to pick up and pet and carry around as a child, until his grandparents’ worried wailing finally discouraged him out of the habit. It also feels a little like holding a small fish in hand before throwing it back, wiggling and thumping until it’s returned to the water.

He uncurls his fingers and lets go, dumbly watching on as it slithers back under the covers. It’s all a bit surreal, but Suguru supposes that’s just his lot now.

Though Satoru remains fast asleep beside him, comfortable in his more natural skin, his tail moves as if wide awake. It goes back to doing whatever it had been before Suguru caught it, the heavy quilt lifting and shifting as it snakes along underneath the material.

Smooth, warm scales drag their way down Suguru’s side, brushing over thin fabric and bare skin. Long strands of fur tickle in their wake. Still bleary-eyed and taken aback by Satoru’s sudden and drastic transformation, Suguru lays there and lets the tail coil along his leg and wind in between his knees.

It’s probably harmless, he decides, resting his head back on his rounded pillow. Satoru’s tail has him hobbled, yes—which probably stems from the dragon's constant need for reassurance that Suguru won’t abandon him in the night—but its grasp is loose and not uncomfortable.

It only firms into a squeeze if Suguru tries to pull away, mirroring exactly what Satoru himself does in his sleep, too.

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By his third week in Satoru’s capture and care, Suguru has made himself quite comfortable. Which isn’t to say that he no longer misses home and the friends and family he left there, for he does so often. But the castle’s halls no longer feel strange and forbidding. His presence no longer turns heads. The staff and servants have accepted him as a new fixture around the grounds—and as a second master of sorts, though he is ill-suited to deference and formal address.

He spends his days alone practicing with his bow and with his ink brush. He reads through more of Satoru’s library though it is slow and painstaking work. Whatever he learns, he hopes to later pass along to the twins in some way or fashion. He does menial chores with Haibara and picks up the latest gossip, which has last shifted off of himself. He dirties his hands tending the gardens, much to the dismay of the castle’s actual gardeners.

For want of more to do, he even offers to help Nanami—a high-ranking household clerk with gold hair and antlers like a sika deer’s—with day-to-day affairs. Keeping track of inventory and necessary repairs and the like. Running errands across the grounds. All the minutiae of managing a castle this large and the droves of staff to care for it. It’s not exactly something Suguru has experience in, but he’s not used to sitting idle.

Back home, there are always preparations or improvements to be made—if not for his own home and family, then others in the village. But the Gojo clan’s castle fortress has its own carpenters and laundry washers and game hunters. The kitchens are fully staffed. The bailey gates are well-guarded, especially with the recent influx of visitors to do business with the newly returned head of the clan. There’s really naught that Suguru has to do.

So, he finds little projects to fill his ample free time. He makes himself useful, inasmuch as Satoru’s servants will allow him to. And he misses Satoru’s voice and company in the long hours they’re apart.

But perhaps not as much as Satoru misses him.

Tonight’s dinner arrives shortly after Satoru does, a table crowded with dishes brought in and set in the middle of the room’s tatami floor. Satoru eyes the amount of food laid out and then looks to Suguru.

“Wait, have you not eaten your own supper yet? Suguru, it’s late.”

“Not that late,” Suguru dismisses while stretching his arms overhead.

“Today really dragged on. You didn’t have to wait for me,” Satoru says, though he’s grinning softly as he comes to sit by the table.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Living here, Suguru hardly has a chance to feel truly hungry. It’s not as though an extra hour or two between meals does him any harm. “It’s more enjoyable with your conversation.”

The end of Satoru’s tail swishes side to side, the tuft of fur at its end flicking back and forth. Pleased. The sight has Suguru smiling around his first bite of rice and roasted squash.

After dining together, Satoru leaves to have his bath. He returns to the room half-dressed and barefoot, perpetually unbothered by the deeper chill that sinks into the floors and hallways at nighttime.

As the door slides shut, Suguru glances up from the book he’s reading—and then does a double take.

There is a degree of clingy translucency to Satoru’s cotton hakama, as if he pulled them on with his skin still damp. The rest of him looks as though he just wandered indoors from the rain, strands of pale hair plastered to his forehead and temples.

“Aht, stop right there,” he says as soon as Satoru takes a step in the direction of the futon. “Did you even bother drying yourself off? Your hair is still dripping. So is your tail. And all over the tatami, too. Go sit by the brazier for a while. I don’t want you in bed with me while you reek of wet fur.”

Suguru turns his page and goes back to reading. Or he tries to, at least, but the ensuing quiet unnerves him. Satoru ought to be whining more, impatient at being made to wait, or at the very least dejectedly flopping around until he’s let in bed. When he looks up again, curious at why Satoru hasn’t moved, he sees something that stops his blood cold: Satoru smiling. Satoru scheming. Satoru very clearly tempted to do something he shouldn’t.

Suguru sits up straight as Satoru takes a few slow, sauntering steps his way.

“Satoru.”

That ominous smile breaks into a grin, wider and fangier with every step he advances.

“Satoru. Satoru, Satoru. Satoru!” Suguru’s volume, pitch, and urgency all rise as Satoru closes in, diving down on top of him before he can slip out from the futon and try to roll away. Pinned down, he knows exactly what the menace has planned. “Satoru, don’t you da—”

Satoru shakes from head to tail, sending up a shower of little droplets in all directions. Suguru squeezes his eyes shut as he is pelted with residual bathwater. Droplets sprinkle the kakefuton, the surrounding tatami, and the cloth cover of the book Suguru hastily flung aside. There’s wet all over Suguru’s face. It’s in his hair.

Satoru laughs, all aglow with self-satisfaction as he rolls over onto his back—and now his damp hair is rubbing all over Suguru’s pillow, too. “Is that better? Am I dry enough now?”

Suguru sits up, exhibiting a false calm as he dabs his face with his sleeve.

“No.” He smooths out the water-flecked covers around him—there are long, white shed hairs, too, wetly sticking to the dark fabric—and assumes a placid smile, teeth gritted behind it. “But don’t worry. I’m going to wring you out.”

That’s all the warning Suguru gives before he throws himself on top of him, by turns trying to smother Satoru with his own soft pillow or attempting to bodily shove him off of the futon completely, ducking Satoru’s swatting hands all the while.

It’s a mostly-empty threat without much muscle behind it. This isn’t sparring but play fighting, which is evident in the fact that Satoru is letting himself be pushed around at all—and even more evident in the way Satoru himself baited it, no doubt hoping to rile Suguru to the point of getting physical. But even if the blows are something of a farce, the competition and payback are real.

As they roll around together, Suguru gets his legs around Satoru’s bare middle and an arm hooked around his throat. While latched on from behind, he grinds his knuckles down into the crown of Satoru’s wet hair and rubs hard into his skull.

Satoru grunts while trying to buck him off, rolling his neck and tossing his head. Pronged horns swing inches from Suguru’s nose, but it’s not enough to deter him or shake him loose. The firm, unexpected swat against his ass, however, is.

Suguru stops still, shocked by the warm, residual sting—like the slap of a switch just above the backs of his thighs. There’s probably a reddened mark to show for it, too.

Satoru has ceased his squirming as well, completely frozen in Suguru’s hold… aside from his tail, the sneaky culprit, which is now slowly curling in on itself.

“Suguru…” He pauses, as if waiting to gauge how Suguru is taking the surprise smack to his rear. “I swear that was nothing but pure reflex. It was just acting in self-defense.”

Suguru scoffs right in his pointed ear. he's not sure which is more ludicrous: Satoru hitting him below the belt like that or Satoru trying to play it off as nothing more than innocent instinct. “Really? You’re telling me that in a wrestling match with a real foe, your tail would be whipping your opponent across their backside? Is that effective, you think?”

Satoru is quiet for another long second or two. “I mean, it’s working pretty well right now.”

Suguru is shaken loose in a heartbeat, what little leverage he’d gained for himself lost to distraction. Once toppled over on his back, he braces as Satoru lunges for him.

Determined to avoid handing him an easy victory, Suguru jams his feet against Satoru’s upper thigh and lower stomach to try and keep him away, pushing up against him with his whole lower body. His knees are forced to bend as Satoru casually leans in over him, all that weight and unnatural strength threatening to fold him in half and pin him with ease.

“This isn’t fair. It’s like two-on-one with that tail of yours,” Suguru huffs out, red-faced from the strain of resisting someone who already has a serious advantage over him. “I’m going to tie that thing to your leg until it learns how to behave.”

“Good luck with that.” Satoru grins down at him, smug and shameless. “It’s worse at curbing its impulses than the rest of me is.”

Suguru snorts, grabbing his buckwheat hull-filled pillow and repeatedly whacking Satoru in the face with it—not forcefully, but hard enough to pay him back in kind for the welt that tail-whipping left on his behind.

An unfortunate side effect is that Suguru’s strength falters when he laughs, and watching Satoru’s frustration mount with each pillow-slap is more entertaining than it ought to be. Eventually, though, all Suguru can do is curl in on himself like a pillbug as he is inevitably overpowered, blindly kicking out at Satoru and trying to protect his tender-skinned sides from being pinched and poked and squeezed.

They keep tussling together, shoving aside the quilted covers and turning the whole futon several degrees in the process. The fighting turns lazier and slower as their energy peters out, Suguru swiping wide with his leg and Satoru picking only the most low-effort means of squishing him to the tatami.

After getting the last of their licks in on each other and venting whatever frustration there’d been, they roll each other one more time. Suguru comes to a rest on his back, chest-to-chest with Satoru, panting while pinned under his bodyweight. It’s not as uncomfortable as it would seem to anyone looking on.

Giggles slip out between hard, heavy breaths. Their clothes—well, Suguru’s mostly, given Satoru is bare from the waist up—are in disarray. Suguru’s heartbeat slows and his limbs relax, the exertion having left him pleasantly wearied.

Satoru worms himself down to headbutt softly into the center of his chest, rubbing his face against the vee of bare skin where Suguru’s warm sleeping kosode has come open. Low little groans linger in his throat, the timbre of them blending satisfaction and neediness.

It’s funny how this grown man—this grown dragon, and perhaps the strongest one alive—turns desperately puppyish when they’re behind closed doors together. Sometimes even sooner than that.

Suguru sighs and draws a hand up behind Satoru’s head. His fingers tap, tap, tap their way up the back of Satoru’s neck and slip into his short, slightly damp hair; he runs his nails along Satoru’s scalp, tracing along now-familiar acupressure points and around those sizable horns with their antler-like branches. He is too indulgent, perhaps. He encourages Satoru’s very physical displays of affection. He rewards his boldness. And though Suguru isn’t yet ready to offer himself up and sate Satoru’s appetite, he doesn’t mind stoking it a little.

Because it’s hard to entirely resist someone so steadfast, so insistent, so comfortable, so… responsive to him. Satoru’s mischief makes Suguru feel younger again. His smooth talk fills Suguru’s head with increasingly fanciful notions and his stomach with butterflies. With the way Satoru cares and wants—and how transparently he does both—Suguru can’t help but feel treasured.

An almost-purr vibrates against him as Satoru drags himself up along Suguru’s front, putting them nose-to-nose again. And hip-to-hip.

“Satoru, really?” he dryly drawls, feeling the familiar outline of a very large, firm cock against his belly. Despite his measured voice, his cheeks burn warm. “We were only wrestling. And not for very long, either.”

“Suguru. Come on. Just seeing you is enough. I smell you anywhere I walk around here,” he says before leaning to bury his nose in Suguru’s hair and breathe him in, lips tickling at the side of Suguru’s throat, “and I think about you constantly, awake or asleep. I’m this close at all times already. I can’t help it.”

“That’s…” Suguru’s eyebrows go up, body tingling at the upfront, unabashed admission—and at the sensation of Satoru atop him. “Did you ever have a sense of shame, I wonder, or did it erode over time?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Suguru, listen. I… you don’t have to do anything at all, if you don’t want. I can just…”

Slowly and subtly, he flexes his hips down onto Suguru, exhaling in relief at the brief moment of firmer, fuller contact.

Suguru hums, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Despite his myriad reservations and reasons for holding off on resuming this sort of intimacy with Satoru, part of him nonetheless begs to let the dragon have his way. Ot let Satoru make him feel good and trust everything else will work out. Let him soothe away any lingering grudge with kisses and more.

“Suguru,” Satoru cajoles, rubbing against him again, “I will do anything. Please.”

Suguru smiles sweetly, arms linked behind Satoru’s neck, and says, “Then wait.”

It’s too easy, too irresistible, how Satoru leaves himself wide open to be teased. More pleasing still, he lets Suguru get away with it.

“Except that,” Satoru groans out. “This punishment does not fit my crimes. It’s inordinate. Don’t you want me, too? I’m asking rhetorically, because you obviously do. You did, at least,” he adds in lower tones, moping. 

Suguru huffs softly. Surely he’s made his continued affection for Satoru clear, despite the lines he’s drawn in the snow. Wanting him and acting on that want are two entirely separate concerns.

“You didn’t make things easy on me, Satoru,” Suguru reminds him while petting through soft, short hair. “Why should I make them easy on you, hm?”

With a grumble, Satoru rolls off of him. The sudden lack of weight and heat pressing Suguru down into the futon leaves him feeling strangely bereft.

“So mean,” Satoru complains beside him. “And when I shrivel and die of withdrawals, what then? Will you take pity on me?”

“So dramatic,” Suguru laughs, propping up his elbow and resting his head in his hand. “Never before have I slept with a man so fiendishly fixated on laying with me.”

Satoru’s head snaps toward him so quickly that his neck gives a soft crack, his exaggerated pout replaced with a stricken expression. “You’ve slept with other men?”

“Ah…”

The silence is loud. Heavy. It sits in the room like a third entity, an uninvited guest, and changes the air between them completely.

Suguru scratches behind his ear—he’s still getting used to the weight of the jade earrings Satoru gave him a few days ago—and stares back, racing to think back over countless conversations these last few weeks. Has it really not come up? Regardless, he’d assumed that Satoru assumed… well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Suguru wasn’t exactly a shy, blushing maiden when they tangled together in the mountainside cave.

“Have you not?” Suguru whispers back, wanting to hear it from Satoru himself rather than running solely on Haibara’s gossip. Satoru is a fair bit older. A whole century older. Surely, at some point…

But the frowning stare Satoru has fixed on him suggests an emphatic no.

Suguru squints, still fiddling with the jewelry in his ear. “Not even in your travels?”

“Do you think I wander around throwing myself at any human who crosses my path?” Genuinely distressed, he sits up on an elbow and turns himself toward Suguru. “You think I lay with just any warm body? Suguru, you are the only one I have ever wanted, human or otherwise. The only one.”

“Oh.”

Suguru swallows, uncertain how to take a declaration like that. He’s sure he’s never meant so much to anyone else he’s been with. He’s never been anything close to someone’s one and only.

He reaches for Satoru, who leans in to meet him halfway, pressing his pale cheek to Suguru’s palm. Suguru strokes his thumb over the crest of bone there, right under Satoru’s doleful blue eye. “You're so sweet, Satoru.”

“Not sweet enough, apparently,” he complains back, his eyes slipping shut. But he doesn’t so much as move a hair’s breadth from Suguru’s touch. “If you would sleep with some lousy nobodies but not me.”

He even gives a sniff after, which is honestly overselling it. 

“Don’t act so pitiful,” Suguru chides even as he stretches forward to kiss Satoru lightly on the lips. 

Snowy lashes flutter open, excitement flickering in the eyes locked on Suguru’s. Before Satoru can return the kiss, Suguru has already pulled back again, cautious of letting himself get carried away. There is no telling what might happen tonight if he does.

“And don’t let it bother you, Satoru. No one I’ve been with comes anywhere close to matching you.”

“I mean, not that I disagree,” Satoru haltingly gets out, seeming equal parts flattered and dubious, “but… how do you know? We haven’t actually…”

“I’m not talking about the act,” Suguru clarifies. It has been on his mind and the furthest thing from it, both a welcome inevitability and a looming source of some trepidation. But regardless of when it happens or how well it goes, Satoru is already leagues ahead of Suguru’s other suitors—if they can even be called such when they never wanted him for much more than a night. “I am speaking of you.”

Stretched out beside each other, his sock-clad feet brush against Satoru’s. He waits, listening for Satoru to say something, and then realizes Satoru is doing the same for him.

Nervous antsiness works through Suguru’s limbs as he admits, “I’ve never… done this before. It’s new for me, too. The thoughtfulness. The courting. The romance. No one has ever spent so much time and effort to know me. I have never liked anyone so much as I do you, either. There is no competition, Satoru. Not in looks or character or quality of company.”

Satoru’s troubled expression gives way a little more with each word, a smile slowly growing in its place. “Really?”

“Yes, really. And the way you’re willing to wait on me,” Suguru murmurs, his fingers trailing up Satoru’s arm, “how you haven’t gotten bored or bitter or moved on… it means a great deal to me, how patient you are.”

“I am not patient,” Satoru immediately corrects, leaning in until their foreheads and noses brush. His long lashes lower as his stare drifts down to Suguru’s lips, their breath mingling. “But I certainly won’t be moving on, either. I mean, where would I go? Only you make me feel this way.”

As if to demonstrate, he lets Suguru feel again just how hard he is in his sleeping hakama. Still.

Suguru thinks his whole body might be ablush. He’d thought the upsetting start to the conversation might’ve put a damper on Satoru’s excitement.

“You’re stubborn.”

“That, too,” Satoru freely admits. “But you’re no better.”

“Me?” Suguru laughs through his nose, finding the idea ridiculous. “I give in to you all the time.”

“Not without arguing on it first. And not on this. And nowhere near as often as I let you have your way.”

That might be so. Still, Satoru is the one barring Suguru from what he most desires: visiting home and seeing his family face-to-face again. It seems only fair that he keeps something Satoru wishes for just out of reach as well.

Suguru tsks and quietly teases, “Will you perish if you have to go to sleep as you are, Satoru? Will I wake up beside a corpse?”

“I’ll still be stiff as one, if that counts.”

Suguru laughs in full, glad for Satoru’s sense of humor. “Can you not take care of yourself?”

“I'm too tired,” Satoru borderline whines. "Suguru, if you had any idea how many times I've used my hand in the last week alone, you would be—I'm not even—I've developed wrist pain, Suguru."

Suguru has curl his lips in and scrunch his face tight to hold in snorting laughter at Satoru's dilemma. And he feels terrible that Satoru is apparently straining himself, really, but what does Satoru expect?

Teasing, Suguru's voice dips low and sultry and heavy with mock sympathy as he asks, “Oh, no. Do I have to take responsibility for this, then?”

His fingers skim down Satoru’s midsection before slowing to trace lazily along the thin trail of white hair peeking out from his low-slung hakama. Satoru’s breath visibly hitches in his chest, the lean muscle along his belly tightening at the feather-soft touch.

And, like a drunkard with a sudden flash of clarity, Suguru realizes that he’s taken the fun banter a step further than he meant to.

“You really ought to, Suguru. If you’re merciful. And I know you are,” Satoru tries to flatter, hopeful and fidgety, his tail lashing against the rumpled futon under them. “Please? I’ll take anything you’d give me.”

Satoru does know him well, blatantly appealing to the kinder, caring side of Suguru’s nature. Making himself vulnerable. Leaving it up to Suguru to decide.

Suguru hums as he bites down on his bottom lip. Does it make him a hypocrite to backtrack on the very boundary he himself set, and so spur of the moment? Or, having staked it on his own comfort and sense of propriety to begin with, does he also get to set the exceptions? Because there is no good reason for this one other than the fact Satoru has begged for it and Suguru wants to oblige him. Wants him. Wants an excuse that doesn't feel like he's caving.

He isn't quite ready for the rest of it—forgiving Satoru entirely, embracing him fully, accepting a new life here instead of home—but on this much, he can show a little lenience. It won't hurt anything. It shouldn't change anything.

“I can help, then,” he says, already undoing the waist strings securing Satoru’s light sleeping hakama at the waist. “A little. Just because you asked so nicely.”

The instant cockiness of Satoru’s grin almost has Suguru rescinding his offer. But he’s not that cruel, to dangle relief and then walk it back for so shallow a reason.

“Help how, exactly?” Satoru’s full canines show as he leans in, smiling cheekily, tongue tracing along his upper teeth. "And how many times do I need to say please before you let me do you one better than that night we spent—"

“Satoru, you need to be less obnoxious when you get what you want,” he suggests, sliding his hand down to cup at him through pleated cotton. "Or you'll make people reconsider."

Satoru whimpers. That smug excitement falls away, any angling for more leeway from Suguru forgotten; his eyes squeeze shut as he grabs hold of Suguru’s wrist, holds him there, and grinds himself into his palm.

It almost takes Suguru’s breath away, too. For the briefest moment, he’d thought about sinking down and using his mouth on Satoru; of giving him something to really whine over and pine for in the weeks to come. And it’s not that he forgot Satoru is big—how could he, when this thing regularly nudges him awake?—but the exact dimensions had grown fuzzy in his mind.

Now, with his fingers sliding up along its heavy, straining outline… nursing a jaw this sore just isn’t worth it, is it? Probably not. No? Maybe. Anyway, that’s assuming he even could fit Satoru inside, of course, which is a general concern when it comes to Satoru. For another time, though.

Suguru slips inside Satoru’s unlaced hakama and takes him in hand, almost startled by the heft and the heat and how much slick pre-spend has already dripped down its length. His thumb and his middle finger barely meet around Satoru’s girth, and Suguru’s hands are far from small.

At the first slow stroke, Satoru buries his face in Suguru’s neck and takes a shuddering breath. Suguru smiles to himself and lets Satoru stay there.

He doesn’t mind the nosing at the side of his throat or the lapping over his thrumming artery. He likes the way Satoru is practically curled around him and over him, hips impatiently, erratically meeting the bottom of his fist. Suguru works to keep his hand steady against the forceful thrusts Satoru makes, fingers flexing around his cock as the length of it slides through them, quicker and quicker.

As Satoru’s breath turns harsh and shallow in his ear, Suguru hums behind his closed lips and makes a point of swiping the pad of his thumb just under the crown of Satoru’s head.

A too-strong hand slides down to his rear—still more than a little sore from that lashing—and squeezes him closer, making Suguru’s spine jerk straight. At the same time, Satoru’s mouth slips open around the juncture at the base of Suguru’s throat, sharper canines pressing lightly into the crook his neck. Before Suguru can say a word to make Satoru mind his mouth, he feels a wild, jerking twitch against his palm and a heavy ribbon of hot spend all over. The clench of teeth around his flesh is secondary, firm enough to make Suguru wince but not enough to break the skin. He thinks.

He lets out a slow sigh while winding Satoru down, still surprised at how little it took to make him come so quickly. And so much. It keeps coming for a while, a little more dribbling out each time he thinks Satoru must finally be finished. The mess is a magnitude greater than Suguru had anticipated. Most of it landed on him, he guesses, by the wet, warm dripping across his stomach and down his wrist. 

And Satoru isn’t helpful at all.

“Come on, Satoru. Get off of me and help clean yourself up. It's dripping everywhere.”

Satoru, still slumped half-atop him, merely moans low and content in Suguru’s ear.

“Satoru! It's getting on the bed!” Suguru hisses while heaving and pushing at him, smacking him in the side to encourage him to move. 

“Someone will clean it tomorrow,” Satoru mumbles back, clearly unbothered even if that means they’ll be sleeping in a damp, sticky bed tonight.

With a grunt, Suguru finally manages to roll him off. But even after that, Satoru just lies there with his eyes closed and a relaxed smile spread across his lips.

“Useless,” Suguru mutters as he slips out of his sleeping kosode and uses it to wipe up the worst of the mess on his skin. The futon itself is a disaster. “You’re not doing yourself any favors here, you know.”

He’s barely back under the covers before Satoru is latched onto him again, chin hooked over his shoulder and a hand possessively splayed on his hip. Suguru makes a point of inching toward the edge of the futon, dragging a clinging Satoru along with him, and gets comfortable on a stretch of fabric that is mercifully dry and clean. 

His spiked heartbeat has already settled back to its usual calm tempo. He’s more annoyed than anything else, face scrunched tight with preemptive embarrassment as he thinks of making eye contact with any of the laundry workers from tomorrow onward. It’s probably for the best that Satoru finished so fast that Suguru barely had time to get himself worked up; at the very least, he can blame all the mess on Satoru if anyone dares to ask.

It takes a while for sleep to come to him again. Not so for Satoru, who is already wheezing softly behind him, a cheek pressed to Suguru’s shoulder. But in the half hour or so before Suguru grows properly sleepy, he does make an observation: Satoru’s tail is nowhere to be seen or felt, apparently as conked out as its owner.

❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄

“Geto-sama.”

Suguru glances up from his sewing, surprised to see Nanami’s golden-haired head poking through the door, antlers and all.

“Suguru is fine,” Suguru smilingly reminds Nanami for perhaps the twentieth time.

Nanami stares at him a moment longer, one of his ears briefly flicking back. “Geto-sama, the herbalist is here with a delivery that Gojo-sama requested. However, since he is out patrolling the edge of the clan’s territory, I wondered if you might make sure everything required is there. Or keep her company until Gojo-sama returns, if needed.”

“Ah… sure,” Suguru answers, finding it hard to say no to any of Nanami’s polite, proper requests. He’s never even met the kitsune herbalist that Satoru relies upon, though, and has no clue about what he’d ordered from her. “I can go see about it. Is there any sort of note from Satoru about what he’s expecting to be delivered?”

“No,” Nanami sighs while pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, of course not. And there’s an issue with the wood supply for the kitchens that I need to deal with myself—”

“Leave it to me, then,” Suguru is quick to assure him, knowing that the preparations to receive more visitors to the castle are running Nanami and other attendants ragged. “I’ll talk to Shoko. Best of luck with the kitchen.”

Nanami’s relief shows subtly, his furred ears perking as he lets out a soft little sigh. As he backs out the door, he dips his antlered head and says, “I appreciate it.”

Suguru sets aside the fabric he’d been sewing—taken from decades-old clothing that was due to be tossed until Suguru intervened to make use of it. He’s spent years making outfits for Nanako and Mimiko out of plainer, coarser materials. The opportunity to repurpose the slightly outdated but high quality fabric into yukata and furisode for the two of them was too good to pass up. It gave him valuable work to do, too.

But that can wait a few hours more.

Suguru heads down to the more public-facing area of the castle, where guests are brought to wait or meet Satoru in person. In a grand wooden room with a few milling servants and merchants preparing to sell their wares, he spies the kitsune herbalist with ease.

She is small in stature, with a relaxed stance and a long smoking pipe in hand. Her hair is worn loose. Large, furry ears of a matching shade slowly swivel, picking up on his steps well before she bothers to look in his direction. Her white kimono is folded at the waist to bring the front hem up, baring her slender, dark-clad legs from the knees down. Suguru has never seen an outfit quite like it before.

She pulls the thin pipe from her lips as Suguru approaches, a puff of smoke exhaled while looking him up and down. With one arm crossed in front of herself and holding her other elbow, she greets, “Well, well. If it isn’t the dragon hunter himself.”

Suguru is surprised to be referred to as such, especially here. But perhaps it’s common knowledge at this point, given the way gossip spreads.

“You must be Shoko,” Suguru says with a bow. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. Last time I saw you, you were unconscious and frostbitten all over." Her lips purse together as she steps back on her heel, eyeing him down and up again. "You clean up nice.”

Suguru’s inhale comes sharper than usual. It’s been a while since he’s thought of the state he’d arrived in.

“Ah... thank you. I was in dire straits,” he agrees, sighing after. “I owe my good health to your medicine.”

There’s a beauty mark under one of her eyes and dark rings around both. A sort of dull disinterest lingers in them even as she smiles. “Glad it worked. Gojo said he would have my hands if it didn’t.”

A soft, startled squeak never quite makes it out of Suguru’s throat, secondhand embarrassed by the things Satoru says to people. He blinks, head shaking as he apologizes, “I… I’m sorry, he can be—”

“Unhinged, I know,” Shoko supplies, waving her hand. She puffs on her pipe and gives a little shrug, as if barely bothered by Satoru’s slinging of threats. “Granted, he never stormed in and dragged me out of my bed until you turned up.”

“You have my apologies for that, too,” he says, although inwardly he finds it… touching, maybe, to know Satoru had been so frantic over his condition. “I’m hoping to avoid any further life-threatening emergencies, so.”

“You’d better,” she says, but with more dispassionate teasing than actual annoyance. “Gojo may pay well, but I can’t have that dragon turning up unannounced and scaring my bedmates half to death because you’ve caught a chill.”

“That's entirely reasonable. He’s a bit headstrong, but I’ll try my best to keep him from bothering you unnecessarily.”  

Shoko’s smile broadens at that. “And how is life here treating you? As a human, I mean.”

“Oh, I can’t complain.” Suguru combs his fingers back through his hair, thinking of all the extra time he has for sewing Mimiko and Nanako’s outfits, and looking after himself, and spending on pursuits he’d never have been able to try back home. At this point, he hardly even feels out of place among the castle's usual youkai and dragons. “I should’ve asked sooner, but would you like something to eat or drink? We could move to a warmer, more comfortable room, too. You’re welcome to stay until Satoru returns, if you’d like to speak with him directly.”

As they are in one of the castle’s largest guest-receiving rooms, they have to keep their voices low to avoid drawing the attention of other visitors. There are no cushions to sit on or tables to take tea at. Though sheltered from the falling snows outside, it’s drafty in here. The lack of comfort is intentional, Suguru suspects—it doesn’t invite lingering from guests who might otherwise overstay their welcome.

Shoko just shakes her head. “I appreciate the offer. You have better manners than he does, you know. But I have other clients to see. Less demanding ones, but still.”

She slides the traveling medicine chest from her shoulders and pulls open one of its many drawers. From it, she withdraws a cloth-wrapped parcel. Shoko passes it to him, apparently content to trust he’ll see it properly delivered to Satoru.

Suguru spends a few moments staring at her medicine chest of drawers instead, intrigued by the strong herbal scent wafting off of it—and more intrigued when Shoko closes and opens the same drawer twice, its contents changing from one pull to the next.

He then turns his attention to the parcel in his hands, partially unwrapping the cloth right there in the room. Inside, carefully packed together, are a dozen little porcelain jars, pouches of powders, and one large, sealed bamboo container.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “So… I actually have no idea what Satoru was expecting or what sort of payment you agreed upon.”

“It’s all there,” Shoko replies, nonchalant. “As if I’d rip-off a dragon who knows where I sleep. And don’t worry about compensating me. Gojo is going to owe me a favor. A big one.”

That’s great, because Suguru has no idea how else he would pay Shoko for the medicine. Though he has a small koban box with a hundred or so gold coins inside—gifted to him by Satoru for ‘whatever’—he imagines the value of the medicine he’s holding must surpass even that. If it’s anything like the decoctions that had soothed his pain and healed him head to toe, it has to be worth a fortune.

“Just let him know to expect a summons from me, will you?” Shoko takes another long draw on her pipe before turning to pick up her medicine chest.

“Wait, wait,” Suguru says, lifting a hand as he remembers something. “Please. Um, Satoru mentioned that he usually gets something from you for his headaches, but last time he forgot to ask for more.”

“Oh, that?” Shoko’s eyebrows lift and a foxlike curl forms at the corners of her mouth. “Gojo didn’t order any this time, either. He told me he’s found a better way of treating them.”

Meaning him? Suguru? With his shoddy layman’s understanding of acupuncture and acupressure points? He has to keep a physician’s book open beside him while tending to Satoru’s headaches, referring to a diagram to make sure he’s hitting the right places for maximum efficacy. Better? A head massage can’t possibly be better than an actual medicine-maker.

His disbelief must be playing out over his expression, given the amusement Shoko shows.

After a slight sound that might be a laugh, she says, “I included a bottle of it anyway. On the house.”

Suguru presses a hand to his chest, relieved he won’t be the sole solution to Satoru’s nuisance headaches. “Thank you. Your medicine is definitely more effective than I could ever hope to be. And while a favor from me is nowhere near as useful as one from a dragon, let me know if there is ever anything I can do to personally repay you. I’d be missing several fingers and toes if not for your trouble.”

"Sure." Shoko says nothing else for a few moments, slowly looking him up and down. Then she ducks and rummages in her medicine drawers for a small, dark bottle, which she tosses to Suguru.

Though surprised, he catches it. There is no label scrawled on the outside.

“A little extra for you. No cost. And I wouldn’t worry about it. Between the frostbite and that,” she says, nodding to the packed parcel in Suguru’s arms, “you’ve already been great for business.”

Suguru glances down at the various jars he’s holding, wondering which potions are apparently intended for him. Perhaps, knowing his human existence is far more fragile, Satoru has stocked up on means of healing him should he get injured again.

"Do try not to die,” Shoko suggests while picking up her medicine chest and readying to leave. She gives him a brief look over her shoulder, past the bulky pack on her back. “And good luck with that one.”

Suguru stares after the kitsune as she departs, blinking in slow, soft wonder. He rolls the bottle she’d given him between his fingers, having forgotten to ask what it is.

Chapter Text

It must be the hour of the rat when Suguru rouses awake to find his pillow soaked and his kosode clinging to his skin. The hair on the back of his neck is drenched. The futon under him is damp with sweat. Only Satoru could have him absolutely smothered and sweltering in the middle of an otherwise wintry night.

In his drowsy disorientation, he assumes the pooling heat is to blame for why he woke… the warm weight draped against his back, the clinging, the sweat gathering in little dips along his body and making his thighs stick together. Then Suguru notices it—something pressing insistently in between his legs, his night robe all bunched up around his hips and out of its way. It wedges itself into the tiny gap between his upper thighs, pushing and dragging against the fabric of his fundoshi.

He moans softly and clenches his thighs together to keep it still. The effort halfway works, halting the slow, grinding friction that had pulled him out of some already-forgotten dream. Suguru still feels the intruder fighting to move against him, twitching madly where it’s trapped. It sinks firmly into the slack muscle of his inner thighs and rubs up along his own arousal, making Suguru’s hips jerk and his heart skip-lurch him awake.

“Satoru,” he murmurs, twisting at the waist.

His breaths are too loud for the thick quiet of the room, every exhale faintly visible thanks to the chill that’s crept in as the embers in the brazier burned low. The cold is a relief, actually. Under the covers, Suguru is overheated and overstimulated, having woken from a sultry, heavy sleep with a pressing need already smoldering low in his belly.

When no response comes, Suguru reaches under the thick kakefuton and gives the offending appendage a firm squeeze to get Satoru’s attention. What he feels in his grasp is admittedly not what he expected, though perhaps he should’ve.

“Satoru.” This time he rolls all the way over and gives Satoru a hard shake. As soon as Satoru’s eyes blink open, sharp alertness shining in their blue, Suguru brandishes his own tail at him. “Fess up. Does this thing have a mind of its own or are you responsible for it?”

Satoru yawns and then relaxes again, shoulders wiggling as he gets comfortable. He eyes the fur-tufted tip of his tail and the scaly length grasped in Suguru’s hand without much care. “Little of both, honestly. It’s harmless, though. Don’t mind it.”

“Well, I can’t do that when it’s wandering places it shouldn’t.” Harmless! As if. Suguru feels the muscle along the tail’s length flex and twitch in his hold, eager to slip free and cause more trouble. He squeezes tighter, face bright-hot. “It was touching—it’s got me all—it’s acting up, Satoru. How am I supposed to get back to sleep like this? With the way I am right now?”

He shifts in place, knees bending as he rubs his feet together under the plush quilt. Agitation prickles under his skin, itching for an outlet.

Satoru’s neutral, sleep-placid expression sharpens in the blink of an eye, realization and keen interest writ plain across his face. Upon recognizing the state Suguru is in, he can’t even muster a sliver of shame and bite back the feral grin that exposes his longer canines.

“Oh, no,” he says without inflection, not even bothering to feign apology. He shifts even closer. Gingerly testing the boundary of what Suguru will allow him, the clawed tips of Satoru’s nails tickle right down Suguru’s sternum. “I can help.”

“With a problem you yourself created,” Suguru observes even as scorching blood races to fill his ears and darken his cheeks. He gives up his hold on Satoru’s tail to clap a hand around his wrist instead, stopping his hand from trailing any lower. “Which seems to be the Gojo Satoru way.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” Underneath the heavy quilt, the tail that started all of this now winds itself around one of Suguru’s feet and coils at his ankle. “It’s called taking responsibility, Suguru. Let me.”

He shivers where he lies, heartbeat jumping from the fixed attention. Satoru, now fully awake and fully invested in the cause of ‘helping,’ is so near and so tempting.

But… Suguru has held off this long, for reasons great and small. To toss that all aside and backslide now, when he himself has been the one denying and delaying and setting the rules of engagement here, is a pathetic look. It’s one thing to graciously extend Satoru a reprieve. It’s another to be so desperate he has to ask the same for himself. A wanton whim is too flimsy a reason to give up the semi-chaste sliver of separation he’s maintained for weeks now. 

Then again, it’s not as if he ever intended to keep himself apart from Satoru forever. There was always meant to be an end to it. Yet in the time it’s taken for his initial reservations to be satisfied—his winter-born grievances addressed and balmed many times over, his anger at being played for a blind fool soothed and abated, with the leisure of time to grow comfortably close with Satoru anew—more have cropped up like spring weeds.

“Suguru.”

Suguru blinks, startled from his thoughts. “No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine, I mean. Just… keep your tail away from me and I’ll be able to settle again.”

Through the shadows bathing half his face, Satoru gives him a knowing look. “And you still try to argue you aren’t more stubborn than I am?”

Suguru sniffs, nearly taking offense. “There is a difference between being stubborn and being principled.”

Satoru curls his lips in, struggling mightily to hold in a laugh. Through a smile, he teases, “Oh, is that what this is? And your guiding principle is… what? Torturing me? Depriving yourself? Spurning a selfless, helping hand?”

Suguru scoffs and rolls his eyes at that last one. Selfless? As if that menace tail of his didn’t just stir a simmering pot to boiling.

“No, of course not,” he sputters back, the heat under his skin now half burning lust and half embarrassed indignation.

“Then what is it?” Satoru’s cheeky smile gradually dies down to a more serious, searching look. “Suguru, whatever gives you such concern, whatever it is you’re waiting on me to do, just tell me. Try as I might, I can’t read your mind.”

“I’m not waiting on you.”

Beyond the fulfillment of agreements struck with Satoru—his family safe and his home rendered aid—his hesitance has always been his own. Smarting from his ordeal in the snows and a dragon’s trickery, he had sought to go tit for tat with Satoru via the only recourse he had: withholding himself and his full affection until… the until has been a bit of an unanswered question for a while now.

In the dark, Satoru shifts closer. But not close enough to give him any contact or friction, to Suguru’s vague, building frustration.

“Alright. Let me take a guess, then,” Satoru murmurs. After a slow breath, he says, “You can’t bring yourself to forgive me for your village, still. Or for tagging along without telling you who I was.”

“No. No, not anymore." That’s an easy one to lay to rest, given the handsome price Satoru has paid to make things right. "You’ve been generous with everyone I care for. And with myself, too. I might jab you about it from time to time, but I won’t hold the past against you.”

Satoru hums low at that, faintly amused, and then goes quiet. In a grim whisper, he states, “You resent my keeping you here.”

Suguru closes his eyes to escape the way Satoru looks at him after, jaw briefly clenching tight before relaxing. For all the obvious sincerity of Satoru’s care for him, he does remain a lavishly kept captive with little hope of seeing Nanako or Mimiko anytime soon. 

“I do. But not enough to begrudge you the way I ought to.”

Not enough to keep pushing Satoru away, despite his sense of shame urging him not to relent an inch. Not when taking this bargain has allowed his family back home to reap so many benefits—likely more good than the harm that was done to them in the first place.

“I miss home, of course. Always,” Suguru adds, still set on persuading Satoru into letting him visit sooner or later. With a little time and reassurance, he’s more than half-sure he’ll get some sort of concession. “But I enjoy being with you too, Satoru. Being here.”

Satoru slowly cocks his head. “You mean it?”

Suguru gives him a nod, shallow at first and then more certain. It’s unfortunate that they don’t really fit together, his mountain vale and Satoru. It’s a pity he can’t have both, the home he loves and the man he… feels strongly for, too.

“If it’s not either of those…” Satoru trails off, sounding more lost as to why Suguru might be so reluctant to accept him and the pleasure he’s trying to offer. His expression then goes stony-serious and his voice drops low. “You think I’m hideous. Admit it.”

It catches Suguru off-guard enough to make him laugh. “You know full well you aren’t. You’re just trying to get me to call you pretty.”

Satoru grins, fangs gleaming in the low moonlight. “And?”

“You’re very pretty,” Suguru murmurs back, stare slipping down to Satoru’s lips and the teeth they frame. Something low in his loins stirs at the thought of them on his fevered skin. The lips and the teeth.

“But you think I lack experience.” Satoru is serious again, for real this time.

“You do lack experience.”

“Only one way to change that.”

“And I should be your first victim?” Suguru half-teases, voice soft. It’s true that he has some apprehension about the logistics of things, given Satoru’s size and his own lack of recent experience. But even those fair worries don’t change the fact that his body is excited by the mere memory of Satoru rutting against him when they were caught in that conjured blizzard. “Mauled by that thing you're swinging around?”

“Mauled? Be serious. You were braver at facing me down as a dragon than you are about bedding me like a man.”

“Because I…” Suguru’s confidence further falters. He forces the words out anyway. “Because I like you, Satoru.”

“I mean,” Satoru glances down between them, faced together on the same futon, close as only lovers would be. “I did hope so, considering you said as much a few nights ago.”

“I know, I know, but that is what makes this all so…” Suguru sighs, borderline exasperated at having to put his unwieldiest feelings and fears to sensible words. “I like you so strongly that it’s… this is special to me. You are. And there’s only one chance—or perhaps two, given we definitely used one up already—to get this right. To not waste it.”

Suguru still has his fingers wrapped around Satoru’s wrist. Without thinking or meaning to, he rubs the pad of his thumb along the underside of it, over delicate veins and soft, ghostly skin. 

“I don’t want to run through it all and…”

Weeks ago, he’d harbored concerns that Satoru might lose his temper or his interest if made to wait too long. Now it’s rather the opposite, with Suguru wondering whether he can measure up to whatever Satoru hopes to have in him. If they coupled now and everything between them changed after… well, it wouldn’t be the first time. There isn’t a romantic liaison Suguru has had that didn’t fall apart once they knew him inside and out and the novelty of him faded.

“And?” Satoru presses.

Suguru’s lips make the softest sound as they part. “I don’t want it to be over yet.”

The easy conversation and companionship they’ve cultivated. The comfortable physicality. The springtime of knowing one another, all piqued interest and pursuit. The slow chase. There is a warm certainty in the unsettled, unfixed nature of what they have now. There’s all the anticipation without yet needing to deliver on it. Suguru isn’t a proper concubine or lover, and therefore the same expectations don’t yet apply. He is Satoru’s but he isn’t. It’s a surprisingly sweet spot to be in.

Suguru has kept it going longer than he otherwise might, not quite ready to gamble on whatever comes next being as nice as what they have now.

“Over? How could it be over?” Satoru questions with a hard, puzzled squint. In a blink, his confusion vanishes—or is subsumed—by a dark, worried urgency that has his tail snaking tighter around Suguru’s leg. “You’re mine, Suguru, to keep.”

“I know, I know,” Suguru assures, soothing the fierce possessiveness that has Satoru’s hackles raised. The squeezing hold on him relaxes by a fraction. In a smaller voice, and with a brilliant blush of shy embarrassment, he explains, “I don’t mean it in that way. It's just that I like the way you are with me now, Satoru. I like… I like that you want to win me over. To woo me, you know. How you put off work to come dine with me. And the way you kiss the backs of my fingers or my hair. All the thoughtful gifts and little gestures, too. The fine sweets for me to send home. You know how to make me feel I’m special.”

No one else has ever tried half so hard to please him, nor seemed to take such satisfaction in doing so.

“But it’s a phase,” Suguru tacks on, knowing that much. “Courting. This kind of appetite and ardor only lasts so long, and after… I don’t really know what that’s like but I know it will look different, once you’ve had someone and grown used to them and that specialness starts to wear off.”

“It won't be so different, Suguru. And only in ways that make it better,” Satoru insists, as if he can see the future any better than Suguru can. “I have plenty of appetite and ardor both. I see no reason to stop chasing and doting on you after we’re more intimately familiar. If anything, I’ll do it more. Watch, you’re going to be sick of me. You'll be begging me to give you some space.”

“No,” Suguru softly laughs, something in his stomach giving a flutter at Satoru’s effort to comfort him. “No, I think you will tire of me first.”

Satoru’s lingering smile slowly drops. “Have I given you some impression that I’m fickle and unfaithful?”

Caught off-guard by the faint hurt in his tone, Suguru’s lips part and his mouth opens. “No, I didn’t… I only mean that you…”

There’s no way to say it that isn’t somewhat embarrassing for them both: Satoru has less experience to judge by and far more going for him. If he wanted, he could have husbands and wives and concubines and lovers, too, human or dragon or both. Should he ever grow dissatisfied with Suguru alone—and who knows what it takes to keep a dragon pleased?—he can. For even if Suguru trains day and night, he will never be Satoru’s physical match. Even if he studies and pores over every book in the castle’s library, he will never close the gap with a century-old warrior-scholar who can casually cite classics Suguru has never heard of. In another ten or twenty years, Satoru will look just as vibrantly young and handsome as he does at this moment. Suguru will not.

He brings nothing to this relationship but himself. And if he is ever less than enough…

“Stop that. Cut it out.”

Suguru blinks wildly at the face suddenly looming in a hair’s breadth from his, forehead to forehead. Satoru’s eyes are mesmerizing in the moonlight-softened dark—and they’re scarcely an inch from his own, boring right into him.

“I can tell you’re fretting and I am promising you it’s for naught. I am not some petty, myopic, mortal man, Suguru,” he says, nose brushing along Suguru’s and the heat of his breath on Suguru's lips. “I’ve been alone longer than you’ve been alive. And not for lack of people being foisted on me. Nor for lack of the power to take someone if I wanted them. I act with certainty because I am certain about you.”

Suguru swallows as Satoru’s clawed hand—with Suguru still clinging to its wrist, albeit offering no resistance as it moves—drifts down and splays out over his belly. That one slow, simple touch ignites some sort of kindling inside him all over again, heat rising up under Satoru’s fingertips.

“I’m not easily deterred and even less easily swayed. You’re the exception to the latter,” he adds like a passing thought, and Suguru warms considerably at the notion—that his wants and wishes hold some sway over someone as indomitable as Satoru. “Let me love you and I’ll only learn to do it better, Suguru. I promise. So let me.”

Love? Suguru licks his lips as he swallows around a sticky mouthful of air.

Satoru is so direct, so sure, so sincere… and Suguru is inclined to believe him. His overt optimism and eagerness are contagious to some degree. It’s a recipe for reassurance, the way he has with words and how confidently he expresses them.

Suguru wrestles with temptation for a moment longer, desperately wanting to be convinced. With Satoru for a charming, seductive ally, temptation wins out.

It’s a relief, honestly, even if admitting so is beyond him. 

“I… okay. But only this for now. Just what I say,” Suguru whispers, slowly uncurling his fingers from Satoru’s wrist. With nervous anticipation and embarrassment both swirling under his skin, he almost petulantly adds, “And don’t expect me to cater to you the way I did last time.”

Satoru laughs—whether from Suguru’s last stubborn little pushback or from getting his way, Suguru isn’t sure.

“Fair enough. I probably should’ve been more considerate of you afterward.”

“You should’ve,” Suguru agrees, his ears still burning.

But he wouldn’t have let Satoru reciprocate then, regardless. Even now, with Satoru’s promises fresh in his head, he can’t help but feel terribly vulnerable in letting himself be taken care of. For the first time since the eve he’d expected to fight a dragon, Suguru allows Satoru to drag him in by the hips and have his way—to a point. Warm fingers and sharp nails skim down to his waist and straight into the loose fundoshi he has on.

“C-Careful,” Suguru is quick to stammer out, “with those claws of yours.”

Satoru pauses, winks an eye, and then withdraws his hand to wiggle his fingers right in front of Suguru’s nose. Even in the dimness, Suguru can see that his nails look blunt-cut and perfectly human again. But the rest of him—the horns and long canines and pointed ears—remains the same.

And then that same hand is under the covers again, in his underclothes; it only takes the warmth of Satoru’s fingers around him to coax his half-softened cock back to full firmness.

“Not that I wouldn’t have been exceedingly careful,” Satoru says in his ear, audibly pleased when Suguru latches onto him with both hands at the first stroke, “but this way neither of us has to worry. I’m getting more adept with all sorts of skills for you, you know. Like fine-tuning my more human-like characteristics on the fly. I’d never have bothered figuring out how to mix specific alterations this way if not for you.”

“Stop talking,” Suguru breathes out, mostly because he’s not registering a word of it. "Please."

It’s dizzying, being handled so roughly after so long without being touched like this at all. He’s hot and heady from the combination of Satoru’s large hand fisted around him, pumping almost too hard and too quickly, and the intimate degree of closeness paired alongside it.

Satoru is nearly nose-to-nose with him, eyes wide open and fixed on Suguru’s with unblinking fervor. It’s too much—too direct and too striking. It’s as if Satoru is peering inside him and searching him out. The pace picks up. Satoru really isn’t patient, his hand working with more urgency than finesse, as if he can’t control himself either. The intensity mounts at a pace Suguru can hardly bear. His breaths grow harder and higher-pitched, his fingers digging deeper into Satoru’s bare shoulders for some sort of anchor.

An embarrassingly loud, pathetic sound slips from him as Satoru’s tail makes another unexpected appearance. Between Satoru’s slicked fingers wrapped around his cock and the tail filling the little gap in his thighs, thrusting along and stroking against the little dip between his cheeks, there’s nothing he can do but be overwhelmed.

He breaks their locked stare first, screwing his eyes shut as he comes in and on Satoru’s fingers. The hips he had been eagerly rocking into Satoru’s touch now twist and shy from the hand still sliding up and down his length; Satoru doesn’t let him wriggle away to recover, though, heedless of how sensitive Suguru is to being wrung past empty.

He whimpers when Satoru finally lets go, the taut arch of his back and straining hips relaxing. Suguru tips over and rolls onto his back while he catches his breath, for a moment forgetting about Satoru entirely. It’s been far too long since that night in the mountainside cave—and with too much close proximity to Satoru, desire building up unchecked—if he’s wiped out by this alone. He can feel Satoru shifting beside him and the sound of fabric on fabric as he wipes up the mess. Courteous, this time.

When he next opens his eyes, he catches Satoru licking his fingers clean.

Suguru immediately covers his face with both hands, peering at Satoru through one set of parted fingers. This young head of a clan claims he’s never been with anyone else? Never cared to apply himself to lovemaking or debauchery before now? Suguru can only guess that means Satoru is naturally like this… which could explain a few things, actually.

“You have no shame.”

Satoru finishes sucking along his thumb, in no rush to deny it. 

“Why would I be ashamed?” He rolls himself half on top of Suguru and playfully nips his way up one of his forearms, finishing with a kiss against his wrist. “I’d swallow down more of you if I could.”

To emphasize his point, finds a strip of bare, unprotected skin along the side of Suguru’s face and leans in to lick it, tongue tickling close to Suguru’s ear as he swipes from the corner of his jaw to the corner of his eye.

Suguru shudders and scrunches his nose, shrinking down into his pillow and the cushion under them in a woefully half-hearted attempt to escape. As soon as he drops his hands, intending to put them to use pushing Satoru off of him, he gets another long lick across his cheek and along his nose.

“Satoru! Sa—ugh. Stop! Did you not get your fill of that when you had me in your mouth?”

“No. I got practically none,” Satoru says, tutting to himself. “You were wearing too many clothes and, you know, possibly dying. I couldn’t properly enjoy it.”

Suguru hadn’t been in any state, mentally or physically, to enjoy it either. Even so… he maybe had. A little, in spite of the circumstances. For a moment.

“Poor you,” Suguru says, fondly. As he lays there, sated to the point of sleepiness encroaching once more, he guiltily shifts his gaze Satoru’s way. “Right before, when I said I wouldn’t return the favor… I was just flustered with you. I didn’t really mean it.”

“Mhm,” Satoru says, picking in between two of his teeth with the point of a sharp nail. “You like to skirt around the truth sometimes. I’ve picked up on that.”

Suguru scoffs under his breath. “Rich, coming from someone who skirted around being a dragon for three full days. Do you want me to do you a kindness or not?”

“I mean, I’ll never say no to an offer like that,” Satoru tells him, grinning. “I’ll be ready to go again in no time.”

“Again?” In the thoughtful beat that follows, he realizes that despite Satoru’s closeness there is nothing demandingly poked or pressed to his hip. He hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to help Satoru climax, but… “Wait, when? How?”

“Just before you did. Easily.”

Suguru lies back, hands clasped over his middle, and stares at the dark ceiling. Then he rolls his head back toward Satoru. “Just from what you were doing to me?”

“Is that so strange?” Satoru casually questions, not sounding bothered in the slightest. Then he stills, a note of concern suddenly steeping his voice as he asks, “Wait, is that strange? Is it bad?”

“No,” Suguru laughs, taken by surprise at the abrupt shift in Satoru’s tone. He rolls himself over onto his side again and pushes close to Satoru, slinging his arms around his shoulders to drag him in. He tangles their legs together and molds his front to Satoru’s, and it feels good. He feels good. “Not at all. It’s sweet. And you’re cute.”

It only takes a second for Satoru to relax in his hold and hug him back.

“You would be the first to think so.”

“I’m sure I’m not,” Suguru consoles, tracing his fingertips along Satoru’s jaw. “The first to tell you to your face, maybe. I bet you’ve had a number of quiet admirers over the years. And you must have been adorable as a tiny little dragon,” he adds, pinching softly at Satoru’s cheek.

Satoru’s mouth pulls into a smile, slow and almost shy.

“Hm. You don’t have to convince me. I really don’t care whether anyone else has ever thought of me that way, Suguru,” he says in a low, dispassionate tone that indicates as much. Matter-of-fact. Unperturbed. Long, pale lashes draw Suguru’s eye with every slow blink. “If it's only you, I'm perfectly satisfied.”

Satoru really makes him feel special for the littlest things.

It is as if he’s been on tenterhooks for weeks without realizing it, Suguru realizes, and has now been cut loose. It took something out of him, grudge-holding and stifling his own wants the way he has been. His eyelids are already drooping, too content. Tonight will probably be the deepest, most relaxed slumber he’s had in a while.

Satoru breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “I’m, uh, ready for more, then. Since you offered and all.”

His hand glides down Suguru’s back, running over the damp silk of his kosode, and presses in firm at the dip of his spine.

With his hips pushed forward, Suguru can feel the soft bulge of Satoru’s cock starting to grow firm again—and with no petting or bedroom talk to stir it back to attention, either. Suguru is reminded of Satoru’s admission a couple of nights before: that he is always close, keyed up on Suguru’s scent or the sight of him or proximity. It’s a compliment. It’s also a little dangerous.

And unlike last time, Satoru is still awake and alert, brimming with energy and eagerness. Suguru had offered to lend a hand thinking he hadn’t gotten any relief yet, but now… he wonders if after a second time, there will be a third and so on. If he lets the state of Satoru’s arousal dictate his sleeping schedule, he might not get any rest at all.

“Mm, too late. The moment has passed,” Suguru yawns, smiling afterward at the snort Satoru lets out. He’ll make it up to him later. “You have a lot on your schedule tomorrow, Satoru, so try to get some sleep. That goes for you, too,” he adds, flicking at the tail slowly creeping up under his kosode.

It retracts at the gentle chastisement and settles for draping across one of his calves instead. Satoru himself offers no objection, either—not to Suguru’s lazy change of mind nor the way he presses himself to Satoru anyway, wanting to hold him and be held in turn.

Suguru smiles softly as Satoru gets an arm around him and drags him closer, off of his own pillow and onto Satoru’s to share. It’s not as comfortable—he likes his firm, rounded pillow’s support better—but being closer together trumps any of that. His eyes slip shut and stay shut, lulled to contentment. He hopes that when he wakes, he feels the same as he does now: more at ease with Satoru and himself, too well-assured to worry himself back into some corner, free to act without feeling hamstrung by some past grudge or future anxiety.

Just before he drifts asleep, breath kisses Suguru’s cheek. Soft lips follow.

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He wakes feeling rested and resolved. Lighter and looser, too. Excited. Eager.

Suguru spent a month clinging tight to whatever measure of control he could—over himself and Satoru both—first out of bitter soreness and then out of slow-simmering anxiety. Letting go of it and teetering on the edge of something new and unknown, gambling something precious on the promise it will be even better… it’s not easy. But he ought to at least give Satoru a chance to prove his self-conscious worries unfounded.

And Suguru probably ought to teach him a thing or two. Sooner rather than later.

“You’re up early again,” he comments as he sits up, seeing Satoru already sat beside a table and working.

“Morning. Sleep is a luxury, you know, when half the minor clans that serve ours are incompetent,” Satoru says with a sigh, two fingers already pushing into one of his temples.

Suguru merely hums at that, stretching his arms overhead and popping his back. As soon as he crawls from under the covers, cool morning air hits his skin.

Even with the brazier filled anew and roaring hot, it takes some time to chase out the nighttime chill.

He pads to one of his chests of clothing and trades his thin, sweat-sullied silk kosode for a warmer, heavier one that is better suited for lounging around in their still-frosty room. He then proceeds to the spot on the tatami and furs where Satoru sits, his brow furrowed as he stares at the sums on the page.

Suguru kneels beside him, pushes aside the account book on the low table in front of Satoru, and leans over to capture his mouth in a kiss before he can even speak.

His fingertips stroke along the line of Satoru’s jaw, delicately pushing to turn his head. He licks Satoru’s lips into parting and slips his tongue inside, careful of those sharp canines as Satoru finally starts kissing back. He almost smiles as Satoru’s eyes slide shut, easily lost in it, white lashes fanned on his cheeks.

And once Suguru has taken the edge off of the urge that moved him, he breaks the kiss and drags his lips along the corner of Satoru’s mouth instead, up his cheek and to the edge of frosty white hair.

In a low, slow rasp, still dreamily surprised, Satoru asks, “What’s this for?”

“I wanted to.”

Suguru goes in to kiss him again and again, drawn by the softness of his lips and how irresistibly good he smells. Satoru’s eyebrows wiggle upward and his lips pull in a smile, but he doesn’t dare risk breaking a single one of the kisses Suguru is giving him—not until Suguru does first, and even then he chases Suguru for another peck or two.

“Oh, just a happy surprise?” Satoru murmurs, one of his hands wandering to squeeze Suguru’s thigh. “I’ll take it. Even with the morning breath.”

Inches from Satoru’s face, Suguru stills. He sits back on his heels, staring at him in a mix of disbelief and mild mortification. Then, self-conscious about both his breath and it being remarked upon in the midst of making an impulsively forward move, he sighs to himself and gets up.

“Suguru. Suguru, wait, I wasn’t criticizing! I said I didn’t mind it!” Satoru calls after him, but Suguru is already grabbing a tufted willow brush and tooth powder and heading to the basin on the far end of the room. “I was only teasing, Suguru. I take it back. Suguru, did you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Suguru answers around the willow twig in his mouth, brushing even more thoroughly than usual. In a teasing grumble, he adds, “No more early morning kisses.”

At the sound of Satoru’s anguished groan behind him, he rolls his eyes. After rinsing his mouth clean, he turns around and finds Satoru hunched over with his head in his hands, looking defeated.

It’s a little dramatic.

“I was kidding, Satoru. From now on, I’ll just hold off until I’ve—”

“No, no, no,” Satoru groans into his palms, fingertips rubbing into his eyebrows. “Suguru, I don’t care. Last night I was licking you off my fingers!”

Suguru can’t help but blush at the reminder. He sits once more by Satoru and scooches close to his side. He pinches the elbow of Satoru’s sleeve with one hand and pries at Satoru’s fingers with the other, peeling his hands from his face. The doleful blue eyes and miserable pout that meet him are enough to make him laugh behind his close-mouthed smile.

“It is a little bit different, though,” he says, scrunching his nose. “And it’s no crime to be put-off by—”

“Nothing about you is off-putting to me,” Satoru is quick to counter. His fingers curl around the hands still holding onto his. “If you should wake up at the crack of dawn and feel moved to smother me in kisses, do so. Don’t let the hour stop you. Do as you like with me whenever you wish. You won’t hear a peep of complaint out of these lips.”

“That’s an awful lot of leeway you’re giving me.”

“Put it to good use.”

Suguru hums a moment before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek, nose pressed in against the shapely bone there. Then he rests his chin on Satoru’s shoulder, the hand still clasping Satoru’s lying in his lap. He likes how heavily he can lean on Satoru without him budging an inch.

“You’re in a different sort of good mood today,” Satoru quietly, wonderingly observes, as if worried that speaking of it aloud will disturb it.

“Mhm. I… might have been a bit frustrated these last few weeks,” he admits. While there has been fun revenge in teasing Satoru and satisfaction in drawing it all out, the weeks spent sleeping beside one another took a steady toll on him, too. The closer he and Satoru grew, the more effort it took to hold himself apart—and that put more tension in Suguru than he’d realized. “I’m not so stressed about what might happen. I feel more at ease. Thanks to you.”

“Glad I could be of help,” Satoru says, turning his head so his jaw rubs along Suguru’s hair, lips just close enough to kiss some unruly strands.

Suguru would happily remain like this all morning if not for breakfast arriving early. The day's schedule is densely packed for the head of the Gojo clan, so he’ll likely leave soon and not be seen again until dusk—barring some brief midday escape to take a break and have a meal together.

Along with the usual plates of fish and bowls of soup and a pot of warm tea to pour, Suguru notices something new: a second teapot, smaller than the side-handled one he’d first reached for. It’s white porcelain, glazed but left unpainted. Engraved all around are what look like lotus blossoms and dragonflies. The whole thing is small enough to fit in his hand.

Suguru goes to pick it up, curious, only to have his fingers flicked aside by Satoru; his glare softens when Satoru takes up the small teapot and pours for him.

Suguru slowly cocks his head while watching, surprised by the deep golden color of it. The strong scent of it is unfamiliar, too.

“What sort of tea is this?” he asks, tilting the small bowl in his hand and watching the way the liquid inside shimmers. He lifts it to his nose and breathes in. It’s heavy and herbal, almost more reminiscent of incense.

“Expensive.”

“That isn't what I meant and you know it,” Suguru mutters, lifting the lid off the small, empty teapot and peeking inside at the leaves.

There is no liquid left within, Satoru having squeezed out every drop for him. In the mush of tea leaves and sliced roots at the bottom, Suguru thinks he recognizes some of the herbs. Others, though? There are flower buds he can’t identify. Loose petals in a range of hues. Curled bark shavings. And some sort of pearl, even? It looks like a pearl.

“Why are you behaving as if you suspect me of poisoning you?”

“Not at all where my mind went,” Suguru assures him as he sets the teapot down. “Is this an aphrodisiac or something?”

Satoru actually gasps and leans back. “Suguru. Am I some scoundrel to you? You think I would have our first true experience together be spent in some drug-addled frenzy?”

“No. No, you’re right,” he agrees, regretting that he even asked. A slight smile pulls at Suguru’s lips as he says, “You’re far too romantic for that.”

“I am, thank you. An aphrodisiac. Pfft. I mean, maybe for a special occasion or something,” he mutters after, scratching thoughtfully at his chin. Then his attention turns back to Suguru and the small teapot in his hands. “It really is just tea, though. A special blend for health and longevity, courtesy of Shoko. Could you not leap to think the worst of me?”

“Could you give me a straight answer the first time? It looks odd and smells strange.” Suguru picks the cup up again, gives it a swirl, and then takes a tentative sip. It’s warm with almost-spice and a little bit oily. But the taste—honeyed, floral, and faintly woody—isn’t unpleasant. “Oh. This is nice, actually. Not bad at all.”

“Good, because you’ll need to drink it every day for it to have the most potent effect.”

Suguru is amenable to that. He wouldn’t mind having this beside his usual tea each morning even if it did nothing at all. As he steadily drains the remainder in his cup, he watches Satoru steadily working through breakfast dishes.

“Aren’t you going to have some?” He eyes the tiny teapot Satoru had emptied for him. “Or are you in no need of health and longevity?”

Satoru finishes swallowing the other half of a soft, jam-yolked egg before snorting out, “Me? Why? I possess both in excess. My natural lifespan is measured in centuries and I’ve always had perfect health. It’s put to better use on you.”

Suguru licks his bottom lip, tasting the fragrant tea on it, and reconsiders the empty cup in his hand. “This is actually going to extend my life, then?”  

“Does longevity mean something else to you?” When no immediate response is given, he rolls his eyes and heaves his shoulders and groans out, “Yes, obviously, it’s meant to keep you from falling ill and help you live longer. Unless Shoko is fleecing me, but I think she values her hide too much to do that.”

Suguru sits for a minute, contemplating that. If it were anyone but Shoko—how many wandering peddlers claim to have cure-alls for everything under the sun, after all?—he wouldn’t believe it for a moment.

“You’re serious about this.”

“About ensuring you don’t catch some pox and drop dead on me? Yes.”

That’s not what has Suguru dumbfounded, although it holds significant meaning as well.

“You’ve already decided you want more of me?” he asks, incredulous even with the evidence staring him in the face and sitting in his gut—and Satoru nodding emphatically at him from across the table. He picks up his chopsticks and starts poking at his tofu, repeatedly stealing quick glances at Satoru. “...What if you change your mind?”

Satoru plants his elbow on a free stretch of table, chin in his palm, and stares at Suguru with half-lidded eyes. “Suguru. I wouldn’t subject myself to running around doing Shoko’s grunt work if I wasn’t confident that you’re worth the exorbitant cost to my dignity.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just steadily gets redder while fumbling his chopsticks and pretending he’s too busy eating to reply. The favor Shoko expected of Satoru… that exchange was made for him? A dragon like Satoru, the powerful head of a prestigious clan, putting himself through the imposition of serving another just to give Suguru a longer, more comfortable life?

“Would it do anything to slow my aging?” he wonders in a small voice, immediately worrying it sounds ungrateful. There has to be another catch somewhere, though—something beyond Satoru’s obvious expectation that Suguru will remain his the whole while. “Or were you thinking you’d still be interested in bedding me when I look like I ought to be your grandfather?”

Satoru plants both elbows on the table now, fingers laced together, and considers. A few long moments later, while nodding to himself, he decides, “Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“To both,” he answers, promptly returning to eating. “Shoko didn’t give any specific details, but she mentioned it should keep you youthful as well. Only if you drink it consistently, though, like you’re supposed to,” he emphasizes again.

Suguru ponders the cup and the tea and the fact that Satoru must have reached out to Shoko about this well before last night. If the ingredients are difficult to come by, he might’ve asked for it as early as the night Suguru first arrived. And if it really works… this is the kind of thing the wealthy would offer their fortunes for and shoguns would kill for. It’s a little bit wasted on him, honestly.

“This must be incredibly rare,” Suguru murmurs, unsure how to even begin thanking him for something of this magnitude. But the first step seems like acknowledging it. “And valuable.”

“A fitting match, then,” is Satoru’s casual reply, which once more leaves Suguru red as a ripe plum.

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Suguru ends up taking his midday meal alone, seated in the privacy of their room with the outer door pulled open to view the secluded courtyard outside. The garden’s greenery is all snow-capped, a soft blanket of white layered over every shrub and statue. Ice chimes softly whenever the wind blows, thin fragments of it snapping from their branches and raining down. The birds are the best, though, always flitting around and chirping. He’d started leaving melon seeds on the engawa for them shortly after he arrived, and now some of the cleverer ones seem to recognize him for it.

It’s peaceful. And though his thoughts tend to wander in the quiet, the sights give him something to think of that isn’t home or Satoru or when he’ll be back.

Running the clan’s territory—at least from Suguru’s secondhand understanding of it—seems like some sort of bureaucratic nightmare. There are dragon clans, demon clans, local kami and even enemies from across the sea. There are old agreements to honor and new ones to negotiate. Much of the Gojo clan’s strength and influence comes from fighting others’ battles for them, if a mutually beneficial alliance can be arranged, and it seems there is always some strife or new threat Satoru is needed for.

That mountain of requests and demands that built up in Satoru’s absence has barely shrunk. If anything, a fresh wave of them have poured in as word of his return has begun to spread. Audiences with neighboring clans miffed that he disappeared without a word have had Satoru tied up from daybreak to dark for a fortnight now. And despite his oft-repeated desire to shirk his duties and dawdle with Suguru, Satoru has been diligently applying himself in the hope that clearing the backlog allow them to enjoy more leisurely days together after.

And Suguru… Suguru has tried to remain productive.

He could benefit from a few more indoor hobbies, clearly. No one but Haibara will let him help with their daily chores. There are only so many arrows he can fletch and clothes he can sew before his fingers get sore. Writing… it’s easier with Satoru around to offer pointers and catch his mistakes, or else it takes even longer to unlearn them. And his current choice of book is a real bore.

While laid out on his side, Suguru looks down at the pages with glazed eyes, finding the ridiculously long charts of Gojo genealogy almost impossible to follow—and not only because a quarter of the kanji aren’t immediately recognizable to him. It is a horrifically dense family history that traces the clan all the way back to Kuraokami, including every victory, blood feud, or expansion of territory in the time since.

Honestly, given some of the details about the castle itself and the clan’s realm of influence, Suguru occasionally wonders if he’s even supposed to be reading this… but Satoru hadn’t objected when he picked the enormous, ancient book from a cabinet in the library, so it must be fine. Or, more possibly, he’d suspected that Suguru would find it too dry to slog through.

The sudden slide of the door takes him by surprise, as does Satoru’s large frame filling it.

“Oh. Did you forget something?” he wonders, having not expected him back until far later. “I already had lunch a little while ago…”

Satoru sighs and slumps dramatically against one of the sturdy framing posts around the door. “Suguru, I need to get out of here or I might maim someone. Get some fresh air. Stretch my legs. Do you want to come with?”

Suguru slams the tome shut and groans in relief. Though he knows the responsible, considerate thing to do would be to tell Satoru to head back to his court and see through his day’s busy agenda—minus the maiming—the chance to get out of the castle while the sun is still out and the skies are bright is far too tempting.

“Yes. Please, yes,” Suguru grins, immediately on his feet. “Where to?”

Satoru doesn’t answer straightaway. Rather, he nibbles one side of his bottom lip, hands held behind his back. Then, avoiding Suguru’s eyes, he poses, “Would you… maybe want to fly with me?”

“Fly?” Suguru looks down at himself and thinks of the last time he did so. “It depends. Do I have to ride in your mouth?”

“No. You can sit on my back, of course.” Satoru perks where he stands, transparently excited that Suguru is open to it at all. “But you’ll want to dress more warmly than usual. Far more warmly.”

“That’s not a problem,” Suguru softly laughs, looking glancing at one of the three chests filled with his own tailored clothing.

It’s been too long since he escaped the castle’s stone walls and artfully cultivated gardens, given how busy the clan’s head has been of late. He’ll go anywhere Satoru offers to take him—even on dragonback.

Suguru dons several extra layers and pulls a pair of heavy woolen hakama on over his kimono. He opts for thick, double-layered gloves and fur-lined boots. He slips on his hanten last and wraps his scarf so only his eyes are visible; Satoru fusses with tucking in the ends, making sure the wind won’t tear it loose.

“You’re sure you won’t be afraid when you see me?” he questions as they walk side-by-side down the castle’s halls. He is in light, flowy clothing—a haori, that ugly scarf, loose trousers that gather at his ankle, and simple shoes. “Scales and claws and all?”

Behind the heavy cotton masking his mouth, Suguru chews on his lip.

When he last saw Satoru in his dragon skin, he was half-delirious with chill and agonized by bruised ribs and frostbite. He has never felt so small and fragile as he did in the grasp of Satoru’s teeth, one twitch or snap from having a limb severed. Or so he feared at the time.

“Should I be afraid?”

“Of me? Never.” Satoru tips his head and shrugs. “But I can tell you that all day and it might not change how you feel.”

It’s true. Suguru cannot say with absolute certainty what might come over him at seeing Satoru the way he had upon the mountain peak, humbled and horrified by his comparative helplessness. But he’s changed a good deal in the weeks since. So has his opinion of Satoru—both the dragon and the man.

By the time they reach one of the stone courtyards made to accomodate dragons of Satoru’s size, Suguru is already starting to sweat under his heavy clothing. Whilst he is looking down and fussing with his gloves, he suddenly finds himself standing in shade, the sunlight that had been warming him abruptly blotted out.

He half-turns, already looking upward, and is met with a pale-scaled face and an all-too-familiar maw.

Surprise spurs his heart into a racing gallop. His knees go so weak he nearly buckles, but other than that… he’s fine. He is fine. This is fine. The sensible, rational parts of Suguru’s mind assure him that what looms above him is still Satoru, only on a drastically different scale.

Even so, his gut curdles and clenches as the massive, fanged head of a dragon bows low to meet him. In bright daylight, the pupils at the centers of Satoru’s pale eyes are thin, narrow slits that betray no emotion.

“I can hear your heartbeat from here, Suguru.” It would be teasing if not for the somewhat somber note to the words.

Only then does Suguru realize he is dizzy from the rush of blood in his ears and almost cross-eyed in trying to take in the sheer size of Satoru from this perspective. He’s not even on his knees this time, and still…

“Suguru.” His sigh sends Suguru’s clothes fluttering. “We can take a walk nearby instead if you—”

“No! No, I… it was a gut reaction, nothing more. I’m alright,” Suguru assures him. “I’m just getting used to seeing you like this again.”

Suguru lifts his gloved hand and gingerly brushes along the rounded curve of Satoru’s snout, for the first time looking at his dragon skin with eyes unclouded by hurt or hate or the stinging of tears. He’d been clasped in these jaws once, terrified of being taken to pieces and eaten; now, absent that awful feeling of imminent demise hanging over his head, Suguru can admire what he’d previously found so horrifying.

A quiver snakes down Satoru's spine, the hair of his mane stiffening in its wake. Greedy as ever, he turns his head and rubs his jaw and cheek into Suguru’s touch, a low rumble of a purr vibrating through his throat all the while. Suguru is nearly sent stumbling a step backward by the force behind even such a small, fond gesture, laughing softly as he acquiesces and scritches under Satoru’s fur-lined jaw.

He then walks along Satoru’s side, running his palm over pearly white scales while marveling at their size and luster. His fingertips trace the fine seams where they overlap, not unlike lacquered plate or scale armor, and it seems so obvious now that no arrow of his would ever have found purchase between them. One enormous blue eye remains locked on him at all times, tracking Suguru even as Satoru swings his head away and instead presents his neck. The great dragon then slides down onto his belly, laying himself as low as possible for Suguru to climb his way up.

“What if I fall off?” Suguru wonders aloud, his hands already turning clammy-wet inside his gloves. It turns out there is some appeal in being carried in Satoru’s mouth after all—no fear of tumbling from his shoulders mid-air and down to the earth below.

“Don’t,” Satoru replies, as if it’s a simple matter of will. A deep, growl-like laugh follows, and then, “But I would catch you, obviously.”

“Right,” Suguru nervously mutters to himself, not wanting to dwell on how feasible such an act actually is. “Obviously.”

He has to scramble his way up Satoru’s side using his scaled forearm and shoulder as footholds. For an anchor, Suguru sinks his fingers into the long, plush mane that runs the length of Satoru’s body and hoists himself up. Once astride the dragon’s back, his legs are pushed so wide apart that his inner thighs are already aching. Suguru has never so much as ridden a horse before this, much less a creature five times the breadth of one.

The only thing he can hold onto is Satoru’s long white hair, so he winds fistfuls of it tight around his hands. His legs slide across smooth scales as the sinuous body under him moves to stand, causing Suguru to sway to and fro. He is then jostled by the first bounding leaps Satoru makes, his lengthy dragon form clearing much of the courtyard in a single airy stride. Satoru then bunches and coils, feet gathered under himself, before pushing upward and into the sky with startling force; he sets them aloft, riding on the wind, and Suguru never quite stops feeling as if his stomach may plummet out of him at any moment.

Satoru’s serpentlike body ripples through the air. The shimmer of his scales in sleek motion nearly mesmerizes Suguru, who still remembers what the sight had looked like from far below.

He can feel the flexing of muscle under him, increasingly aware of and awed by the sheer power contained in so singular a being. Forget the ice and snow and whatever magic Satoru has at his disposal—in pure physical strength alone, he could probably lay waste to the whole countryside and all the cities, too.

The wind grows colder the higher they climb, stinging in Suguru’s lungs every time he inhales. The sprawling castle complex and towering trees shrink away below them. The steaming rivers and waterfalls narrow to spindly threads. Even the mountains themselves seem less imposing. All of it spins for a moment, hazy and blurry at the edges, until Suguru blinks away his dizziness and turns to face forward. He keeps his sights fixed firmly on the back of Satoru’s antler-crowned head after that, afraid another dizzy spell will have him teetering off into a long, terrible fall.

But his focus drifts when far below and off in the distance, Suguru recognizes something he has never laid eyes on before: the sea. In its entirety, it seems, given how far it stretches into the horizon and off in all directions. Even up here, astride the back of a dragon as impressive as Satoru, the sight of it leaves him with the sense of being impossibly small and easily lost.

From the periphery of his vision, Suguru notices Satoru’s pronged horns change angle as his long head dips. He thinks nothing of it—still distracted by the ocean and its tiny white-capped waves—until the rest of Satoru’s snakelike body shortly follows suit, sending them into a steep and spiraling downward drop. Suguru lifts off of his back and into the air as they plunge toward the earth, connected to Satoru by only his grip on the ridge of fur that runs along the dragon’s spine. His face and hands are buried in it, arms curled and clenched tight, shielded from the icy wind whistling past him. His screams muffle into the dense mane and blend into the rush of air around him, practically muted silent.

Abruptly, Satoru levels out and Suguru lands on his back, belly bouncing on smooth scales and wispy fur. He draws himself upright again, wheezing from the icy cold air and nervous, giddy laughter, his insides tingling from the terror-turned-relief. Satoru really has a terrible mind for investment, buying up tea to extend Suguru’s life and then scaring it out of him right after.

They’re gliding low and slow now, so close to the ground that Suguru loses any real fear of falling. As he blinks his stinging eyes open and peers downward, he sees the shoreline for the first time, bordered on one side by the sea and on the other by snow. But what really stuns Suguru are the sparkling jewels scattered all up and down the beach.

No, not jewels—ice, he realizes after more seconds of staring. Innumerable fragments of it lay below, wet and glimmering under the bright afternoon sunlight.

His voice won’t carry in this wind. He smacks his palm against Satoru’s back over and over, desperate to catch his attention. When Satoru’s head twists to fix an eye on him, Suguru excitedly points down.

They descend even lower. Suguru bounces as Satoru’s feet hit the sand, then lurches forward as the dragon comes to a stop. Without waiting, he slides down from Satoru’s back and drops the last few feet into the sand—and immediately falls flat on his rear, his legs too weak and wobbly to catch himself.

He’s not even sure why he’s laughing at this point, but he is. And if he can’t stand up right now—if his body hasn’t yet remembered what it is to exist on solid earth—that’s fine. What he’d wanted to see so badly is all around him: sparkling pebbles of ice. Mounds of them. A whole beachline full of them. The ocean waves themselves chime and clink, pushing in more bits of crystalline ice with every foamy rush ashore.

Suguru settles on folded knees and runs his hands through the pieces, pushing them around between his fingers. As the sunlight strikes them, they take on shifting, rainbow-like hues. He turns his head to look back over his shoulder. “Satoru, are you seeing this?!”

“I am. It happens all the time on this beach,” Satoru’s deeper-set, more resonant voice answers from somewhere behind him. “And this beach only, I think.”

“I’ve never been to one at all before,” Suguru says, at last picking himself up and brushing off the wet sand as best he can. Ice shifts and crunches underfoot as he heads toward the water, unable to keep the grin off his face.

His valley sits inland, separated from the sea by mountains and rivers and sekisho checkpoints. All he has ever known of the ocean are stories from traveling merchants and a handful of villagers who once lived as fishers on the coast. None of them ever spoke of ice like gemstones. They didn’t even make him ready for the sight of the waves and the water reaching off into the horizon.

“Does it live up to your expectations?”

“It’s better.” Suguru stops right where the waves fizzle out, the frigid saltwater just kissing the toes of his boots.

He takes all of it in: the blustery, white capped waters in the vast distance; the sea spilling itself onto the shore, foamy fingers of it reaching across dark sand; the bobbing bits of ice that turn the waves sparkly and rainbow-hued when the light lands on them just right. Suguru isn’t a painter and never will be, but he wishes he could do something to capture the sight. There’s no other way to do it justice. Words won’t work, written or otherwise.

He looks back toward Satoru, hopeful. “Can we stay a while? I’d like to see more.”

In answer, Satoru’s imposing form dissolves into a mist of powdery fine snow. As it scatters and settles, he stands there in the smaller shape Suguru is most accustomed to: humanlike, with horns and a tail.

“If you’re not too cold,” Satoru says as he crosses sand and sparkling ice to close the distance between them, his smile growing with each step. “Sea air is chillier.”

“No, I’m fine. I love it.”

Excitement has overwhelmed everything else, really. Even if the cold did find a way through his heavy clothing, Suguru’s not sure he’d care.

Pleased with how much Suguru enjoys the jewel-ice washed up on shore, Satoru makes more of it with an easy movement of his hand. Enormous blocks tumble in on the waves and break apart on sand and stone. There are chunks as large as Suguru himself, glistening with sea water and perfectly see-through, if slightly distorted. There are smaller bits he can pick up by the handful, tossing them in the air and watching how the sunlight glints rainbow-like off them as they scatter.

And there is one palm-sized piece Satoru gives him, smiling, that is perfectly shaped like a small fish.

Suguru cradles it in his hands, amazed by the delicate thinness of its fins and charmed by its cute size. He carries it with him while they walk the shore, picking up seashells and smooth stones along the way. Tragically, his own faintly emanating body heat soon turns it unrecognizable, Satoru’s little fish gradually melting away through his grasp.

“I can always make more,” Satoru assures when he sees Suguru staring at the little lump of ice that’s left in his palm. “Bigger ones, even. Of any creature you like.”

“The garden outside of our room could use an ice sculpture or two,” Suguru suggests, smiling at the thought.

“I couldn’t agree more. What creatures are you fond of, Suguru?”

“Oh, little ones, mostly,” he says while stooping to pick up another shell. He’s collected several for himself and the twins, but this one is a soft pink that seems like it would suit Manami. “I like snails, salamanders, frogs, centipedes, snakes. Those sorts of things.”

He glances up from where he’s squatted and catches Satoru’s scrunched, faintly repulsed expression. 

“What?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Satoru hurriedly mutters, wiping the curdled expression off of his face. “That’s so… cute. How you like common pests. Even though there are stronger, more impressive creatures to choose from.”

“Very convincing delivery,” Suguru dryly teases. “Carve whatever you like, Satoru. I’ll admire it regardless.”

“No, no. I’ll make you a giant snail or something,” he sighs, as if disappointed that something so lowly will be featured in his castle. “A snake might be more passable…”

With all his layers on, it’s hard for Suguru to reach his pockets. He ends up handing off his collected shells and rocks to Satoru, who holds them all for him without complaint—although he does raise his eyebrows at some of the ones Suguru feels are worth keeping.

They continue walking aimlessly along the shore together, poking at driftwood and collecting more little treasures to keep. Around midafternoon, they stop to snack on some sweets that Satoru brought with him. Crowded together onto the same low boulder and making a meal of stuffed buns, Suguru feels almost like a child again—all excitement and wonder with far fewer cares, roaming somewhere new just because he can. He lets his feet slowly kick back and forth as he eats and grins to himself when he notices Satoru doing the same, only his tail is also swishing in the same languid rhythm.

With a couple of driftwood sticks, they then start writing in the wet, chilled sand of the beach. Suguru squats and carefully scratches his name onto the shore, leaving a mark of his presence here… albeit one that will wash away as the tide comes in. Satoru, the show-off, writes out a full thirty-one syllable tanka from memory, which Suguru only knows because Satoru tells him so after reciting it aloud.

Suguru’s next attempt in the sand is a drawing. He creates a squiggly likeness of Satoru in his true shape, with small, rounded pieces of ice for his eyes and jagged bits for his claws, and snow sprinkled lightly over his body for color. Passably proud of the final result, he smiles and glances over to see what Satoru’s drawn and… it’s just an enormous, veiny member.

“Are you ten years of age?”

“Are you? Because your handwriting sure looks it,” Satoru snarks right back, glancing over at the spot in the sand where Suguru etched his name.

Suguru open-mouthed scoffs. It’s true that he’s no match for Satoru’s fine calligraphy, but only one of them got a clan lord’s education.

He lifts his chin a little, eyes on Satoru as he says, “Is that right? I’ll keep your sorry opinion of what my hands can do in mind the next time you’re whining for attention from them.”

“Uh, hold on. Suguru. You know full well I was making fun of your chicken scratch,” Satoru takes pains to clarify, “not your other talents. I would never besmirch your handiwork.”

He has the audacity to wink, even.

And as much as Suguru tries not to laugh, he can’t help it—nor the smile that shows even with half his face covered by his scarf, around his eyes and in the natural blush Satoru always brings out in him.

“You get a pass this time, then,” he allows, returning to adding little details to his sand sketch of Satoru, “but you’re treading on thin ice.”

“Perfect.” Satoru grins at him. “I’m excellent on ice.”

After more drawing on the beach—Satoru delights at Suguru’s interpretation of him and insists on adding a small stick-figure Suguru to accompany it—they continue their ambling journey along the shore. There are seabirds to spot and long, bleached bones of gargantuan creatures to examine and even more pretty seashells to collect. Suguru can’t wait to send handfuls of the shells south for Nanako and Mimiko, sharing with them a little piece of the ocean until he can one day bring them to see it in person.

As Satoru hunkers down and busies himself sifting through the sand to find ‘far better ones’ than Suguru has managed to pick so far, Suguru realizes a prime opportunity sits before him.

He quietly backs away and clambers up the hilly shoreline, onto the snow covered earth just beyond the sand. Atop the hill, he starts packing snowballs—half a dozen of them, heavy and solid. There are no rocks or ice chunks inside, despite Satoru’s past advice; only wet, crunchy snow that compresses nicely and holds firm shape as Suguru squeezes it between his cupped hands.

Down on the beach, Satoru is still crouched and digging into the sand with both hands. A sitting duck.

The tip of Suguru’s tongue pokes out and into his scarf as he winds an arm back and lobs the first snowball into a perfect arc. He steeples his hands in front of his grinning mouth as he watches it descend, silently gasping to himself as the snowball lands directly atop Satoru’s head. Dead-on impact. Spectacular snow spray. Suguru almost wishes there was a separate witness here to admire it.

His basking in the success of his surprise attack is, unsurprisingly, short-lived.

Satoru slowly turns toward him as he stands, an arm lifted in a gesture that says, Really? With a subtle flick of his fingers, Suguru finds himself instantly buried under a small pile of snow.

He blinks, briefly disoriented by the wall of white, and then burrows his way upward. As soon as his head pops free of the snow mound Satoru dropped on top of him, he shouts, “That isn’t very fair, Satoru!”

“You’re attacking me with my own element. Why would it be fair?” 

“Because it’s more fun that way? Maybe I want an actual, proper snowball fight with you. Maybe you could play along with me instead of flexing your powers.” Suguru makes sure to lay on a note of disappointment that’s just shy of whiny. And then he sighs. “But if you have to rely on magic instead of skill, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“You’ll be demolished either way,” Satoru calls back, already making his way up from the beach and onto the snow. “But if it’s a fight you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He isn’t even halfway up the hillside when Suguru puts his high ground advantage and stockpiled snowballs to use, peppering him with three direct hits in quick succession. Satoru continues languidly walking toward him, not so much as flinching at snow splatting against his chest and shoulders. But the fourth one nails him in the forehead, which gets a passing reaction of annoyance. And the fifth snowball lands just below the belt, the blow enough to make Satoru stop in his tracks and double over.

Suguru covers his mouth, wondering if he ought to go check on Satoru or start running in the opposite direction… or waddling, more like, given all the heavy layers he has on.

At the answering glare Satoru gives him—while scrambling on all fours through the snow, charging uphill to meet him—Suguru goes for the only cover he has. He drops himself backward into the deep, powdery snowdrift he’d just climbed out of and nestles down inside it like a winter hare trying to evade a wolf.

Satoru plunges headfirst into the snowbank not five seconds later, instantly nose to nose with Suguru. His pronounced frown juts a little to the left. One hand fists in the front of Suguru’s hanten, holding him secure.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

Suguru’s cheeks ache as he smiles, the breadth of it hidden behind his scarf. Shyly, with a little laugh, he admits, “Very much.”

Satoru withdraws then, leaving Suguru lying alone in the snowdrift once more. Then the hand clasped onto Suguru’s clothing yanks him out, too.

He is pulled to stand toe to toe with Satoru, who immediately starts swiping the snow from Suguru’s shoulders and head—but says nothing.

“You’re not really mad,” Suguru says half-says, half-asks, mostly certain that Satoru isn’t. In the silence that follows, he adds, “I wasn’t even trying to hit you there. It was purely an accident.”

And it’s a little bit funny—and a little bit sweet—that Satoru let his guard down enough for it to happen at all. Satoru’s expression doesn’t change, though, only meeting Suguru in the eye for the briefest moment before focusing again on the snow clinging all over him.

Suguru bites his bottom lip before inching inward and looking up at Satoru from under his lashes. In a whisper, he jokes, “It’s just too big. Makes it hard to avoid, you know.”

That succeeds in making Satoru crack a smile and a small laugh, any stern pretense abandoned.

“Of course I’m not mad,” he assures, his voice light as he continues brushing the snow from Suguru’s shoulders and fussing with his clothing, pulling the rumples straight.

Suguru lets him, feeling more than a little guilty for having struck him between the legs. It was a hard-packed snowball, too. While Satoru can command snow with little effort, he’d let Suguru repeatedly hit him for the sake of Suguru wanting to play on semi-even footing. And he is being a wonderfully good sport about it, all things considered.

As Suguru contemplates all this, even going so far as considering some pleasant treat to make it up to Satoru later, he feels the tickle of something cold at the back of his neck.

His spine arches as snow spills down the back of his collar, Satoru somehow having snuck it in under his scarf headwrap and eight different layers of fabric. He gasps at the shock of cold so direct on his skin, sliding all the way down his spine and seeping into his clothes.

“Satoru! You! I’m going to—”

“To what?” Satoru laughs, dancing right out of his reach.

He moves with such ease even in knee-deep snow. Meanwhile, Suguru is staggering after him, one hand outstretched to throttle him and the other trying to worm under his own coats and kosode to shake the fistful of melting snow loose. It’s an aggravatingly futile effort, though, on both ends.

With an aggravated sigh, he stops where he stands, gives up, and looks to Satoru, pleading.

Satoru remains some feet away, as if wary he’s being lured in for some sort of retribution.

“Satoru. You really won’t come help get this off of me? I’m freezing now. The cold actually affects me, if you recall.”

Satoru’s grin dampens, chastened by the reminder. Looking halfway conscience-stricken, he trudges back toward Suguru with his tail dragging limp in the snow behind him.

“I was only playing along, like you asked,” Satoru mumbles as he steps in, loops his arms around Suguru, and tugs at the back of his clothing, jostling it so that any snow that hasn’t already melted will fall out. For him, it of course works straightaway, effortlessly.

“I know,” Suguru gently assures, sliding one hand up Satoru’s arm and laying the other on his chest.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet Satoru’s wide-eyed stare, holding it. And then he smiles, betraying what he intends to do in the split second before he does it: barrel himself into Satoru, knocking him backward and onto the snow-covered ground.

Or… Suguru makes an attempt to do so, at least. But Satoru is planted solid, too strong to push over even with some opportunistic manipulation and another sprung surprise attack.

“Underhanded,” Satoru comments, amusement peeking at the corners of his flat tone, “wily, and too clever by half. You really thought I was going to fall for another little trick of yours today?”

Suguru is too stunned to speak, much less move. He can’t spin fast enough to keep Satoru from getting behind him and grabbing him around the middle. His arms and legs wheel in the air as Satoru lifts him overhead without any strain at all. Suguru’s scream, half giddy and half alarmed, goes muffled the instant he’s dropped headfirst into a snowdrift as deep as he is tall, with only his legs still free to kick.

After a minute of futile wiggling to free himself, blood rushing to his head, Suguru flops limp. He’s left with no option but to plead for the very person who stuck him in here to get him out.

“Satoruuu. Satoru? A truce, Satoru. Satoru.”

Warm hands wrap around his ankles and hoist him back out. Suguru is dangled upside down, feeling a bit like the cherry trout Satoru ice-fished for them that one time.

“A truce?” Satoru questions through a smug smile. “Why would there be a truce when I clearly won?”

Miserable in defeat, Suguru rolls his eyes. “I guess. Put me down.”

Satoru does so, laying him in the snow and then helping him upright after. 

As he’s pulled to his feet, Suguru tentatively wonders, “Could I try doing it to you?”

Satoru eyes him while dusting the powdery snow from his hands, one corner of his mouth pulling in a sharpening smile.

“What? Headplanting me in the snow?” At Suguru’s slow nod, he laughs and licks his lips, full grinning. “Yeah. Sure. Try me.”

It sounds like he doubts if Suguru can, which only makes Suguru want to slam him upside down in the snow even more. He steps up to Satoru, toe to toe in knee-deep snow, and squats slightly to get a good grip around his narrow waist. When he goes to lift Satoru up, the man’s feet don’t even leave the ground.

“You’re making yourself heavier somehow. You’re cheating.”

“Am not.” Then, with a snicker, he tacks on, “It’s okay if you can’t manage it, Suguru. You probably used up all your strength on those weak, piddly little snowball throws.”

“That last one didn’t seem so piddly, did it?” Suguru mutters back.

Suguru squeezes harder around his middle, pleased when Satoru at least puffs in surprise from the compression, and subtly adjusts his stance so he’s lifting more with his hips and legs. And then he heaves Satoru upward.

Satoru yelps in surprise as he’s lifted well off the ground. Suguru gives him a little toss up and onto his shoulder, balancing Satoru’s weight there as he would a heavy stack of firewood or a fresh kill to carry home. Though Satoru is plainly heavier than he even looks, dense with inhumanly powerful muscle and resilient bone, it’s not so bad.

Somewhere above and behind Suguru’s head, Satoru is laughing, either shocked or amused that Suguru is able to pick him up and carry him. His long white tail snakes through the air to maintain balance, subtly adjusting on its own to help keep Satoru from teetering forward or back; Suguru can’t help but consider that if they were fighting for real, it’d no doubt be choked around his throat.

He didn’t think to grab Satoru from behind, so he can’t imitate the same move done to him a few minutes ago. The best Suguru can do is tip them both over, which successfully sends Satoru headfirst into the snow—and himself along with him.

It’s sort of nice, being cushioned and cradled while he lays there and catches his breath. His eyes close while he pants, snug for the time being and satisfied that he and Satoru are square. Or close enough to it. Best as he can manage. The snow gives muffled crunches and squeaks as Satoru moves around beside him. When Suguru opens his eyes, there are blue ones hovering right before his own, snowflakes stuck to Satoru’s lashes.

“Not a terrible performance, considering you’re human and all.”

Suguru snorts and jams a gloved, snow-crusted hand into his face, aiming to shove him aside. But Satoru once more resists being pushed away, letting Suguru’s palm smush and slide against his cheek without budging.

It quickly turns into half-hearted tussling and swatting and teasing. Laughter makes Suguru weaker and more susceptible to Satoru’s grappling, his cheeks and stomach aching as he’s pulled close and pushed around. Every time he tries to stand, Satoru grabs him around the middle and pulls him back down; every time Satoru gets on top of him, Suguru squishes another handful of snow into his face.

They eventually roll downhill together, flopping onto one another with every tumble, and crash into a snowbank at the bottom. Suguru is sunken down into the snow with Satoru heavy on him, legs still hooked around one of his. He lays there, breathless and red-faced despite the cold he’s finally beginning to feel, in no real rush to push Satoru off of him.

His energy spent, Suguru stops struggling back. As he closes his eyes, Satoru takes it as a concession and declares he is the decisive victor of the day.

Suguru purses his lips, irritated to realize this is going to be his lot in life unless he finds some arena of competition he can outdo Satoru in. "Whatever, then."

"Hmmm, I think I deserve a reward," Satoru, a terribly obnoxious winner, goes on to crow right in Suguru's face. "I'm thinking... you sit in my lap and hand feed me my dinner, give me a back massage before bed, and then I get to kiss you for as long as I can hold my breath."

“You can pick one,” Suguru allows, smiling at the conflicted groan Satoru smothers right into his chest. Even if he did come out of this defeated, listening to him agonize over which to choose is its own satisfying form of reprisal.

Chapter Text

Now that Suguru better knows what to expect, the flight back to the castle is less nerve-wracking and more wondrous.

Satoru moves languidly through the air, his scales taking on a golden sheen as the sun dips down toward the mountains. The view from this high up is unlike anything Suguru could’ve imagined. From dragonback, he watches as shafts of deepening amber light bathe the snows and pine forests below and shadows stretch across mountain foothills. He can see the horizon still, fuzzy where distant sea meets sky, and hearth-smoke rising from fishing villages that lay closer to the coast. Trusting Satoru would indeed catch him if it came to that, Suguru leans over and looks down under them, admiring the crags and ravines and valleys below—and making note of places that look interesting enough to explore up close later on.

The return trip is also far, far colder.

Between the salty sea spray that misted him head to toe and the layers-deep dampness acquired from rolling in the snow, his clothing doesn’t shield him from the cold as well as it should. High in the sky and vulnerable to its shearing winds, a numbing chill knifes into Suguru’s skin and sinks deep. His eyes begin to sting at their corners and his hands ache where they’re curled tight in Satoru’s long mane. Though the castle is situated on a mountain and inundated with the icy chill Satoru inevitably brings, Suguru has not felt the cold so sharply in quite some time.

Even clad in his bulky attire, he is full-on shivering when they touch down once more in the same large, open courtyard they’d departed from. His legs are achingly stiff as he dismounts and slides down Satoru’s smooth flank, his locked knees jarred by the landing impact. His teeth chatter without cease. All his thoughts narrow to getting inside, getting undressed, and getting warm by a fire.

A low, spine-quaking rumble stops Suguru still. His heartbeat quickens upon realizing the discontented growl is coming from Satoru, the scales on his serpentine neck shimmering with the sound emanating from within. Those slitted blue eyes are trained on him, fixed with a focus that unnerves.

With no further warning, Suguru is met with the lash of a tail. It’s meant to be gentle, surely, but the whipcord muscle behind it still shocks Suguru into a gasp. His arms are trapped by his sides as the slim length of muscle and bone coils several times around him, squeezing from knee to shoulder. He is then unceremoniously hoisted back into the air—and not on the solid safety of Satoru’s back this time, but suspended in the snaking grasp of his tail.

Suguru’s shivering, stuttering shouting at Satoru does little more than turn the heads of gardeners and castle staff they pass over, all of whom gawk and stare at the dragon gliding above with Suguru in tow. After clearing several sets of terraces and stone stairs and the walls of the castle’s innermost bailey, Satoru touches down again in the private courtyard garden attached to their room.

The garden is of generous size size, given that it serves as part of the clan head’s personal residence, but it is an unforgivingly tight fit for a dragon of Satoru’s stature. To avoid knocking down any of its tall stone walls, his sinuous body remains arched and scrunched and curled in on itself. His massive clawed feet are positioned awkwardly in an attempt to avoid crushing the fine stonework walkway or snapping the perpetually in-bloom camellias. Surrounded by statuary—both stone and ice—and bordered by the comparatively delicate wood of the engawa, one errant move from Satoru could cause a headache in repairs.

As soon as Suguru is lowered gently to the snow-covered ground, Satoru poofs into a plume of snow and emerges in his more human shape, horned and tailed and pointy-eared—and, more importantly, of appropriate size for the walled courtyard.

“D-Did you have fun? Dangling me over the st-staff like that?” Suguru asks over his shoulder as he shuffles toward the engawa, already struggling to get his tightly-laced gloves off. Hanging in the grasp of Satoru’s tail at third-story height has made him queasy on top of everything else. “To save us, what? F-F-Five whole minutes of walking?”

“You’re freezing, Suguru,” Satory says while stepping into his path to slow him. “And you have been the whole way back, haven’t you?”

With his arms wrapped around himself and his teeth knocking together, Suguru doesn’t actually need to answer that, does he?

“I didn’t want to leave you in the cold any longer than I already have,” Satoru then says, gesturing down the stone-lined path that leads down to the small, secluded hot spring that only the head of the clan has access to. “I thought coming directly here would be better than making you cross the grounds on foot. Water will warm you faster than a fire and the hot spring will be quicker than having a bath drawn.”

“Oh.” Suguru’s sour disgruntlement vanishes in the span of a shiver. Keen on getting warm in the spring, he quickly concedes, “That d-does sound nice, actually. Thank you, Satoru. Just... warn me first next time, will you?”

The corner of Satoru’s mouth twitches, clearly enjoying the quick about-face in his attitude. “Of course. Want me to carry you the rest of the way?”

Suguru’s tiny scoff is swallowed up in his ice-crusted scarf. Indignant, he insists, “I can walk.”

It is a slow, waddling walk, to be sure, but he can manage it.

Satoru seems awfully pleased with himself as he escorts Suguru down to the hot spring—humming and hovering with a little hop in his step. Perhaps he deserves to be a bit smug after proving himself so thoughtful. Suguru certainly isn’t going to give him any lip at the moment.

Once they arrive at the edge of the steaming spring, he can’t get his half-frozen clothing off quick enough. Literally. He cannot get it off. His chilled fingers fumble at untying his gloves at the wrist and unlacing his boots, achieving nothing but frustration. Satoru steps in to help without needing to be asked, peeling layers off of Suguru and serving to steady him while he hops out of his hakama.

As soon as Suguru frees himself of his socks, he doesn’t bother waiting on Satoru.

A low, drawn hiss slides through his teeth as he lowers himself into the steaming water, his skin turning brighter and pinker by the second. It’s a pleasing kind of burn, the heat singing out any trace of damp cold left in his body. Once settled, Suguru plugs his nose and briefly dips under, letting the spring’s water take the chill from his ears and melt any ice crystals clinging to his hair.

He pokes his head above the surface, water lapping at his chin and hair moving around him like a sea of kelp. From his comfortable vantage point, he watches as Satoru lazily strips off what few layers he has on.

His haori and trousers pool on the spring-warmed stone underfoot; his scarf is gently folded over a low branch on a nearby pine. His bare skin is smooth and faintly luminous in a manner that reminds Suguru of the white jade dragon sculptures that decorate the castle interior. His scales—most of them on his tail, but a smattering speckle his lower back as well—are a pure white, but when the light hits them there is sometimes a little tilt of color, like mother of pearl but subtle, soft, and almost translucent.

Once naked, Satoru turns and kicks over a small, snow-dusted basket of yuzu sitting at the spring’s edge, sending the fruits tumbling in. Then he takes a short three-step running start and leaps into the air, legs pulled in close and his tail curled under him.

Suguru closes his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut right as Satoru hits the water, breath held as he’s splashed squarely in the face. As soon as Satoru surfaces, gleefully grinning, Suguru smacks the top of the water to splash him right back.

Satoru only laughs, pushing his dripping wet hair back between his horns. “So? Isn’t this nice?”

“Incredible,” Suguru contentedly moans back.

Tucked away as it is—down a winding path, surrounded by snow-dusted trees and natural, craggy walls—he too often forgets that this is an option he has access to. And what a luxury it is, having a whole hot spring to themselves. It's right here within the safety of the castle’s grounds, too.

The water is just shy of uncomfortably hot, which is a perfect contrast to the bitter chill in the evening air. Little flurries dissipate in the steam that rises from its surface. Snow cannot even stick to the surrounding stone, which remains warm to the touch. Suguru leans back in the water, letting it soothe his slight aches from all their tussling on the beach.

The day has been both exhausting and invigorating. Though his first flight and first sight of the ocean are certainly high points in his memories, Suguru is still more fond of the time spent with Satoru, walking side by side in the sand and rolling together in the snow. He loved everything about it: Satoru conjuring and carving ice to please him; his willingness to entertain Suguru’s whims and look after him at the same time; that he isn’t too proud to cede a little dignity for the sake of having some fun together.

And then there’s Satoru himself, too handsome whether he’s windswept on a beach or soaking wet in a bath. Too endearing, even with his flippant words and ways. Too charmingly sweet despite his terrible strength and ability.

“Suguru. Suguru, watch this,” Satoru says, drawing Suguru out of his relaxed reverie. He waits, still staring at Suguru. “Are you watching?”

“I’m watching.”

Satoru lines himself up beside one of the bobbing, floating yuzu, which is swiftly sent shooting into the air with a well-placed tail strike. It whizzes into a high arc, traveling over their secluded garden and beyond its tall stone walls, and comes down gods knows where. Hopefully not on the head of some bewildered groundskeeper.

Satoru is mightily pleased with the display, grinning bright as he looks expectantly at Suguru. “Did you see?”

“I saw. Nice height and distance.” Suguru smiles and adds, “But don’t overexert yourself or you’ll pass out in here.”

Satoru scoffs, already back to bopping fruit around on the water’s surface. “I will not.”

Yet his normally snowy-complexion is dusted with a soft, pretty pink, the slight flush under his skin betraying the fact that hot, steamy water does have some effect on him. Perhaps not as severely as it does on Suguru, who feels dizzy if he simply stands up too fast in here, but…

“Well, you almost did the last time,” Suguru mutters under his breath, recalling all too clearly how Satoru had flopped into his arms after his fifth underwater handstand, languishing from the heat. “It’s okay if you’re sensitive to warmer temperatures, Satoru. I think no less of you.”

Satoru sucks air in between his teeth, hands on his hips. “Oh, Suguru, Suguru, Suguru. I wasn’t dizzy from the heat! I was playing it up for attention and you fully bought it.”

Just like with the frostnip, then. Suguru scoffs.

“Is that so? You sure showed me, then,” he dryly replies, “for bothering to care about your welfare. Next time, I simply won’t.”

Satoru frowns for a moment and then disappears under the water to escape judgment. With his tail propelling him along, he clears one side of the small spring to the other in but a second, popping up out of the water scarcely an inch from Suguru. He’s dripping soaked and pouting and using his pretty blue eyes in ways that make Suguru’s remaining self-restraint turn soft and malleable.

“Don’t be like that, Suguru,” he whines in a low timbre. “I only did it because I like when you fuss over me. Outside of headaches, though, I don’t have any actual ailments, so…”

“So you fabricate weaknesses to bait me into doting on you.”

“Is that so bad?” Satoru wonders, an arm on either side of Suguru as he leans in over him. “Can you forgive me, Suguru?”

Suguru lifts his chin, making himself stare into Satoru’s face rather than the very full, very glistening chest looming right in front of him. A little too late, he realizes he’s got his bottom lip in between his teeth, worrying it swollen, and suddenly lets go.

“Yes. Whatever. You’re forgiven. Now go horse around or something so I can relax.”

Satisfied with having gotten his way, Satoru pushes himself off the stone and backstrokes across the spring. Suguru takes a deep breath, the steam making his lungs feel clearer but his head no less fuzzy with distraction.

He soaks by the spring’s edge while watching Satoru make his own fun, which mostly consists of smacking more floating yuzu around with his tail. Their bruised peels make the air and water even more fragrant—though it comes at the cost of losing one every few minutes as Satoru shoots or tail-whips the fruit out of sight.

After a while, Suguru is roped in to play as well. Satoru tosses him yuzu to lob back so that he can headbutt them, or try to catch them in his mouth, or whatever other silliness comes to mind. And it’s not exactly a chore for Suguru, getting to observe the strong arc of Satoru’s body when he stretches and leaps up out of the water. Despite being so lean from the waist down—long, slender legs and slim hips and a trim midsection—Satoru is wide in the shoulder and well-muscled across his back, giving Suguru plenty to look at. The setting sun makes the unintended show even prettier, painting warm hues across Satoru’s wet, flushed skin.

Suguru tosses the fruit higher and further to make Satoru work a little harder, laughing along at his antics and his eagerness to get a reaction.

Once they’re all out of yuzu, each one either batted out of the spring or split to pieces, Suguru feels a twinge of disappointment. He sits himself down in his previous spot, catching his breath and letting the cooling mountain air wick some of the feverish heat out of him.

Satoru… Satoru goes to entertain himself once more, riffling through his discarded clothes and laying all the rocks and seashells on the warm, wet stone that borders the hot spring. Standing waist-deep in the water by the edge, he starts lining them up and re-ordering them by some strange metric Suguru isn’t privy to.

But that’s no matter. Suguru’s sure Satoru will explain it all to him later in great detail.

So he instead studies the ways water runs down Satoru’s back. He picks a droplet and follows it with his eyes, chewing his thumbnail as it rolls over pronounced muscle and courses down the dip of Satoru’s lower spine. There are two little dimples on either side, right above his hips, that Suguru can’t stop staring at—first imagining his fingers filling that space, pressed in while he squeezes Satoru closer, and then his heels, ankles crossing behind Satoru’s back to urge him.

His salacious thoughts feel loud. Maybe it’s just the intensity of want behind them and the throbbing pulse in his ears, though, for Satoru pays him no mind. Sorting through seashells and beach stones is apparently distracting work. So, Suguru keeps staring. Satoru is easy to look at, after all: strikingly beautiful in face and body, with or without the horns and pointed ears that further accentuate his inhuman handsomeness. Even his hands are the prettiest Suguru has ever seen. And that short-shorn hair leaves so much of his nape exposed…

Suguru ignores the slight tremble in his fingertips as he presses them to his brow and licks his lips. Like some lecher, his gaze sticks to Satoru’s bare back while imagining how it would feel under his palms right now, his skin steamed by the hot spring and slick-wet to the touch. Or if Satoru turned around now and caught him staring, all predatory grin upon realizing the state he is in…

Under the water, Suguru squeezes his thighs together while thinking of Satoru between them. And then his lashes flutter, his head swimming, and he has to steady himself.

The heat in here is really getting to him. Or maybe it’s all the time spent in close company today. Or it could be what they did last night rearing its head, the memory of it so fresh that Suguru can almost feel Satoru’s tail pressed to him again.

He takes deep breaths, schooling the white-hot heat of his own need into something that can be managed for a time. Ijichi is probably waiting up at the door of their room with an armful of handscrolls and papers for Satoru to read, sign, and seal before day’s end. There will be grumblings about the clan’s head disappearing midday and ignoring his afternoon appointments—visiting dignitaries forced to stay another night in the castle’s guest residences, mutely furious at being left waiting for a dragon who once more could not be found. They still have supper to eat, too. They need proper baths. Suguru ought to write his letters tonight so he can ask Yuta to deliver the seashells and a few other items south sometime this week.

But once all of that is dealt with and they’ve retired for the night, Suguru will come undone. He knows it. Unless the heat he’s saturated with dissipates off before bed, he’s going to be some kind of frenzied; even if what he’s feeling now tapers halfway, he will most definitely be dousing the dry spell they’ve been sharing the past month on. And it feels right enough to do so, anyway—the timing, the unmistakable hunger and its reciprocation, the endcap to the day that has only made Suguru more certain and sure of Satoru and a life with him.

“You know what I should’ve done? Gone diving for crabs while we were out there,” Satoru says, jarring Suguru from his brewing, smoldering thoughts. Halfway, anyway, because Satoru turns and Suguru’s eye is drawn straight to his navel and the thin trail of white hair under it. “Can’t get them any fresher than that. And we could’ve steamed them in here with us! Turned this place into crab soup. Mm, with miso, too. Maybe next time... ugh, but now I’m really in the mood for it. Aren’t you?”

Suguru lifts his stare to Satoru’s face and gives a slow blink, his every previous thought pushed out to make more room for ones of Satoru looking as he does right now. “Hm? For what?”

“For crab.” Satoru mimes cracking their legs and slurping them. It ought to be off-putting but Suguru only feels some deeper, more gnawing need to have Satoru’s mouth on him. Anywhere. “Suguru. Hey. Have you not been paying attention to what I’ve been saying?”

“I’m paying attention to you.” Suguru knows he’s staring, heated and hungry, and can’t make himself stop.

Satoru cocks his head at him, brows pinched inward. Uncharacteristically hesitant, he eyes Suguru up and down.

“Suguru.” Steamy water swishes low around Satoru’s hips as he wades over, rivulets racing down the planes of his upper body in distracting ways. “Are you okay? Are you…”

He pauses, taking in the heavy flush on Suguru’s skin and the slight heaving of his sides.

“Oh, now you’re overheating instead,” he mutters, concern and frustration lacing the grumbling note of it. His hands slip under the water and around Suguru’s waist without warning, already hoisting him to his feet. “Here, let’s get you out so you can cool down a bit. As soon as we’re inside, you can dry off…”

Suguru tunes out more and more of what he’s saying, instead focusing on Satoru’s lips as they move. He’s beyond the point of even pretending to do otherwise. What good reason is there?

He is open and obvious in every way except speaking the words aloud. His hair is a dark, glossy veil that covers his shoulders and molds along his back. Unruly locks of it cling to his wet cheeks and hang across his face, bright-flushed skin peeking through ink-black strands. Heat kindles under his wet skin while cold air dances over it, giving him goosepimples all over. His nipples stand pert and hard, excited by the chill and the closeness of Satoru and the hands still on his waist to steady him.

“Suguru? You… oh. Oh. You’re all—”

He grabs both sides of Satoru’s head and draws him in, kissing until he’s too dizzy to keep at it. Stretched up on his toes, he leans himself up against Satoru’s front, wet skin to wet skin, and catches his breath.

It seems silly now to have waited so long to do this—the reservations, the withholding of more open affection, the time spent talking himself out of it and keeping either of them from taking satisfaction in having each other. He has wanted Satoru almost from the moment of knowing him, hooked by his sincere words and gestures; he has made himself resistant to that feeling almost as long... barring two or three little lapses.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate to cup under his chin and kiss him in turn, acting with the haste of an animal that thinks its meal might be snatched out from under it. His other hand grasps into Suguru’s hip, fingers and claws sinking into the plush muscle there as he wrenches Suguru closer. He slips a leg between Suguru’s and drags him onto his wet, jutted thigh, pushing and pulling while nipping at his lips and across his jaw.

It’s so good that Suguru doesn’t even have to think. One little nudge and Satoru is holding him close, rubbing into him, kissing down his throat with a fervor that has Suguru swooning.

Really swooning. Even in the heated haze of his need, he’s aware that he might pass out if they stay in the steaming waters much longer.

“Take me,” he whispers between shaking breaths, nose rubbing along Satoru’s, “inside.”

He’s close enough to hear the guttural swallow Satoru takes.

Suguru is pulled in against Satoru’s front, hands grasping under his thighs to lift him. The shock of cold air on his flushed skin makes Suguru cling all the harder to Satoru, winding around him for warmth. Their clothes are left by the hot spring along with everything else.

Before they even reach the engawa, Suguru has one hand curled in Satoru’s hair, the other wrapped around an antler-like horn, and their mouths crushed together again. Satoru stumbles blind, fumbling his way up the steps while kissing and carrying him.

They make it over the threshold and to the futon, where Satoru clambers down to his knees with Suguru still coiled around him. They’re both still wet as they lie down together, fabric sticking to their skin. Suguru shivers under Satoru, more from excitement than the chill licking at him from the still-open door to the courtyard. The burning brazier is nearby, too, causing hot and cold air to mingle around them.

In all, it’s akin to nothing Suguru has felt before, anticipation and need coursing through him with torrential speed. He runs his hands over Satoru’s shoulders and down his chest with desperation, fingers curling and nails sinking in to hold him. Air holds less appeal than Satoru’s taste. Nothing else matters at the moment but having him until he can’t anymore.

It takes less effort than he’d expected to shove Satoru over and roll on top of him. Draped chest-to-chest, he kisses Satoru until the surprise on his face melts down into eager acceptance. Suguru moans softly at the hands exploring along his sides and around his waist, craving more touch to sate the prickling need under his flushed skin and between his legs. He lips and licks at Satoru’s jaw and down the side of his neck, smelling yuzu peel and tasting spring water on his skin.

As Suguru works his way lower, leaving mouthy kisses down Satoru’s sternum and stomach, hands bunch in his damp hair. Satoru’s claws trail lightly up the back of his neck, causing a tingle down Suguru’s spine, gently reminded that he is about to bed someone who could rip him apart and eat him if he wanted to.

But Satoru does not want to. Rather, he treats him more tenderly than anyone else has.

Suguru’s cheek drags along Satoru’s hip before coming to rest just above his thigh, getting comfortable where he lay. He looks up the length of Satoru’s body, meeting his stare, before turning his attention to the hard, curved cock laid right beside him—close enough for it to bob and twitch against Satoru’s belly when Suguru’s breath hits it.

It’s flushed a perfect, petal pink at the tip, all the prettier against the soft white hair that starts thin under Satoru’s navel and thickens closer to its base. Suguru can hear Satoru’s held breath as he cradles its weight in his hand and licks all the way up to its flushed head. His lips gently close around just the tip, almost a kiss, and the immediate buck of Satoru’s hips drives a quarter of its length into his mouth.

He makes a noise around it, not entirely surprised or displeased, and plies his tongue against Satoru’s cock while slowly sucking his way off its length. Lying atop one of Satoru’s legs, Suguru uses his weight to try and keep him still as he sinks down, mouth opened even wider to try and take him halfway. His eyes roll for a moment as one of Satoru’s hands settles firm around the back of his head, asserting just enough pressure to keep him from drawing all the way off again. He shivers, too, at the caresses of Satoru’s tail down his back and its brushing along his inner thighs, scales smooth on his skin.

Suguru takes a little more each time he bobs down, working until the head of Satoru’s cock bumps the back of his throat. It’s a soft, natural limitation that he’s never even come up against before but Satoru reaches there with length left over. Anything that Suguru can’t fit in the heat of his mouth he keeps in his hand, fingers squeezing and sliding around its base; he spoils the rest with his tongue and wet kisses and soft moans with his lips wrapped around it.

Some combination of such proves too much for Satoru. Both his hands clasp firm around Suguru’s head, in his hair and over his ears, while he snaps his hips up at the same time. Suguru holds his breath while riding it out, eyes watering as he feels Satoru slide inches deeper and push down the back of his throat, filling it tight. His own arousal surges, even untouched, at the choked sensation and the desperation poured into it and some carnal satisfaction at having swallowed in more than he’d ever imagined possible. The tip of his nose brushes the downy softness of Satoru’s hair, held in place while the organ in his mouth pulses, seed spilling so deep down in his throat that Suguru can’t even taste it—not until he pulls himself off with a wet gasp, some slick traces of it left behind on his tongue as he lets Satoru’s cock flop heavily back onto his belly.

It’s almost sweet. Suguru works his lower jaw side to side, thumb and forefinger pressed in at the hinges by his ears to ease the soreness there. He could certainly be worse off after pulling off such a feat.

Suguru grins, even, as he looks up and sees Satoru sweaty and groaning where he lay, one hand raked back through his own hair and the other still curled in the ends of damp, dark locks. It’s just the start—just Suguru satisfying a curiosity he’s had ever since he forwent using his mouth on Satoru all those nights ago and far away in that mountain cavern.

His attention drifts back down to Satoru’s perfect, pretty prick, licking his already swollen lips anew. It’s slick and glossy now where he cradles it in hand, barely flagging at all even after coming mere moments ago. In three or four slow strokes Satoru is full and hard again, feverishly hot against Suguru’s palm. 

“It’s going to take a lot to wear you out, hm?” Suguru wonders aloud, half-surprised by the deeper rasp to his own voice.

As he rings his fingers around the fullest part of Satoru’s cock, he thinks he’s up to the challenge. Or maybe pent-up longing has overrun his better judgment. Either way, he’s going to give it his best effort.

“If it’s too much,” Satoru croaks, abdominals flexing as he sits up on an elbow, his hair tousled and his stare fixed on the pink flush of his own cock in Suguru’s capable fingers, “you don’t have to try taking me. We could—I mean, any way you want to do it, I will. All I want is you.”

“Satoru,” he purrs while slowly crawling up over him, putting them chest to chest and rubbing himself along Satoru’s length. Nearly nose to nose, his eyes fall half-lidded as he whispers, “All I want is you, too.” Suguru ducks his head to the side, smiling lips almost brushing Satoru’s ear as he adds, “Inside me.”

Something like a shudder grips Satoru. Clawed hands clench tight around Suguru’s hips, their tips pinpricking his flesh, as he grinds Suguru harder down against him.

“You’re sure?” Satoru is still breathing as hard and heavy as he was with Suguru’s throat around him. His voice remains low, some sort of strained calm settled over all the tension bundled up within. “I’m not too much?”

“You’re not.” Desire is making Suguru overly ambitious, perhaps; sentimentality certainly has him set on reassuring Satoru that he is not too much for him in any regard. He sits up, knees bent on either side of Satoru as he straddles his middle. “Not if you let me show you how it’s done. If you can be good and listen to me.”

The uneven half-grin that crosses Satoru’s lips twitches back and forth between a snarl and something softer. Almost breathlessly eager, he hushes out, “I can be. I can be good for you, Suguru.”

Suguru trails his fingers down Satoru’s front, tracing along the lines carved out by tensed, trembling muscle under the skin. “You had better be.”

Satoru’s hands wander—and not gently but hungrily—as he tells Suguru, “I read through the clan’s bridal manual on how wedding nights are supposed to go. To prepare.”

Suguru can’t do anything but chuckle at that, wondering what on earth it must be like between two dragons. Whatever the Gojo clan prescribes for their married heirs, Suguru is certain it doesn’t apply to a much frailer human like himself.

“So thoughtful of you,” he praises, even if he is of no mind to let Satoru try out whatever clan breeding methods he has in mind.

He cups Satoru’s chin and teases along his bottom lip with a thumb, pleased with the way Satoru looks up at him—starving, salivating, wanton. He drags his thumb upward, pushing Satoru’s hungry grin wider and exposing one of his long eye teeth in full. From there he slides his hand over to Satoru’s ear, gently sliding pinched fingers along its pointed length and watching how it makes his eyes unfocus

“Is there some oil we can use, Satoru?” he gently asks, still fiddling with his ear. “Lantern oil would work.”

“No… no, I have something better.” A touch frantic, Satoru lurches under him as he reaches a long arm off the futon and scrabbles at one of the pull-handles on the nearby apothecary chest of drawers. He snags a small, dark-tinted bottle by the cork, which he eagerly pops out with his thumb.

It’s of familiar make—clearly another of Shoko’s offerings. Satoru stoppers his finger against the opening and quickly tips it, leaving just a dot of thick, wet oil on its pad. He rubs it between his fingers, testing it, before pouring generously into his palm.

“Well don’t waste it all,” Suguru hisses, knowing every drop will be of use.

“I have a dozen bottles like this,” Satoru laughs back, sounding pleased with himself. “Bigger ones, too. And I’m not wasting any. I told you, I know what to do.”

His claws blunt down to tamer, shorter nails as he works a hand under Suguru, running a slick finger along his seam and over the soft rim of his hole.

“No, no, let me,” Suguru insists, lifting up before Satoru can go any further. He snatches the bottle from Satoru and douses his own fingers, intent on ensuring he is as prepared as possible for what lies ahead. Faced with Satoru’s open disappointment, though, he sighs and tells him, “For this first time, at least.”

It’s just that Satoru is both inexperienced and ravenously eager, and if his excitability at being in Suguru’s mouth is any indication of what he might do next…

With one hand splayed on Satoru’s chest to support himself, Suguru leans his weight forward and starts working a single oiled finger in. His damp hair slips over his shoulder and hangs in a curtain on one side, strands trailing over Satoru under him. He closes his eyes and breathes out as he moves up to two fingers, already growing impatient with the time it’s taking—while Satoru is right there, ready and waiting, breaths audible and his stare intense enough to feel.

While Satoru is obliged to watch Suguru work rather than act, his hands aren’t idle. A soft, strong palm glides down Suguru’s arm and lays across the hand planted right over his heart; his free fingers twist and toy in Suguru’s loose hair, occasionally bunching it in hand and bringing it to his nose and mouth to inhale. His tail snakes fondly along his calf, its coils rubbing gently down his leg. And the way he looks up at Suguru, lips parted and eyes wandering at a leisurely pace…

It’s terribly distracting. It’s maybe the most adoring sort of attention Suguru has ever received.

By the time he is working himself open on a third finger, his brow is furrowed and a sheen of sweat has replaced the springwater that’s since dried away. His mouth hangs open as he draws deeper, fuller breaths, body tingling all over as Satoru’s hands travel up the tensed muscle of his thighs and cup around his waist, squeezing in until his fingertips touch.

“Found a way to keep yourself entertained,” Suguru comments under his breath, now thrusting three fingers in and out of himself with fair ease.

“Trying to be patient for you,” is all Satoru answers, lifting his head and lurching forward to lick a wet stripe up Suguru’s chest, teeth briefly latching around his nipple before settling back as he was.

And that is enough to spur Suguru, who is no less hotblooded at the moment. Satoru’s cock is already oiled from tip to stem, no doubt by Satoru’s hand. Suguru’s fingers slide around the heft of it as he guides it close and holds it firm.

“Stay still for me, Satoru. Can you do that?”

Satoru nods at once, though his fingers dig in behind Suguru’s bent knees and his thumbs press into his thighs, the tendons in his pale hands flexing.

Suguru lowers himself onto the pillar that is Satoru, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. Its cockhead slips against him more than once, frustrating the both of them, until it catches at just the right angle and breeches him at last.

True to promise, Satoru behaves. Even as Suguru eases down onto his cock little by little, whining under his breath, Satoru keeps still under him—which is a mercy. Suguru has no spare wherewithal to consider anything but the need to get himself around the thickest portion of Satoru’s length, which hardly wants to budge. He has to bear down more than he’d anticipated, letting his weight help press it in.

They both let out a noise as the girthiest bit of Satoru suddenly slips inside and the rest all follows, leaving Suguru almost winded. Everything from there is just adjusting to how much of Satoru there is rather than how thick he can be.

A ragged-edged sigh leaves Suguru’s lips as he finally, fully settles down on Satoru’s hips, feeling every inch of him—or close enough to it—solid and searing inside him.

“Don’t move,” he hisses when Satoru shifts slightly under him, whole body seizing with a tremble. “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.”

But even as Satoru gives him another lolling nod, Suguru feels the hips under him begin to rock.

“Not yet, Satoru,” Suguru reminds him, voice pitching higher and breathier. Not while his insides are still getting used to being stretched and rearranged. Not while it still feels so foreign and full that any movement at all has him sucking air through his teeth until it’s semi-comfortable again. “Be good and wait.”

Despite the soundless mouthing of please, please, please Suguru can see on his lips, Satoru restrains himself a little longer. Suguru’s intent isn’t torturous agony, but Satoru’s clenched jaw, gritted teeth, and bruising grip all suggest he is struggling mightily.

After a minute of accommodating the full length inside him, Suguru starts working his hips in small, rocking little circles. His head tips back and he rolls his neck, now able to enjoy how completely filled he is. Every movement has Satoru rubbing somewhere pleasing inside him, a low, diffuse pleasure building as he swivels his hips and gives himself the lightest, barest touch.

It makes Suguru almost giddy, feeling this good. Half the headiness is from having gotten this far at all, having proved himself capable of taking Satoru, giving pleasure and getting it.

He folds himself over and kisses Satoru, smiling at the almost incomprehensible rush of words Satoru pants out while he’s close: ah, I need you, need you, Suguru, I knew you were for me, knew you were, Suguru, I love you, I really hope this isn’t just another dream…

“Not a dream,” Suguru sweetly assures him, face flushed hot at one word in particular.

He gives Satoru a kiss on the cheek before sitting up, both hands fanned out on Satoru’s chest, and giving himself over to what they both want: more. After such a slow, sensuous build up, it’s easy to quicken his pace to something hard and vigorous. He picks himself up just to drop down on Satoru’s cock, almost bouncing on each go.

Suguru bites his lip through his smile, enjoying the sounds Satoru is making at being ridden so hard—and for the third time in the same day, Suguru finds himself astride a dragon.

For a breather, Suguru slows down and leans back, hands splayed behind himself for balance, the heels of his palms digging into Satoru’s thighs. Instead of slamming himself up and down, he returns to a sensuous roll of his stomach and hips, eager to draw this out and give Satoru a good taste of all the ways they can fit together.

At this angle, the slight bulge in his lower stomach is obvious to see—not that Satoru seems to notice, more focused on staring at Suguru from the chest up. It is no doubt even more obvious to feel.

Suguru blindly grabs one of Satoru’s hands off of his hip and repositions it, guiding it along until Satoru’s palm is on his belly and his own hand is laid over it. Suguru presses in, making sure Satoru can feel himself inside—and how deep he reaches, how well Suguru is stuffed, how impossibly joined they are at the moment.

Satoru’s hand slides out from under his and goes back to his hip, squeezing tight.

Suguru gasps and lurches forward as Satoru shifts under him, no longer content or able to lie still and let him do it all. Satoru’s thighs rise at an angle as his knees bend, his feet planted and his heels dug in as he jerks his hips upward. 

Suguru is met mid-bounce by the slap of Satoru against him, that first thrust driving deeper than any he’s felt before. His right wrist is looped in Satoru’s tail and tugged behind his back; the left quickly follows, both of them wrapped in scaly bindings before Suguru registers what it’s up to. With his arms lashed together behind him and pulled firm, his shoulder blades pinching inward and his back bowed, Suguru can’t do anything but ride out the quickening, hammering pace Satoru is setting from under him.

The abrupt loss of control has Suguru’s heart racing even harder. There is a thrill in having none—or in letting Satoru have it, rather, and giving himself no choice but to feel and enjoy it without a single worry or thought at all.

Between Satoru’s hands on his hips, claws sunken in as he drags Suguru down, and the hard thrusting he’s doing under Suguru, Suguru feels every inch on every deep-seated stroke. With his hands tangled up by Satoru’s tail, he can’t so much as touch himself. His cock slaps down against Satoru’s abdomen on each thrust, bounced harder than he’d managed on his own. He can only roll his hips into it, trying to match and meet the rhythm Satoru is chasing to get more, more, more.

From one second to the next, Suguru feels it: the center of everything in him wound up and pummeled against and wrung hard. He sees something like stars, head swimming in the dizzying intensity of it. His mouth hangs open, careless that he is panting and keening like he’s in heat. His knees squeeze inward as he comes, crying louder as he’s fucked just the same all the way through it.

A thin, milky white ribbons along Satoru’s front and slides down his chest. Suguru would be doubled over if not for the tail keeping him half-trussed, helplessly writhing on Satoru’s cock as the crescendoing peak of pleasure turns almost-painful.

He barely has the time to choke out a wet, strangled cry as he’s tipped and flipped onto his back, driven under Satoru as he anchors himself in the tatami with clawed hands and tries to bury himself even deeper inside.

The hurried, frantic rutting reminds Suguru of their first time in each other’s embrace like this, only this time Satoru is trying to put him through the floor. With Satoru’s tail now occupied with curling around one of his legs to help tease them wider apart, making more room for Satoru to wedge himself in deep, Suguru’s arms are free to move—if sore at the shoulder.

He wraps them around Satoru and buries his face in his neck, lost in the sweat and smell of him. Even though he’s just come, his spent cock leaks and throbs as there is no respite from the thrill of it.

Suguru’s wet eyelashes flutter at the growling groan issued in his ear, head lolling as Satoru nuzzles in against him with an open mouth and long, bared fangs. He grunts softly as Satoru’s last, most desperate thrusts push and slide him across the futon. A different sort of warmth pools low in him as Satoru sinks in and stays put; his cock is so big and the fit so tight that Suguru feels every pump and twitch it makes.

Satoru goes still on top of him, aside from the heaviness of his breathing. Suguru keeps his legs tight around his middle, nerves heightened and oversensitive to every slight move; to have Satoru pull out now would be too much, the absence of him more overwhelming than having him linger where he’s lodged. And more than that, even… the need that had suffused every inch of him back in the spring hasn’t yet abated. Not fully. Not for long.

Satoru is clearly in no hurry to get off of him, apparently enjoying the warmth and stickiness of Suguru squished under him. Suguru is no better, though, finding comfort in the weight draped over him—and in the close, intimate feel of Satoru’s breath in the crook of his neck.

“I could do this forever,” Satoru murmurs against Suguru’s reddened, marked-up throat. He reaches a hand back to skim up the outside of one of the bare, trembling thighs still caged around him, squeezing appreciatively at the thick muscle there. “Keep you here with me and never let you leave this room again.”

Suguru can’t help but snort into hoarse laughter at such an impossible declaration. He licks his lips, his exhaustion already fading at the view of Satoru above him—pink-cheeked and sweaty, his hair a mess around his horns. With the sun freshly set and no lanterns lit, the room has quickly grown dim. Satoru’s eyes stand out all the more for it.

“Let’s just start with tonight and see how you feel in the morning.”

“I will feel the same,” Satoru says, grinding his hips down into Suguru until he moans and tips his head back, spine arching up as Satoru’s firming cock sinks in a little deeper. “And I’ll make sure you feel so good you won’t want to go anywhere, either.”

Suguru giggles softly to himself at the pecking kisses Satoru smothers across his cheeks and along his jaw, squirming as those lips make their way down his sensitive, ticklish neck.

He is more than inclined to let Satoru make his case. 

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No work gets done that evening. No letters home are written. No chores are seen to. No baths, either, though they could each use one. They don’t even eat the supper left at the door until it’s gone cold, left there by servants afraid to interrupt. They tire together, sleep tangled in each other, and then wake again to resume where they left off, never quite feeling sated so long as the other is within reach.

Sometime around sunrise, they break long enough for Satoru to fix Suguru’s tea and ensure he drinks every last drop. They brush their teeth and eat their breakfast and Suguru trades the gash-torn robe he has on for one of Satoru’s, its white fabric stark against the light tan of his skin and the red-rimmed bite marks on his torso, the suckling bruises down his thighs and neck, and the little claw marks where Satoru’s excitement made him slightly careless.

The second day is much like the night before, only Satoru’s hunger is half-tamed and he is a better lover for it. He’s more attentive, recalling everything Suguru had most enjoyed the night prior and improving on it. He takes Suguru at a slower pace, the urgent chase of release traded for a fixation on coaxing needier sounds out of Suguru—fluttering gasps, hisses, moans of his name—and drawing out how long they’re twined together.

It’s enough to leave Suguru dazed and dreamy through it all, barely cognizant of anything beyond the man in his arms. He is drunk on kisses and adoration. He’s weak from the pleasure heaped on him, more and more inclined to lie back and let Satoru put in the effort. If not for whatever skilled herbalism or magic Shoko works in that oil, he is sure he’d be too tender from the waist down to do anything but lie still on his stomach. As it is, he feels only satisfyingly achy and wonderfully full, every ounce of want well-fed.

Suguru can’t even bring himself to scold Satoru when he snarls at Ijichi through the door, adamant he’ll take the poor man’s hand off if he so much as knocks again. If anything, it excites him to see Satoru so riled, hips lifting impatiently as he blindly guides Satoru’s head back down between his legs.

It’s more of the same come nightfall, too—waking a dozen times to Satoru’s lips and hands on him, content to roll over and let Satoru bury himself facedown in his chest or mount him for the twentieth time or simply rock against him as they kiss.

By the following day, though, Suguru’s stamina has been whittled down to nothing. He wakes well after noon, dry-mouthed and disoriented and surrounded by the wreckage of the futon and the tatami flooring under it. He winces, in varying states of crusty and sticky all over, and gathers up his knotted, matted hair so it isn’t sticking to his back and chest. He is a mess. Unsurprisingly.

Satoru… not so much. There’s an effortless beauty about him always, his hair lightly tousled and his ethereal features relaxed in post-coital slumber. The noonday light catches in the fluffy white of his hair like a fuzzy halo. His antlered horns are strung with some tatters of shredded bedding or clothing—Suguru knows not which, but he picks the little pieces off and flicks them away. Naked and uncovered, he remains in a deep, contented slumber, the tip of his tail twitching lightly in his sleep.

A few hard love bites on his shoulders and chest haven’t completely healed away yet, despite Satoru’s preternatural ability to do so. Neither have the deeper scratches Suguru left on his upper thighs while Satoru was stuck deep in his throat.

Suguru flops himself across Satoru’s chest to wake him, laughter coming out warm and raspy at the wide-eyed face he makes.

“Hm? Are we going again?” Satoru blinks and rubs the clinging threads of sleep away. His smile comes naturally, eyes half-mooned with the breadth of it; one of his hands is already running up the curve of Suguru’s backside, fingers trailing over spots still ruddy and tender.

Suguru laughs again at his willingness to go for a… a round he dare not put a number to. He slides off of Satoru to lay beside him instead. “Ugh, no. Not for now.”

All they’ve done for two days and nights is lie together, eat, and doze together. They both need a scrub down. They need some fresh air. Suguru wants to roll himself downhill and into the hot spring again, this time to soothe away the lingering ache in his thighs and back and almost everywhere else.

But he doesn’t want to leave Satoru’s side. And he wants Satoru to leave him even less.

“You do have to get back to running your clan sometime, you know,” Suguru reluctantly reminds him regardless. Without a push, it may take days for Satoru to do so.

Satoru makes a sound like a cross between a grunt and a hum, clearly disinterested in the notion of leaving their bedroom to deal with the headaches that come with so many inter-clan relationships.

“It’s not as though I’ll be far, Satoru. Just on the other end of the castle. We’ll only be apart some hours,” Suguru half-heartedly consoles, knowing that some separation is inevitable. “And I won’t be going anywhere while you’re gone.”

Satoru merely pushes his lips off to one side, still unenthused with the idea.

Suguru lets the issue lie for a few minutes more, not in any great haste to chase Satoru out. Nor is he in any hurry to get up and move at all, despite knowing they have been secluded together for an indecently long time already. He occupies himself with petting and pinching at little tufts of Satoru’s hair, amazed by how nice it is—fluffy, soft, somewhat composed—after the last days and nights. His own tangled, knotted, sticky tresses are going to be a nightmare to get sorted again.

Satoru breaks the comfortable silence with, “You should come with me, Suguru.”

Suguru imagines he’s joking at first. Satoru’s raised brows and expectant stare has him realizing otherwise.

“What, me? With clan business? How?”

“Nanami is always complaining that I overwork him.” Satoru rolls onto his side, instantly animated. “You could sit in on my meetings and transcribe them in his place. It would allow us to spend more time together. Not alone, unfortunately, but I would prefer it over going hours and hours without seeing you at all.”

The prospect of accompanying Satoru around the castle, busy with something to do, has Suguru abuzz with excitement. It being of some help to a beleaguered Nanami is appealing, too. But it doesn’t take long for Suguru’s initial grin to die down as inescapable reality sets in.

“But that’s important work, Satoru, and I can’t write that quickly. Or that well. Not—not while trying to keep up with people speaking. I’ve never done so before.”

“You can, though. You’ll get the hang of it quickly.” Satoru drags a curled finger under Suguru’s chin and dips in to hover his lips close. In a smiling whisper, he adds, “And I’ll let any mistakes of yours slide so long as you give me a kiss for each one.”

Suguru leans away as Satoru leans in, three fingers pressed to Satoru’s mouth to hold him back. “Won’t my being there cause issues? A random human present in your court?”

Satoru stares at him blank-faced, a subtle frown sliding into place at the question. “Issues with who?”

“Your family representatives. Important guests and dignitaries. Dragons and youkai and kami who don’t expect to see a human sitting in on their affairs.”

“Oh.” Satoru scoffs, dismissing the concern. The points of his canines show in his grin. “The first one of them to make an untoward comment about your being there gets to serve as an impromptu lesson for all the others.”

Suguru sighs. He should’ve expected as much. “I don’t want to cause unnecessary trouble for anyone. Or for you.”

“If someone under my roof is displeased with you, it is necessary.”

Suguru tries and fails to hold in a smile at that. He knows he’s blushing, too. There is no helping it.

“It would be nice to have some real responsibilities of my own. Something outside this room and the private wing of the castle,” Suguru muses, eager for the chance to put his recent learning to use. He can impress Satoru. He can contribute something worthwhile here. “But… I don’t want to be handed a job that I can’t do right.”

“You can shadow Nanami for a while, then, and see what it would entail,” Satoru easily suggests, shrugging a shoulder. “I’ll have him instruct you, too. Not every day, obviously. You must still have your own time to train and wander and read. Or whatever you want to do.”

Suguru hums softly, liking the sound of that. He leans over and kisses Satoru on the forehead first, then the lips. In a close whisper, he asks, “Come with me to take a bath? We ought to open the door and let it air out in here, too.”

“Mmmm, a bath sounds nice. Especially with you.”

With his head clear for the first time in days, Suguru sits up, stretches, and surveys the damage properly.

Their futon is likely not salvageable, but there are spares in storage. The floors, though… in his excitement, Satoru’s claws raked through the bedding under them and down into the tatami mat underneath, which is a bit more of a nuisance to replace.

Suguru flicks Satoru in the shoulder and points at one of the deeper gashes in the flooring. “I’m lucky it wasn’t me that you did this to.”

“Wasn’t luck,” he replies, one hand slipping around Suguru’s waist to pull him in close for one more embrace, “but my conscious effort to do it to anything but you.”

“Is that so?” Suguru glances down at himself, a mottled mess of suckling bruises, reddened marks from tail bindings and lashings, and myriad reminders of where Satoru’s hands clung to him. “Then what are all these bites on my shoulders and neck? And the little scratches your nails have left on my thighs and waist?”

“Evidence. For others to see that you’re already claimed,” Satoru smoothly replies. “And, well... I will admit I’m not perfect. Forgive me if I was a little overwhelmed.”

“You are forgiven,” Suguru says, bending his neck to kiss Satoru on the shoulder. “But I don’t think anyone here was in doubt about your claim to me.”

If they somehow were, the two nights and full day spent locked away together surely clarified things well enough. Suguru grimaces, thinking of the things Ijichi and other passersby surely heard through the walls.

Satoru is all smiles, though, plainly comfortable with the idea of the whole castle knowing. “A little extra clarity never hurt anyone.”

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They strike a balance between productivity and indulging their newly unleashed hunger for each other. Mostly.

On days when Suguru is tending to his own personal interests and pastimes, Satoru slips away to find him, eager to steal as much time together as possible before a beleaguered Ijichi comes to fetch him back to work. If Suguru is idling in the study, Satoru will sweep in, knock the handscrolls from the table, and lay Suguru on it instead. If he is practicing archery in the castle’s training grounds, Satoru will appear behind him, hands wandering down his front and lips on the side of his neck, causing a distraction until he is dealt with. If they happen to cross paths in a hallway, Satoru will try to have him right there; it’s often all Suguru can do to drag them both to a storage room while joined at the lips.

On days when Suguru attends court, Satoru is somewhat better behaved, apparently contented merely by having him within sight. For Suguru, though… it is an interesting, enlightening experience.

While sitting in on one audience after another, he learns that in addition to dominion over winter and ice and the snowpacks that will feed the rivers that other dragon clans manage, Satoru is a… mediator of sorts. A local authority. A proper lord whom various beings will beseech for aid or protection or ruling on matters of contention. Satoru receives tributes and hears petitions and argues matters with representatives of other dragon clans while Suguru keeps a tally of the things gifted to Satoru and his clan—gold, rice, oil, rare woods, weapons, and luxuries—and records the pleas that he come kill some demon or another.

A very different side of Satoru comes out in full when dealing with subordinate clans and vocal elders, it turns out. And it’s not unappealing, seeing him stone-faced and too utterly calm while listening to some long-winded plea for Gojo clan funds or the muscle to chase off encroaching rivals from the north and west. 

It strikes Suguru more often than ever that Satoru is handsome. Incredibly, breathtakingly so. Suguru will always prefer seeing him with a casual smile, warm and boyish instead of icy and imperial, but… It’s hard not to forget himself here and openly stare—long enough even for Satoru to glance his way and catch him, the slight hint of a smile curling along his pale lips.

Distracting looks aside, Suguru spends the next weeks strictly forcing himself to focus on the task at hand: diligently recording accurate notes of all that transpires in Satoru’s official meetings. Nanami sits beside him at the very back of the room, taking down his own notes in quick, efficient brushstrokes. Afterwards, they go through both sets side by side to compare them, Nanami pointing out all the areas Suguru needs to improve in if he hopes to take over a portion of the duties here. He even gives Suguru old volumes of recorded meetings to read through and copy for practice.

It is not a bad arrangement in all, though it is a far cry from what Suguru has done all his life. He gets the hang of the job more quickly than he'd expected to. Nanami finds fewer faults in his work. Satoru is quick to praise Suguru’s attentiveness and skill whenever some guest in attendance carelessly remarks upon the oddity of a human in their midst—and the cool, heavy glares he turns on anyone who gives Suguru so much as an off look are highly effective in curbing any further questioning of his presence.

As he settles into easy familiarity with the role, Suguru finds himself less stressed and hurried in his note-taking. He even finds he can divert his attention—usually while guests um and er and stutter before Satoru out of jittery nervousness—and spend a moment or two entertaining himself by teasing Satoru from afar.

He locks eyes with him from across the room while licking his clean brush tip to a fine point, testing Satoru’s ability to remain impassively unreadable in front of so many sets of eyes. While writing, Suguru toys with his loose hair, knowing how much Satoru loves to do the same; he will also sweep it back over his shoulder and bare his long neck for Satoru to see, often with love bites that only Satoru knows of hidden just below the collar of his inner robes. He wears to court whatever Satoru likes most—particular outfits, recent gifts, anything with a Gojo clan crest or that clearly shows his connection to the dragon sitting at the head of the room—knowing it will cause Satoru’s eye to wander to him even more often.

It makes for good sport and helps to liven up the long hours of listening to ancient spirits drone on about services rendered to the clan centuries ago or agreements allegedly signed by some great Gojo ancestor in a bygone era. It gives Suguru something to look forward to as he grinds ink and fills scroll after scroll with dry documentation of clan affairs, certain that Satoru will leap upon him as soon as the meeting is adjourned, carry him to some store room, and get his blood pumping.

That is what Suguru is hoping to spur when, from the far back of the room, he catches Satoru’s eye by toying gently with his bottom lip. Having snared Satoru’s divided attention, he worries it flushed and pillowy full. With half-lidded eyes and his brush twirling in his fingers, he bites down into the plush cushion of his lip and drags it slow between his teeth.

It has the desired effect of making Satoru’s throat bob and some pink dust his cheeks as he wheels back on whoever is speaking to repeat themselves.

But as Suguru grins to himself and goes to catch up on his notes, he notices from the corner of his eye that he has caught Nanami’s attention, too.

It sobers him in a heartbeat, any giddy delight at toying with Satoru wiped clean off his face. The back of his neck burns red-hot at the thought of Nanami—strict, faultlessly professional, keenly critical Nanami—catching him all but loosening his collar and showing off his nape in the middle of a crowded meeting with heads of smaller clans. He can feel the judgment radiating off the man beside him as tangibly as warmth from an overfed hearth.

Suguru presses his lips into a thin line and sits rigidly still, chastened and embarrassed. His once-sure brush stumbles to keep up with the discussion going on, flustered out of his wits. For the remainder of the long-winded meeting, Suguru’s eyes do not leave the blank page he is filling with text. He dares not even look Satoru’s way and risk making a fool of himself twice. He dreads meeting Nanami’s disappointed stare even more.

As the guests finally stand to leave and Satoru goes to see them out, Suguru picks up his brush, its case, and the notes he recorded. Sheepish, he follows Nanami out of the audience room and to the quiet privacy of the nearby castle archives.

With a shy cough, Suguru approaches and wordlessly hands over his work to be reviewed and approved.

“I didn’t know this name,” Suguru mentions some moments into Nanami’s silent reading, pointing out a few places where he wasn’t sure how to address the speaker, “or this one here.”

“I will write it in.” Nanami uses his own brush and red ink to add the appropriate characters next to Suguru’s uncertain ones. Without looking up, he adds, “It takes time to recognize the faces and voices of so many officials and representatives, it’s true. But less distraction would behoove you, as well.”

Suguru grimaces to himself. “Right. Yes. You know, though, I wasn’t actually…”

Nanami looks up to meet him in the eye and suddenly, Suguru can’t even mount a muddy half-lie in his own defense. Nervous, he fusses with his hair and ears, his lobes heavy with a new pair of shakudo earrings Satoru had crafted for him. “It was just a… a little bit of self-amusement.”

Nothing in Nanami’s expression changes aside from the lifting of his brows. “Your efforts to flirt in the midst of an audience leave you open to introducing errors into your work.”

Suguru clasps his hands together and hangs his head. “I… yes. Sorry, Nanami.”

“You’re sorry? In terms of impropriety, what you did in there is inconsequential, really.”

Suguru lifts his head, happily surprised to get even a little bit of slack from Nanami. “Oh. That’s a relief, then. I’m glad it wasn’t a true nuisance.”

“I have heard you two doing far worse, is all I mean,” Nanami off-handedly adds, back to methodically checking each column of Suguru’s notes. 

“Ah. I see.” Suguru is sweating under his clothes now. “Sorry, Nanami.”

Nanami gives the barest shrug at that. “As Gojo-sama’s consort, I suppose it’s to be expected. I would prefer it if you could confine it to hours outside of the daily work schedule. Or at the very least outside of meetings where outsiders are present—”

“Completely understandable. Sorry.”

“—but with him, I know it must be…” Nanami takes a while to search for a word. With dry displeasure—and maybe something like pity directed at Suguru—he sighs. “Demanding.”

“What an excellent and accurate word for it.” Suguru gives a soft, nervous laugh as he inches a little closer to Nanami, weighing whether it’s worth pushing Satoru a little under the boat to save some face here. “You know, a little bit of distraction actually improves his mood. It keeps him from rushing through meetings or getting terse with the talkative ones. So. I kind of have to. Flirt.”

Nanami squints through the eye glasses he wears, open in his skepticism. “You have to peacock for Gojo-sama in the meetings?”

“A little bit, yes.” Suguru swallows, shifty and sweaty-palmed as he tries to salvage something of his decent reputation. “For everyone’s sake.”

Nanami lets out a deep, low sigh. He pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. The archives room, with all of its shelves stacked high with scrolls and books, is silent for a few long moments.

“I do suppose you’re the expert. To your credit, he is far more bearable than when he left. He has been more productive in the last few weeks as well, even accounting for the time he disappears to track you down,” Nanami seems to decide. “At least when you’re here, he isn’t running off for hours at a time.”

“Ah...”

“And he has been on far better behavior with you present in the room. A drastic reduction in the number of threatened beheadings, I must admit.” 

“That is good,” Suguru says, though it is also concerning.

After a little more thought, Nanami resigns himself to the state of things and suggests, “Be more subtle about it, if you must. It would not do to have some outside figure take notice.”

Suguru blinks back at him, never having expected to actually meander his way into semi-approval. “Of course. More subtle. That is exactly what I will endeavor to do.”

“As for this?” Nanami gestures to the scrolls Suguru has filled with careful notes on who was present, how much and what kinds of tribute were offered, and the Gojo clan’s protective obligations in return. “It’s passable. But your hand became sloppy at the end here, Geto-sama. Along with the names, you will need to correct it when compiling this in the account book and historical record.”

Suguru tucks his hair behind his ear and nods. “I’ll take care of it, then. Thank you, Nanami, for being patient with me. And, um… understanding.”

“It’s not a problem,” Nanami answers, brusque as ever. “Gojo-sama would likely kill me if I was anything less than encouraging of you.”

As if to underline that point, he turns his head by a fraction. Suguru follows the motion of Nanami’s antlers and the line of his sight and sees Satoru leaned in the doorway of the far wall, his arms crossed as he watches them.

Suguru gives him a quick little wave, bidding him to wait.

“Nanami, no,” Suguru then assures him, turning his attention back to Nanami in full. “He relies on you. He likes you.”

“He likes to bother me,” Nanami curtly counters. “And he has a talent for it. But it’s no matter, as I would speak to you in the same manner regardless. You are competent and will continue to improve. And the fewer of these meetings I have to sit in on, the more work I can do elsewhere.”

“And the more rest you can get as well, I hope,” Suguru says, half a reminder. “Haibara would like that, I think.”

Nanami’s cheeks show a telltale hint of color for once. With his own work bundled in his arms, he clears his throat and gives Suguru a short bow. “Good evening, Geto-sama.”

“Good evening,” Suguru answers back, watching as Nanami leaves—paying respect to Satoru first—and Satoru approaches.

“You two talked an awful long time,” he says in a low, almost grumble.

“Mhm. He was evaluating my work.”

“Still?”

“Yes, still. To make sure I’m not introducing all kinds of errors into your family’s record-keeping. You ought to be grateful he’s so diligent, Satoru, and willing to stay longer to help me. You know he hates making Haibara wait to eat their supper.”

Satoru scrunches his nose and waves all of that off, clearly unconcerned. “He was looking at you when we were in there. When you were making eyes at me and begging to have that mouth put to use.”

“Because I was a little too obvious,” Suguru mumbles back.

“I like when you’re overeager. And regardless, he didn’t need to gawk as long as he did.”

Suguru smacks his lips, too frazzled to deal with Satoru’s complaining. Had he turned his head and spied Nanami biting his lip and making bedroom eyes at someone, he’d have stared, too.

“Wait. Satoruuu,” he teases with a growing smile, “are you jealous?”

That in and of itself isn’t shocking, for it goes hand-in-hand with the dragon’s possessive need to keep him. He’d swept Suguru here precisely to hoard him all to himself. He makes sure Suguru is dressed to display exactly who has claim to him. He likes to mark Suguru with his scent and his soft bites and jewelry fashioned to suit him.

But of Nanami? Someone in his own employ?

“All the time,” he casually admits while messing up the neatly stacked papers Nanami prepared for tomorrow’s shift. “But Nanami and the rest all know I’d lop the head off of anyone who tried to act on so much as a—”

“Satoru.” Suguru rests one hand on his hip, taken aback at how off-handedly he can suggest such a thing. “You are not lopping off anyone’s head on my account. You cannot go around saying that so flippantly.”

“Oh? Am I not allowed?” Satoru presses a hand to his chest and leans back. Then he grins and leans in, kissing Suguru’s cheek. “You haven’t even married me yet and you’re already trying to run my household?”

“Yet? Married?” Suguru isn’t certain whether this is Satoru being silly or Satoru being serious. They’re often indistinguishable. “What are you talking about?”

“Getting married, obviously.”

Suguru still doesn't follow the leap there. “Who says we’re getting married?”

Satoru rests a palm on the cabinet beside them, leans his weight onto it, and gives Suguru a questioning, disbelieving scoff.

“Me, of course. And anyone who has laid eyes on us surely thinks so as well. I’m curious to know what you think courtship leads to, if not a wedding. Is there some secret peasant version I’m unaware of?” he asks, teeth showing.

Suguru rolls his eyes, tempted to turn and walk out right there—let Satoru chase him all the way back to their room and then get on his knees to apologize for the peasant quip.

“Well, I’m now wondering if you’re well acquainted with your own version. Marriages for people of your status are all about gaining some sort of advantage, be it land or wealth or connections or name. None of which I can offer you, so...”

“Usually, sure. But I have no great need of those things, so…” Satoru mirrors Suguru's own disbelief and confusion back at him. “Suguru, what on earth did you think I was going to do with you when I brought you here?”

“After you made it clear you weren’t going to eat me? Concubinage.”

Satoru’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “That's backwards. Who the hell takes a concubine before they have a legal wife?”

“I don’t know?” He is at a loss for why Satoru is making him out to be the unreasonable one here. “Perhaps someone who picks a man so far beneath his social station that no one else would ever approve of or even recognize a marriage between them. I’m not really suitable material on multiple fronts.”

“The only approval that matters is yours and mine,” he snaps, exasperation making his temper short. “If I want you for a wife, who is going to stop me? If I name you one and dress you like one and treat you like one, who is to tell me otherwise?”

“Aside from myself? Your family and their allies. You may be stronger—”

“I am stronger—”

“—but they outnumber you, Satoru. And you really can’t go around killing anyone who gives you grief,” he adds. Unpleasant as the majority of Satoru’s clan—and the other major dragon clans as well—seem to be, Suguru is not keen on Satoru kinslaying again anytime soon. “And why are you talking of me as a wife, anyway?”

“That’s the terminology used in the clan’s legal records. Husband, wife. But it doesn’t really matter what you are, except—oh. Being human.” He sucks air in between his teeth as if only now remembering Satoru’s human state of existence. “And as lowborn as it gets. Hm. That’ll cause a little bit of a stir, too, yeah.”

“You don’t say,” Suguru dryly remarks. “All the more reason to avoid taking needless risk. You have more than enough to deal with as is, Satoru. What point is there in riling up your clan? Or bringing them swarming here to complain? Even if you get your way, it won’t be pretty. We already live as if we are married, anyway, honestly.”

“Well, yes. True. But if it’s official—”

“It’s a headache, Satoru. I appreciate that you are willing to do that much for me when it benefits you so little. And I... I do like the idea. But if it’s going to cause a stir that possibly leads to more…” Suguru gestures vaguely, uneasy with Satoru’s casual disregard in baiting the rest of his clan’s discontent, “intraclan strife, I really don’t think it’s worth the trouble.”

Satoru looks as if he means to say one thing, but closes his mouth and says another. “If you like it, then there’s no reason not to. But there’s no rush, either. Give it some thought, Suguru. Let yourself consider it, at least.”

“Mhm,” Suguru noncommittally hums, turning to gather up his work for the evening. 

“Or,” Satoru says while easing up behind him, mouth just shy of Suguru’s ear, “just listen to your handsome, clever husband and take his word for it.”

“I can already tell you’re going to run that into the ground,” Suguru says, even as something in his gut flutters at the idea of Satoru being his in such an outwardly obvious way.

But the vow they have is already as binding and lasting as marriage. Their compatibility already outstrips that of couples who have been together for years. Satoru is nothing if not dedicated to him, too—so much so that Suguru lacks for nothing but a title that would draw him scorn and unwanted scrutiny.

“I can already tell you like it,” Satoru whispers back, grinning as he lifts a blush-sporting Suguru up onto one of the cabinets that stores hundreds of years worth of clan record-keeping.

And Suguru can’t deny that.

Chapter Text

Either Suguru has become well accustomed to the cold or Satoru’s good mood of late has made the weather exceptionally mild. Or perhaps both, and they’ve met somewhere in the middle.

At Suguru’s suggestion, they take their midday meal outside in his favorite pleasure garden. It sits some way from the castle itself, spacious and more wild-grown than the rest. Moss-covered evergreens and sturdy shrubs add welcome color to the otherwise uniform white imposed by the everlasting snow. The garden also boasts the largest pond within the castle’s expansive grounds, its surface glassy smooth and ice-rimmed.

They have to tread their own path through the fresh, knee-deep snow. Suguru makes Satoru take the lead, knowing it is far easier work for him, but directs him on where to go: deep into a densely wooded corner with a pretty view of the half-frozen pond and one of its arched moon bridges. There, upon a large, flat-topped boulder, they spread out a plush blanket for cushion and set down their four-tiered, black-and-gold lacquered jubako. Half the tiers are filled with sweets to satisfy Satoru, while the rest hold the makings of an actual meal: stewed daikon and lotus root, steamed eggs, pickled vegetables, and fresh crab already shelled and cleaned.

Suguru sighs in contentment as soon as he is perched cross-legged atop the boulder, enjoying the view.

He spent his childhood in the sun, in the wild. He grew up following game trails with his mother, foraging with his grandparents, wading through streams and climbing trees, weaving reed baskets, and gently coaxing beetles and centipedes and frogs into his hands to carry around. Nature often feels as much like home as the one-room house his family shared.

But Suguru has spent less time in it since coming here, thanks to the constant cold and a growing number of responsibilities within the castle’s halls. He’d like to change that. While he misses the verdant spring of his home vale, there is much to be enjoyed here too… if dressed and acclimated for the temperature. The terrain’s sweeping blue skies, white and grey clouds, and sparkling snows are certainly beautiful. The mountains surrounding them are breathtaking. There are ever-present plum blossoms on the trees, their petals scattering beautifully over the snow, and fresh green pine in the air—traces of the familiar, even if little other scent carries here due to the snow's smothering.

While Suguru eats and drinks and enjoys the peaceful refuge of their surroundings, Satoru works his way down through a stack of recently acquired books he lugged out here with them, bringing Suguru up to speed on the new reading material available.

“I have this one you requested,” Satoru says, holding up a plain-bound and nondescript book, “even though it sounds like a bore. These three here are novels, and this whole stack was banned,” he explains, pointing out various books and scrolls, “so I bet they’re really fun. Oh, and here’s a medicine-making text Shoko said you can borrow to copy down.”

“Oh, perfect!” Suguru grins as he reaches out for the manual. It is a small but densely heavy tome filled with details of various ailments, diagrams of restorative plants, and recipes for how to use them. It will be a perfect addition to the collection of copied works he is building—one filled with invaluable practical knowledge that will work wonders for his family and isolated homeland.

“Good, good. I’ve got a couple more updated histories as well," Satoru goes on, "a few studies on foreign languages, some poetry you really ought to learn, and some woodblock prints for the collection—books and handscrolls.”

“Exciting.” Suguru smiles back at him, looking forward to some fresh reading material to enjoy before bed. Then he tips his head in the direction of Satoru’s largely untouched lunch, sweets included. “Now eat, please. I can’t even believe I’m having to tell you that.”

“I will! I have to check that Ijichi didn’t forget anything I asked for,” Satoru says, still leafing through a dense book, “so I can send him right back to Edo, if need be. But if you’re worried about it, you’re more than welcome to feed me.”

With an annoyingly confident smile, Satoru leans over with his mouth open and his eyes still glued to the page, waiting for Suguru to do the work of feeding him.

Suguru sighs and picks up a generous amount of crab and stewed vegetables, his hand poised underneath to catch anything that might fall as he ferries it to Satoru’s waiting mouth. He’s making a monster, he knows, in continually spoiling Satoru like this. The delighted little wiggle at the tips of Satoru’s long ears—paired with the pleased swishing of his tail—is too adorable for Suguru to resist, though.

Less adorable is the way Satoru slides the food off with his teeth, scraping them along Suguru’s chopsticks before loudly slurping everything all in. And making eyes at Suguru while doing it.

“Are you really trying to entice me with that display?”

Satoru’s smile slowly grows even as he chews. “Maybe. Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

Satoru sees right through him, as he often manages. He tosses aside the book in his hand and scoots closer, practically leaning into Suguru. “Oh, really? I think it might’ve had some effect.”

“Minimal,” Suguru allows, still eating at his usual plodding pace. And that much is the truth—no matter what silliness Satoru does, Suguru will always find it at least a little appealing. It's simply the hold Satoru has on him at work.

As he stares forward at a random patch of ice floating in the center of the pond, Satoru’s chin settles on his shoulder. Without even turning his head, Suguru can tell Satoru’s enormous eyes are expectantly fixed on him.

He stubbornly ignores it, determined to do what he dragged them out here for: some quality time spent appreciating the natural beauty available to them.

“Suguru…”

“What?”

No audible answer is forthcoming. But the tail winding around to drape and drag itself along his inner thigh—combined with Satoru’s obvious attention—says more than enough.

“At least let me finish eating first,” Suguru groans, gesturing to the spread the kitchen went through the trouble of arranging for them. Satoru is so overindulged, so used to having anything he wants whenever he wants it, that he takes for granted all the delicacies regularly offered up to him. “It's so nice out today, too. I want to stay and enjoy it a while longer.”

“We could keep enjoying it,” Satoru murmurs, nuzzling in and lipping along the side of his neck. “We could enjoy it more, even. There is no need to go all the way back to the castle just yet…”

It takes Suguru a few moments to digest what Satoru is getting at.

“What, out here?” he questions, voice dropped low, thoroughly scandalized. The impracticality of it—bare skin in winter cold, the snow, the hard stone under them—isn’t even his greatest concern. “Right out in the open? Where anyone could come across us?”

Satoru sits back and scoffs, as though Suguru is the one being unreasonable. “What does it matter if they do? Aside from Yuta, they’re all servants.”

As if that is any consolation? Or even relevant to Suguru’s objection?

“They still have eyes, don’t they?”

“I can take them out, if that helps—”

“It wouldn't! Are you joking?” Suguru sometimes has a hard time telling when Satoru is merely playing at being awful or genuinely suggesting it, his scale for atrocity calibrated to the dragon clans’ tastes. “Tell me you are joking.”

“Of course I am,” Satoru laughs, easily and breezily. “It would be a waste of time. Suguru, it’s not as if it would be the first occasion that one of them saw either of us naked.”

“Haibara tending me in the bath or helping me dress is nothing like being witnessed in…” Suguru drops his voice to a whisper, “intimate acts.”

“Who do you think is going to hear us?” Satoru asks, nose wrinkling as he gestures at the large, densely grown garden around them. “Or see us? There is no one else here, Suguru.”

But with Suguru’s luck, some poor attendant would show up with important, urgent news the moment Satoru got him on his back. It’s mortifying enough that he daily makes eye contact with people who have overheard them in their room or caught Satoru feeling him up in some hall or another. To invite even more embarrassment...

“I don’t care,” Suguru says, shaking his head while trying to dislodge the tail now wrapped snugly around his thigh. It squeezes firmer with every attempt, resisting any effort to be separated from Suguru. “I’m simply saying that we can keep such activities indoors. Exclusively. You’re not going to shrivel up and die if you have to walk a few hundred paces first.”

Satoru frowns like he believes otherwise. “Exclusively?”

Giving up on wrestling his tail off, Suguru huffs out, “Is that such a problem, Satoru?”

“Well. It would pose some logistical difficulties for when I’m in my true form,” he mumbles, the picture of dejection. “I can’t really fit indoors, you know, outside of the grandest banquet hall. And even then, it would be tight. Very tight.”

“Yes, yes, it’s a struggle to fit you anywhere. I’m well aware.” Suguru isn’t even sure why Satoru is worried about using his true form for such purposes at all. Unless Shoko can invent a potion that turns him into a dragon as well—and one of equal size to Satoru—nothing of the sort will be happening. “Why does that matter, though? Everything works perfectly fine with you just as you are.”

There is not one thing about Satoru’s current form that Suguru finds displeasing. He is now more accustomed to seeing Satoru with horns and scales than without them. The touch of Satoru’s tail is as familiar and welcome as that of his hands, barring public moments of mischief. He has grown comfortable taking Satoru’s size—needy for it, even. Granted, Shoko’s oils and tonics certainly help…

“You don’t like it?” Satoru asks, a disappointed downward lilt to the question. “Me? When I am truly myself?”

“No, I—I didn’t mean it that way. Of course I am fond of you regardless of your appearance, Satoru. You make a very handsome dragon,” Suguru says to console him. When words alone don’t seem to be enough, he reaches out and cups his hands around Satoru’s cheeks, squishing them in with his thumbs. “I just don’t know how it would work… physically, I mean.”

Satoru pouts back at him. “Figuring out would be half the fun, wouldn’t it?”

Suguru’s laugh comes out dry and incredulous.

“Perhaps if you’re not the one in danger of being crushed or chomped or…” Suguru audibly swallows at the thought of how Satoru’s size would translate to every part of him. “You’re already more than a handful as-is. What am I going to do with a member that’s dragon-sized?”

“With both of them, you mean.”

After a moment spent trying to follow, Suguru’s brow furrows. “Both of…?”

Satoru tilts his head forward and gives Suguru a direct, knowing look from under his snowy lashes. He even has the audacity to smile at Suguru’s slow-dawning realization.

“As a dragon, I have two.” He holds up two fingers for emphasis. “Which is twice as nice, right?”

Suguru lets go of him and draws back, dumbfounded. Then he presses his palms to his face, half to avoid meeting Satoru’s cocksure smile and half to hide the blush blooming on his cheeks. Heat crawls up his neck and makes his scalp sweat. Two? And proportionally attached to a dragon?

“And what exactly am I supposed to do with two of them?” Suguru wonders, at a loss for what Satoru is expecting of him.

“Whatever you like, I suppose,” Satoru responds with a shrug, attention now more focused on picking at the food left sitting and going cold.

Suguru draws his shoulders in and buries his face deeper in his hands. The mental imagery of Satoru sporting a twin pair of cocks is more distressing and comical than anything else. One smack could quite literally send him flying. What could he even do, technique-wise? And what on earth will Satoru be able to do for him as a fully formed dragon? With those claws? With those teeth? One errant roll because he’s a hair too excited and Suguru will be rolled flatter than a cracker.

It seems like an endeavor that will be at best awkward and unfulfilling. At worst, Suguru winds up punished for Satoru’s ambition—either in the form of a humiliating death or Shoko’s grim judgment when she comes to heal his squished, battered body.

“I mean… I have some thoughts,” Satoru lightly floats. 

Suguru parts his fingers over one eye and looks at Satoru through them, taking in his sly smile and hopeful eyes. The things he’ll consider out of love.

“Do you, now?” Suguru puts his hands down in his lap and tips his head, putting on a more even-keeled facade than he feels. “Enlighten me, then.”

Satoru’s smile splits into a wide grin, canines gleaming. He drags himself as close as possible, adhered to Suguru’s side and draped over his shoulder. As soon as he puts his lips to Suguru’s gold-adorned ear, he starts whispering things that have Suguru squirming in place, shocked by the level of detail and description.

“Okay! Okay, Satoru, that’s enough,” he hurries to say, elbowing Satoru off. Suguru exhales hard, red-faced from surprise and embarrassment and no small amount of curious arousal because, well, Satoru’s voice just does that to him. “You’ve never slept with anyone before or besides me, so how are you coming up with all this?”

“Natural, healthy inclinations,” he says, tapping his point-tipped nails on the stack of books beside him. Then, almost conspiratorially, he adds, “And I’ve been researching.”

Suguru’s whole expression scrunches tight. “With what? With who?”

Not Yuta, surely. Yuta couldn’t possibly be the one filling Satoru’s head with talk of taking two dragon appendages at once. No one on staff would dare suggest such outlandish things, either. Would Shoko…? No. Shoko adamantly discourages anything liable to have Satoru knocking her door down at night because of a foolhardy mishap in bed. It's not as if the Gojo clan's marriage and bridal manuals would ever account for human-dragon relations, either. And while natural inclination does indeed account for many of Satoru’s whims and tendencies, he has never made mention of this sort of thing before…

In silent answer, Satoru slides one of the thinner books out from under the nearby stack and hands it over, smiling proudly all the while.

Suguru looks up from the plain script on the cover, meets Satoru’s expectant stare, and then returns his attention to the book in hand. He flips it open to a page at random and is treated to a detailed, full-color illustration that spans both pages: a half-dressed woman lying under a dragon, contorted in ecstasy, and—

“See how there’s only one when there ought to be two?” Satoru points out, reading over Suguru’s shoulder. He tuts. “They got it wrong the whole way through, but what can you expect from a human? As far as raw inspiration goes, though—”

Suguru flips the book shut and exhales loudly, sharply, his head spinning from the turn their garden conversation has taken. “Where did you even find this? I mean, an entire book of dragon-human erotica? Did you commission it yourself?”

While Suguru has seen more than a few shunga prints over the years, none have ever been as fine as this—an expensive book rather than a single print, and in full color, too. The quality is really exceptional. So is the uniquely tailored subject material. Given Satoru’s previous disinterest in sex and casual disregard for humans at large, Suguru finds the purchase a bit surprising.

“Me? No, I just told you, this thing is riddled with anatomical inaccuracies I would never have let go to print.” He scoffs under his breath, offended Suguru would assume him to be involved in a work with such a slip. “No. I sent Ijichi off on a little side quest while he was picking the books on the list.”

“You roped Ijichi into this?” Suguru makes a face, not thrilled with the idea that someone else in the castle knows what Satoru is angling to do with him.

“He was happy to do it.” A bald-faced lie. “And he’s trustworthy, Suguru. Discreet. Don’t worry.”

Discreet. As if that matters one lick when the very idea is to start fornicating outdoors together, where there is every risk of being caught. Satoru’s dragon form itself is the furthest thing from discreet! As if his size weren't noticeable enough, there is also the bright, reflective shimmer to his scales, drawing the eye even from afar.

Suguru gives him a dry, sidelong glance, sighing softly as he flips through the rest of the book. It’s something of a masterpiece, even with the apparent omission of quite a few extra dragon parts. There are twelve elaborate scenes that feature men and women—courtesans, fishermen, commoners, and even a Buddhist monk—lying with dragons in various unrealistic positions and manners.

“I ought to confiscate this before you get any more funny ideas,” Suguru mutters, turning his head at one particularly intricate illustration.

It’s not bad, of course. Suguru can appreciate the artistry and intimacy of the works within, which were clearly made with passion, if not painstaking accuracy, per Satoru’s criticism. But imagining himself there in the ink as Satoru apparently has, twisted and coupled with a scaled, clawed dragon? And with Satoru watching on as he does so, hawk-eyed and hopeful?

“I just don’t see how anything on these pages applies to us,” Suguru says after a few more minutes spent puzzling over the printed art. He grimaces and kneads a curled finger into his brow. “If you were Yuta-sized, that would be one thing. But as you are? Absolutely not. None of this can happen. I mean...” Suguru flips the book around and points at a scene of two dragons coiled around a single person who is skewered on them both. “This? This is not doable and you know it. You and I differ far too much. We're not compatible like this, Satoru.”

While their size difference is no hindrance for flying together—Suguru sits like a bur on Satoru’s back, negligible to him in weight or nuisance—it does not lend well to much else. Suguru is small enough to fit inside Satoru’s mouth and could be swallowed just as easily. Satoru can pin him entirely under a single clawed foot. Even Satoru’s tail, which is mischievous but largely harmless in Satoru’s current form, is a different beast in his full dragon skin. Suguru has seen its whipcord length crack trees in half. Its thicker portions weigh heavy enough to smother him.

Satoru says nothing at first. The quiet that settles over him stretches long enough for Suguru to start wishing he’d picked softer wording to convey the same honest truth.

After more long moments spent thoughtfully picking at his food, Satoru nods. Then he looks to Suguru with a sigh and a smile. “Yeah, you’re right. Just fanciful thinking. I can’t help but get greedy with you.”

Suguru isn’t sure what to say to that. His parted lips press together and he gives Satoru a smile back, wishing he hadn’t put such a hard damper on his excitement.

“Here, look. Look, look, look,” Satoru then says, shifting his bowl into one hand so he can use the other to drag out a large, flat book wrapped in oiled hide. “I got a new atlas, too. All the maps in the study are a few centuries old, so I figured it was time to replace them with some that are more recently made.”

Suguru leans in as Satoru peels away the leather and opens the case it protects. Inside are dozens and dozens of maps, both drawn and printed. Some of them are small, single sheets, while others are so large they must be folded many times over. They detail everything from the narrow streets and crowded buildings of cities to coastlines and whole islands.

Satoru lays out one of the larger sheets, careful as he smooths out its creases.

“This here is your valley,” he says, pointing out a spot tucked within a ridge of mountains, deep inland on the largest isle, with a spindly river cutting through it. It is not named or marked, no script written to even suggest it is occupied. Satoru then drags his finger up, further and further north, its clawed tip tapping at a particular ridge of mountains. “And here we are right now! I can show you some of the other places I’ve been, too.”

Satoru slowly goes through one page after another, pointing out a dozen spots he has traveled but never stayed for long. Some maps are even accompanied by woodblock prints that feature the local area, helpfully giving Suguru some visual of the terrain; he trails his fingertips lightly across prints of warm-looking beaches and elaborate cities laid alongside rivers, marveling at all the bright colored ink put to paper.

But it’s the sparse drawing of an unnamed and unnoted valley that calls to him most. Suguru digs back to that map and unfolds it again, taking in his old home’s location relative to so many places he has never been—nor even known of, really. On paper, his village looks hardly more than a few days’ journey from the sea. But it lies far, far away from the mountain stronghold Satoru pointed to, where he currently resides.

He considers asking Satoru about it—Kurosaki and going back there, if only to pay a visit—before thinking twice and overruling the wistful impulse. The topic is the sorest one he has ever broached with Satoru, who freely offers him jewels and private hunting grounds and heads on platters but not home. With the right nudging and pleading and reassurances, Suguru has a fair bit of hope he can sway Satoru... but he must be patient. He needs to bide his time until Satoru isn't so... reactive, so agitated by the idea, as if afraid Suguru will disappear into some valley mist upon setting foot back there. It’s become a common refrain in Suguru's letters home: Not now, but hopefully soon. When the time is right.

With Satoru freshly disappointed and trying quite hard to distract from it, the timing hardly seems ideal.

“Open up and I’ll feed you, too.”

Suguru is pulled from his drifting thoughts to find Satoru staring at him. A hefty chunk of lotus root is held out in his chopsticks, trying to tempt him.

It works. But it has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the earnestness in the request. Despite a childhood spent in cold isolation and a coming of age marred with loveless family scheming, Satoru lacks for nothing in sweetness and caring. The things he says and does... Suguru is hopeless and helpless against them. Everything about Satoru invites fondness.

After closing the collection of maps and pushing them safely out of the way, Suguru scoots and shuffles until his back is facing Satoru. Without a word of warning, he lies down, shoulders rubbing against Satoru’s crossed legs and his head resting in Satoru’s lap.

Then he opens his mouth, waiting.

Satoru laughs while shifting to accommodate Suguru better.

“You stole that move from me,” he says while carefully plopping the lotus root into Suguru’s mouth.

As he chews, Suguru smiles up at him.

He did, in fact, copy one of Satoru’s most favored moves. The man is notoriously needy and loves to sit himself in Suguru’s lap, to lay in it, to drape himself over Suguru’s legs any which way. And Suguru does understand the appeal—Satoru makes for a warm, comfortable pillow. The pampering of being hand-fed is quite enjoyable, too. He opens up and eats everything Satoru offers him, taking pleasure in the attentiveness of each gesture.

After staring up at him for some time, Suguru asks, “Do you miss it, Satoru? Traveling?”

“Not particularly.” Satoru pops a plump mochi dumpling into his own mouth; he then stuffs one into Suguru’s, whether he wants a sweet or not. “With you here, I am more than satisfied. Had you been by my side from the start, I might never have left.”

Assuming their natural lifespans were better aligned, Suguru supposes, in that hypothetical. He runs his fingers back and forth along the tail draped across his middle, dwelling on the easy company they share and all the ways Satoru continues to surprise him. At their first meeting, he took Satoru for a callously self-absorbed wastrel, cruelly thoughtless and with more wealth than sense. How quickly Suguru softened to him nonetheless. How quickly Satoru shed his prickly mistrust, his aloofness, and his ignorance to the harm he’d done. And for Suguru, of all people—someone of no special influence or accord, who’d fished up an un-drowning dragon and thoroughly scolded him after.

He could not have imagined then that underneath that hard, off-putting exterior he would find someone so willing to love without reservation and so eager to be loved in turn. A romantic, really. A very charmingly sincere one.

“You know… while some of those ideas of yours might not be feasible,” Suguru says while toying with the mane that runs the length of Satoru's tail, “I don’t think it’s a hopeless cause. I’m sure there is something we can figure out together. Something sensible and sane.”

Satoru’s broad, toothy smile is curbed almost as quickly as it first took shape. "Wait, is this change of heart because I fed you? Or are you appeasing me out of obligation?"

“Neither. I’ve just had a few moments to sit with it and give it a bit more thought, and I…”

Suguru bites his lip, unsure to broach the rest of that thought.

In racking his mind for some possibility to make the seemingly unworkable work, one particular memory surfaces and lingers: lying on freezing stone while Satoru’s enormous tongue dragged up the length of his body, its slick pressure everywhere at once. Even battered and terrified and disoriented, it had touched something in him—plucked at an unexpected thread of base, sensual interest for the briefest of moments at the most inopportune time. Without the harrowing flight and frostbite and doom hanging over him, Suguru can quite easily imagine his response being decidedly different.

It’s more than a little mortifying to admit to, and he isn’t sure how much enjoyment Satoru himself would get out of such an act, but…

“There might be a thing I’d like,” Suguru says in a small, still-shy voice, his eyes flicking up to meet Satoru's. “At least to try.”

“Really?” Satoru’s shock rolls into open delight. His palms press in on either side of Suguru’s face, staring at him upside down, beaming as he hunts for some sort of hint. “Tell me! Tell me and we can try it right now. Tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me—”

“Not when you’re being such a nuisance,” Suguru huffs, reaching up to plant his hand over Satoru’s mouth. With Satoru's spirits lifted back to their usual lofty confidence, denying him does not feel so cruel. “And even then, we can only do it somewhere that no one could possibly come across us. I mean it, Satoru. Utter isolation. Total privacy. No witnesses. It is bad enough that half the castle has already heard us at one point or another…”

Satoru’s hum buzzes against his palm. A slow, lazy mouthing follows, incisors and canines raking along the heel of Suguru’s hand—and then the press of a warm, wet tongue, prompting Suguru into hurriedly withdrawing his hand to wipe it dry.

Satoru grins, pleased and cheeky. “They’ve mostly heard you, to be fair.”

Irritated heat smolders under Suguru’s skin and flushes color into his cheeks. Satoru is… not wrong.

“And whose fault is that?” he complains, rolling his eyes. It’s not as if Satoru himself is any good at keeping quiet—it’s just that his nonstop ramblings and mutterings of Suguru, Suguru, Suguru are naturally drowned out by the sounds anyone in Suguru’s position would make. “You’re the instigator, seven times out of ten. And you pounce upon me in the most awkward places.”

“Me? The instigator?” Satoru snorts. “This from the man who makes sure I see him winking and loosening his collar at the back of the audience hall.”

Suguru laughs at the admittedly fair accusation, always glad to be as deeply under Satoru’s skin as Satoru is under his. There is something mischievously fun in being able to poke and prod at a dragon without fear of facing his wrath—though Suguru does pay, in a sense, when Satoru is riled and unraveled from an afternoon of drawn-out teasing.

Still faintly smiling, Suguru closes his eyes, soothed into pliant comfort by the fingers petting and stroking through his hair. He certainly would not mind spending more time outdoors like this… and perhaps somewhere more secluded than a castle garden.

❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆

Beyond the reach of Satoru’s immediate influence—below the snow-capped mountains and everywhere south of them—it is already summer. 

Back home, that would mean sweltering nights, ripe fruits and plentiful hunting, the valley greenery alive with the humming and chittering of insects. Even this far north, the foothills are green and speckled with wildflowers. The beaches are free of ice, though their ocean waters remain cold. Dragonflies and songbirds fill the air around low-lying ponds and rivers.

But the castle and its surroundings are more or less unchanging. The falling snows are a perpetual feature. Time seems frozen, too. The passing seasons are marked only in what dishes the kitchen presents, those ingredients sourced from beyond the mountain reflecting the warmer temperatures felt everywhere but here.

The most noticeable difference, as far as Suguru can tell, is that this time of year is far busier for Satoru. There are more malcontent spirits and yokai to clear out at the behest of others; more conflicts arise between various factions, their violence bubbling over into territories Satoru is obliged to protect. On top of all that, there is still a steady flow of visitors coming to pay their respects for the first time since Satoru’s return—and in so doing, hopefully curry a bit more of his goodwill in case it is needed later.

The influx keeps the castle bustling. The expansive guest quarters in its outermost bailey are filled with visitors who have traveled from near and far, all of them allowed to enjoy the Gojo clan’s hospitality for a night. While the usual staff and guards and groundskeepers are now well-used to seeing Suguru out and about, visiting outsiders openly stare after him, whispering amongst themselves.

Suguru pays it little mind, at this point. On days like today, he hardly has the spare time to care what gossiping onlookers think.

Clad in simple, practical clothing—akin to what he'd wear back home, though of better make and higher quality—he makes his way across the castle fortress’ grounds for the sixth or seventh time in the span of a few hours. It is one of his rest days, technically, but given that Satoru is away annihilating some demon horde and Nanami is swamped by the recordkeeping woes that so many guests and petitions create, it had only seemed right to volunteer as an extra pair of hands for errand-running.

He has been sent hither and thither all day long, helping wherever he is needed: moving furniture in and out of storage, taking inventories, overseeing deliveries and orders, fixing broken floorboards and stuck doors. It gives him a strange nostalgia for home, having been among the first his neighbors turned to for help with chores and repairs. It feels good to be useful, too, and in something familiar and physical as opposed to record-writing.

It takes a toll, too. He has grown a little soft over the past weeks and months, maybe. Lazy. Not so long ago, he could spend dawn to dusk tracking and traveling across rocky earth and steep slopes. Now, his feet are sore from a few hundred stair-steps and hours of treading on winding stone walkways. By the time he reaches the main gate with a heavy satchel of letters to hand off, Suguru is contemplating how heavenly a long, hot soak will feel once he’s back in the comfort of the castle. If Satoru returns in time to join him, all the better.

After dropping off the letters with one of the couriers, Suguru stretches his arms overhead, nods politely to the guards at the gate, and then turns around to retrace his steps back to the castle proper. Over the course of such a busy day, he’s worked up a serious appetite. And while he usually waits for Satoru before eating, if he finishes his bath and Satoru still hasn’t returned, Suguru might just help himself to a bowl or two of soup to start.

Stomach grumbling, he cuts behind one of the guest residences and takes a shortcut through the large, splendid garden set aside for visitors to view and enjoy. It is also a demonstration, Suguru knows, of the Gojo clan’s resources and wealth: the grand pond and long bridge dripping with icicles; the multiple stone pavilions; the tea house and its pristine view of the waters; the artfully cultivated copses of bamboo, decades-old paulownia trees, and oversized bushes of blue honeysuckle, their berries free to pick. Even with the snow and ice that covers every bit of the castle grounds, there is a rich, unmistakable lushness to foliage here.

As Suguru passes over a small moonbridge on a lesser-trodden path through the snowy garden, he catches the faint sound of voices somewhere off to his right. Visiting guests of the Gojo clan, he supposes, taking an evening tour. It's not uncommon, even at this dusk hour. Were Suguru among the throngs of envoys and messengers and dignitaries staying here overnight, he too would wander out here in the quiet until curfew.

A muted, distant shriek stops him in his tracks. He then changes course, footfalls crunching quicker and quicker through the ankle-deep snow. With his brow knit tight in wary, apprehensive concern, Suguru draws close enough to pick out deep, gargled voices and softer, shriller pleas. The latter are quickly drowned out by a round of gruff laughter. 

With the same hushed steps he'd use stalking prey, Suguru rounds the back of the small tea house tucked into a peaceful, secluded corner of the guests’ garden. There, hidden among shady, ice-covered boughs and the deepening shadows of sunset, he sees them: three enormous oni surrounding one small serving girl.

Suguru recognizes her from a flash of bright blue hair and small serow horns. Miwa. She is frequently reassigned from one section of the castle to another—accidents tend to occur wherever she is—so they bump into each other fairly often. Unlike so many of the servants who live and work under the Gojo clan, she is exactly as young as she looks.

“Sorry to intrude.” Eager to interrupt whatever is transpiring, Suguru stands up straight and announces himself with a smile, feigning apology as he steps in closer. “Is everything alright here?”

Three cruel-featured heads turn to face him, opening eying him up and down.

Suguru takes half a step back before properly steeling himself for the confrontation. He has only seen oni on printed pages and heard of them in stories—none of them flattering. Two of the ones standing in front of him are blue-skinned and clad in loincloths, their wide mouths lined with sharp, crooked teeth. The largest of the three is a vivid crimson head to toe, balding, and bearded. All have tusks and horns and clawed hands and stand several heads taller than him.

All that rings familiar is the air of vile intent that hangs around them and causes Suguru's skin to prickle with misgiving. It might be his first time seeing oni in the flesh, but he has stared down and run off more than a few strange men who exude the same naked hostility.

“And who are you to speak to us?” the red oni asks, sneering down at him.

Suguru’s tempered, usually-disarming small falls off into a frown, disliking the attitude. He peers past the oni and meets Miwa’s wide, watery eyes. They have her circled.

The red oni follows his stare, grinning wide enough to show several more jagged teeth. “Good hosts usually provide guests with food and entertainment. A pity we had to find our own.”

“We can have something brought for you from the kitchen, of course,” Suguru offers, keeping his voice flat and passably diplomatic, even if his expression already betrays otherwise. He would guess that these three have already gotten the meals customarily provided to guests enjoying the clan’s hospitality, though, and found them dissatisfactory.

While the oni fixate on him, heads tilting and faces wrinkling in displeasure at this interloper who interrupted their fun, Suguru stares at Miwa and smoothly speaks a lie. “Miwa, Gojo-sama was looking for you earlier. You had best go to him now, before he grows impatient.”

She sucks in a quick breath and nods, taking the gifted opportunity to extricate herself. While babbling nervous apologies of her own, she quickly squeezes between the ogre-like yokai—all of them now more focused on Suguru than her—and scurries off with several worried backward glances.

“This one is human!” one of the blue oni realizes, noisily sniffing the air as it steps closer.

“What’s a human doing here?” the other says, more confused than ravenously excited. “In the dragon’s castle?”

“Loose from its paddock, maybe,” the largest one mutters, already approaching Suguru.

The hair on Suguru’s neck stands up, suddenly aware that to anyone unfamiliar with his relation to Satoru, he looks exactly like a lost, vulnerable human who has wandered somewhere he should not be. He is not wearing fine kimono with the Gojo clan crest. No particularly precious jewelry adorns him. His princely bow and quiver are back in the castle, in their room. He carries nothing that signifies his status because he hasn’t yet needed to prove it—not when everyone in Satoru’s household knows him perfectly well and vanishingly few visitors have dared to question his presence within Satoru’s domain.

But he has walked himself into a secluded corner of the guest residences’ gardens, alone with envoys who, blinded by hunger for flesh and blood, seem to consider him little more than a potential meal.

“I serve Gojo-sama,” he quickly reminds the advancing oni. It’s true enough even if Suguru isn’t a servant, and it should dissuade anyone with a healthy fear of Satoru’s displeasure.

These three apparently lack it.

The red oni’s swiftness and long reach take Suguru by terrifying surprise. He chokes at the hard impact of a tough, thick-fingered hand across the front of his throat. The earth under his feet vanishes as he is bodily lifted, swung, and slammed into the outside wall of the garden tea house.

The spruce timber at his back groans from how firmly he is pinned to it. The toes of his boots dangle far from the ground, forcing Suguru to scrape his heels into the wall for enough leverage to push upward and breathe. He claws at the massive crimson hand fisted around his neck, its heavy pressure bending his collarbone to the brink of shattering. The oni’s grip is too strong to pry open. Its flesh is too tough for his nails to do any damage.

“Did you not hear me?!” Suguru hisses through gritted teeth, voice reedy for lack of easy air. “Let me go or you’ll regret it.”

If nothing else, Suguru is well-assured of that. When Satoru finds his gnawed-on bones back here, he’ll probably engage in acts of depravity that will outdo his own bloody kin-cannibalizing.

“Hah!” The oni’s snarling grin looks eerily close to the masks Suguru has seen traveling performers wear. Carven, painted wood can’t replicate the hot stench of breath issuing between black-rimmed teeth and tusks, though. “I’ve yet to regret a good meal.”

“But… if that human belongs to Gojo—”

“Humans are as plentiful as maggots. Even the pretty ones,” the clear leader of the trio barks back. “The goodwill offering Jogo-sama sent with us will more than make up for this little snack. And that’s only if Gojo notices one is missing at all. He must keep a stable-full of them for eating, as Sukuna does.”

“No wonder we went hungry on the last leg of the journey here,” one of the other oni complains, “if the dragon is hogging the local stock for himself now.”

The blue oni furthest back licks its lips, either nervous or hungry or both. “Tasty as it looks, stealing something out from under a dragon is a little…”

“We’ll go down tonight and find another in one of the fishing villages, then. A lookalike replacement.” With warm flesh at hand, the red oni is clearly losing patience. As he speaks, saliva drips down his ghoulishly stretched lips. “But I require something in my stomach now.”

Suguru’s eyes dart back and forth as the three talk of eating him. Slowly, so as not to draw keener attention, he works to slip his hunting dagger out of the sheath at his belt. More or less in plain sight, he has to hope they’ll stay distracted long enough for him to get it free and put it to use, but… three-to-one are bad odds, especially when he’s already at a considerable size disadvantage and dizzy from the palm digging into his windpipe.

With all the venom he can muster, Suguru tries once more to frighten them off by invoking Satoru’s name.

“Harm me and Gojo-sama will kill you. Or worse.” Three sets of yellowed eyes swivel to fix on him and Suguru, desperate to sway them, blurts out, “We—we’re practically wedded, he and I.”

A drawn, stunned silence follows. Then it breaks, giving way to hideous, raucous laughter that Suguru can feel vibrating through the hand choke-pinning him to the wall.

“Hah! To a human?”

Through a grin, another barks, “And a man, no less.”

“I did hear the dragon finally took a wife, actually,” one of the blue oni mutters. "While he was away in the south.”

“That’s me!” Suguru is forced to admit, boiling red up to his ears. All of Satoru’s offhanded remarks of my love, my bride, and my very cross wife have given rise to the most persistent and vexing rumors that he recently married. “I’m the—I’m Gojo-sama’s wife,” he says, quietly muttering the last word.

The oni's chortling slows and they fall silent again. Then one squints and asks, “What was that?”

“I’m his…” Suguru lets out a weak sigh. It’s bad enough that the whole castle already goes along with whatever nonsense Satoru says. Now he has to play along, too? “He considers me his wife.”

That only seems to puzzle the three hungry oni further.

“Maybe he marries them before he eats them?” one of them whispers, brow furrowed. “For a laugh, I mean.”

With a leering grin, another suggests, "Or maybe he satisfies both appetites?"

“No. No, this one is just lying to save its own skin,” the red oni growls out, giving Suguru a rough shake. “Why would the most powerful dragon alive lower himself to wed a human? Think. Besides, if it held any value, it wouldn’t be dressed like a commoner and left to wander where anyone could have it.”

The other oni grunt and nod at that, quickly convinced.

Suguru casts a look up at the sunset-colored skies above and laments his ill fortune. So, he’s doomed to be eaten because he offered to run errands for Nanami? He’s screwed because he chose to wear comfortable, practical attire whilst helping out around the castle grounds?

"Go on, then. Cry for your supposed husband, if you can," the oni gleefully tells him. "It never makes a difference."

As his vision turns spotty for lack of air, Suguru’s desperation makes him hasty. He fumbles to get his dagger all the way out of its sheath, frantically needing to put it to use—even if only to leave some maiming mark behind, if he cannot manage to kill one or more of them. But before he can grasp it in hand, his trembling fingers cause the blade to slip from his grasp and disappear in the thick pad of snow below.

For lack of any other option, he grips both hands around the oni’s wrist and digs his nails in as hard as he can, trying to rip open a seam along its veins and wrench himself free. It is useless, though, no more effective than clawing at toughened, treated hide. His efforts to kick at the knees and crotch of his captor fall short. All his twisting and writhing to bite at the hand wrapped across his throat gets him nowhere.

So Suguru summons what little strength he has left and spends it spitting hard in the red oni’s eye, causing the two flanking it to grunt low in surprise. He grimaces through the sharp burst of pressure and pain that follows, meaty fingers squeezing in under his jaw to cut his air completely. Wood pops and groans at his back. He strains against all of it, even if it's futile, fighting for a breath he cannot take and freedom he can't wrest away.

The oni leans in, dripping jaws mere inches from Suguru’s reddening, purpling face, his lip curled and fetid breath wafting. “That was a mistake—”

Heat splatters across Suguru’s face with a wet squelch. It blinds him. It assails his senses. It's blood, he realizes—the foulest kind he’s ever tasted or smelled—as he blinks and spits to get it off his teeth.

He’s still pinned, but he has a hair more room to breathe and something under his feet to balance on. Before him, the two blue oni dangle off the ground, pierced through back-to-front by enormous, slanted spikes of blue-tinged ice that have punched their chests open and turned out their insides—ribs broken and splayed outward, tattered viscera hanging, blood and bits of flesh showered onto Suguru and the tea house wall. Steam hangs in the air as the cold works to wick the heat out of their now-lifeless bodies.

The last one, the towering red oni, still looms mere inches from Suguru. Gone is the callous confidence of a predator with cornered prey, though. Its yellowed eyes dart and blink with desperate fear, but it can do little more than that.

From the neck down, frost continues to bloom in swirling patterns over bare crimson flesh, turning it pale as it freezes solid. Muscled limbs are locked stiffly in place, including the arm pinning Suguru to the wall by his throat. Though the oni's head remains unfrozen, its chest cannot expand enough to draw breath. It cannot utter a word—only make one last, long, gasping whimper.

Satoru, smug smile and all, steps out from the shadows cast by the nearby garden shrubberies. “I heard my wife needed me?”

Relieved, Suguru closes his eyes and lets the back of his head thump against the wall behind him. The mere sight of Satoru has him at ease, even with the ugly state he is in.

With a struggling half-smile, he croaks out, “You really shouldn't go around calling me that when we’re not even married.”

“Why not? It will be true soon enough.”

Unbridled confidence and presumption are Satoru’s norm, and Suguru has grown accustomed to his breezy, boastful certainty. He is comforted by it, even. On this matter, though… the utter lack of doubt or ambiguity makes his insides squirm and his heart race like a hare’s, thrilled anew every time he hears it. And made bashful. And anxious.

Suguru’s eyes are sticky as he opens them again, the thick blood on his lashes making them clump and cling together. The clawed hand grasped around his neck is still unpleasant, of course, but it’s been left unfrozen, sparing Suguru the burn of frost on his skin. Satoru is thoughtful down to the smallest detail when he wants to be.

“Satoru,” he says, tone sweetened to counter how horrifyingly disgusting he must look, plastered in blood and bits of entrails, “please come get this off of me.”

Satoru skip-hops his way to Suguru’s side in a heartbeat, fine chunks of bloody ice and splintered bone crunching under his soles with every bouncy step. “Of course, my love! Allow me.”

With minimal effort, Satoru snaps the frozen arm that is pinning Suguru and tosses it off into a bush for some poor servant to find later, oblivious to the muted, whining scream the oni emits. He catches Suguru around the waist just before he teeters off of the ledge of blood-slick conjured ice he's standing upon, steadying him as he steps down into red snow and finds his footing on legs gone wobbly from strain.

Satoru tuts softly as he cups around Suguru’s bloody face next, carefully angling his head this way and that to examine the fresh ring of bruising across his jaw and under his throat.

Suguru lets him do as he pleases, using the moment to catch his breath and let the sharp thrum of his near-death anxiety settle. Staring into Satoru's eyes helps, his fraught nerves finding reassurance in their color and the warmth that resides in them. But as Satoru’s tender, concerned expression darkens down to a glower, a tingle works its way down Suguru's spine.

Almost nose to nose, Satoru is gruffly serious as he asks, “You’re not dying, are you?”

Suguru is pained by his own hoarse, rasping laughter.

“No. You came to my rescue just in time. I couldn't—ah, wait, my dagger,” Suguru quickly chokes out after, two fingers pointed down where it fell in the snow, afraid he'll lose it if he forgets. When Satoru stoops to retrieve it for him, brushing off the snow and sliding it right back into the safety of its sheath, Suguru gives him a grateful smile and rubs his hands up along Satoru's shoulders. "Thank you. I—oh. I'm getting blood all over you."

"It's fine. I don't mind a little mess."

With a warm, self-satisfied smile squarely fixed on Suguru, Satoru then gives the mostly-frozen oni beside him a one-armed push to the side. 

Its wide eyes roll in terror as it teeters, still conscious and aware enough to realize what is happening. A deafening racket is made as its body hits the bloody, snow-strewn stone of the walkway and shatters apart, limbs in countless pieces and its torso cracked six ways. Its head twitches even after snapping from its neck, the only part of the oni that is still fleshy enough to seep liquid blood.

Suguru winces, first at the sound and then at the sight. Jagged chunks of frozen flesh and bone are strewn all around, adding to the gore pooled under and around the blue oni.

“So, what envoy were these idiots part of?” Satoru asks, jerking his thumb at one of the impaled bodies dangling beside him.

Suguru wobbles a little even with one of Satoru’s hands still on his waist to steady him. His throat throbs, half from the bruising grip he'd been held by and half from the strain of his body weight suspended from it.

“Ah… I think they mentioned a Jogo sent them,” he grumbles, spitting as more acrid blood works its way past his lips. The name means nothing to him, even after nearly three months of dutifully attending meetings and the like.

Satoru pats his blood-stained index finger against his lips as he hums, a bright, unfocused glint in his eyes. But it mellows down to something less murderous when he looks apologetically to Suguru.

“This one is on me. I should have figured a bunch of hick oni would cause trouble and had them sleep out in the woods,” he sighs, using one of his sleeves to wipe Suguru’s face of the demon blood spattered all over him. “And I shouldn't have left. Jogo always bungles something or other. But I never imagined a few minor messengers would dare lay a hand on someone in my own castle. Least of all you.”

The corner of Suguru’s mouth pulls with a smile, enjoying Satoru’s protective concern and the futile-yet-sweet effort to clean him up.

“Mm. They were very inconsiderate guests.” To come stay as a formal guest of Satoru’s and then harass his castle’s staff is rude enough. To kill and eat someone? It’s foolhardy in the extreme. “Miwa was their first target."

“I know. I arrived not too long ago and came looking for you, since I was told you chose to play errand-boy today. She barreled right into me in her rush to tell someone you were in trouble.” Satoru’s slight smile falls into a frown. He licks his thumb and rubs at a spot on Suguru’s cheek, scrubbing and picking at a chunk of something. “My main takeaway from this is that I have been too subtle, too lenient, since my return.”

Suguru laughs softly at that. And then he gets the taste of bitter blood on his tongue and has to turn away and spit again. “No one would ever dare say such about you.”

“It’s because you have kept me in such a good mood,” Satoru goes on, his thumb sliding under the curve of Suguru’s bottom lip. “And distracted. I haven’t had nearly as much time to terrorize my enemies as I used to.”

“It can’t be helped," Suguru murmurs, feeling Satoru trace along his slight smile. "Jogo is an enemy of yours, then?”

Satoru scrunches his nose and hums a high pitch. “Mm, no. More of an annoyance, really, even if he does suck it up and pay tribute. Then again, if this is the trash he’s sending to my doorstep now…”

Suguru wipes his nose with the back of his hand, feeling as if some blood got up there, too. He then follows Satoru’s stare, queasy as he looks up at one of the blue oni and its bored-through chest. Half-frozen blood runs sluggishly down its legs and drips from bare, clawed feet.

It’s his first time truly seeing up close what Haibara and Nanami and all others have made passing comments about: Satoru’s devastating ability to kill, quick or slow. It is an eye-opening perspective, staring at the sort of end he himself might have met had he and Satoru first encountered each other under different, less companionable circumstances. It also serves to reinforce Suguru's solidifying sense of Satoru's special regard. Though he himself has taken aim at Satoru and even drawn his blood, the worst payback he has ever faced from the dragon is being head-planted in the snow.

“You know what? I ought to have kept them alive,” Satoru muses while surveying his handiwork, his frowning lips pursed out and his hands on his hips, “and then done this in the morning. Publicly. Frozen them three-quarters solid and then pushed them down the entry stairs to the main courtyard. Left the pieces for the rest of the visiting parties to see as they arrive. To step over it and know the same could happen to them. That would’ve been much better, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be disgusting.” The imagery turns Suguru's stomach. The heavy scent of blood in the air—and on him—isn’t helping, either.

“That's part of what makes it effective. When I killed my uncle, I made sure all present witnessed every grisly moment of it. And no one but you has dared to challenge and question my word since.”

“Because I wasn’t there to see it. Or hear of it, even,” Suguru reminds him. “Had I been, I would never have been so frank in chastising you. And I certainly wouldn’t have kissed you on those uncle-eating lips.”

“Right, you’d have been snarkier and sneakier with your criticisms. And you kiss me now, don’t you?” Satoru reminds him with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Often.”

Guilty. Suguru rolls his eyes.

“A testament to how much I like you. And how much I let you get away with.” His warm smile turns subdued as he surveys the outcome of Satoru’s intervention: an entire wall that will need to be scrubbed before the stain sets, red-stained snow to shovel, and multiple bodies to carry out, one of which is laying in a thousand pieces. It's a mercy, actually, that so much of the remains are frozen; if thawed out, it would be an even bigger mess.

"I'll have someone come down and clean all this up," Satoru promises him, clearly noting Suguru's mislike of it all. "Now, let's get you out of here, hm?"

Satoru starts kicking aside fragments of flesh to clear a path for Suguru. Upon realizing there are just too many little bits and shards of icy gore for that to work, he instead moves to pick him up, unfazed by Suguru being blood-soaked head to toe.

Suguru lets himself be pulled into the cradle of Satoru’s arms and carried. He winds his arms around Satoru’s shoulders and lets his blood-stained boots kick gently back and forth in the air as he is ferried over pools of slushy blood and broken flesh.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, leaning in to kiss Satoru’s cheek. It leaves a faint spotting of dark, rusty red from whatever Satoru hadn’t managed to wipe away while cleaning him up. “But your clothes are going to be completely ruined now, too. Ah, I got some on your neck, too.”

“It’s not a problem. The laundry bureau can handle a little bit of blood.” Satoru briefly glances down at Suguru’s clothes, which are already transferring heavily to the front of his. “Or even two oni worth. It’ll come out. Probably.”

Suguru’s outfit isn’t silk or anything of the like, fortunately. It’s no huge loss if it has to be taken apart for scraps and rags, which he suspects will be the case. Satoru’s, on the other hand… well, at least his kimono is a dark, deep navy today rather than snowy white.

Suguru gingerly lifts the front of his shirt to his nose, brow furrowing as he gives it a reluctant sniff. Beneath the overpowering tang of coppery blood, there is something worse. It's reminiscent of char and sulfur.

“Ugh. I smell rotten.”

“I noticed,” Satoru says, and now that Suguru is aware, he can tell Satoru is deliberately breathing through his mouth only. “Which is why I’m taking you straight to a bath.”

Suguru offers no protest there. He leans his head on Satoru’s shoulder and closes his eyes as Satoru carries him up a dozen sets of stairs, through two more bailey gates, over a garden pond bridge, across the main courtyard, and into the castle itself. They pause only long enough for Satoru to tell one of the guards to have the mess down in the guests’ residences garden gets promptly cleaned up and all the remains packed into a chest to send back to Jogo's domain.

Traveling through the halls in Satoru's arms naturally catches eyes and attention. One by one, the castle staff they pass scurry closer out of concern—or simply a need to know what is going on. Soon a gaggle of them follow behind like a train, Suguru re-explaining to each new face that the blood isn’t his own, he is fine, Gojo-sama is fine, and the trouble’s already been dealt with.

Satoru’s temper is more quickly worn through by all the questions and lookers-on, his tail snaking back and forth in agitation. After snapping at half the servants to leave, he barks for Haibara and the others left to fill the tub and they leap to do so. While hot spring water is pumped in and the bath prepared, Satoru carries Suguru behind a screen to undress. In the semi-privacy it affords, he helps peel Suguru’s bloodied clothing off, frowning at the way it’s soaked through multiple layers.

Suguru’s hands and forearms are stained in an ugly, sticky red. It gathers under his always-tidy fingernails. Blood dripped in under the collar of his work shirt and down his chest. It flakes in his eyebrows and has his hair clumped, matted, and tacky. It isn't just blood, either, though Suguru tries not to think of everything else that got sprayed onto him as a result of Satoru’s over-the-top display.

“Could you not have simply frozen all three of them? Then I wouldn't be such a mess,” he comments under his breath.

“Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, was not thinking about your being in the immediate splash radius. I was…” Satoru glances sideways at the screen dividing them from Haibara and the other servants. With his voice dropped low for only Suguru to hear, he says, “I was frightened. Which is a feeling I've only recently become reacquainted with, thanks to you. So, I... I was a bit hasty in how I killed them, and without considering much beyond the fact that I couldn't risk impaling the red one while you were trapped so close to it.”

Suguru's slight irritation melts off at the hushed admission. “Sorry. I shouldn't be nitpicking. I feel disgusting right now, is all."

“You're not alone in it. We both smell rank," Satoru says, nose wrinkling as he strips off his own bloodied clothing. While nowhere near as filthy as Suguru, there are drying, darkening streaks of red on his face, in his hair, and all over his hands.

With an impatient snap of his fingers, Satoru calls for a couple of buckets filled with warm water to be set out on the engawa. With his own dirtied kimono held open to give Suguru some modest cover, they step out into the cold together.

The floorboards are freezing under Suguru’s bare feet. He shivers even as Satoru pours the first bucket of warm water slowly over his head, a clawed hand bunching and swishing through his hair to get as much tacky filth out as possible. He grimaces as water-thinned blood washes down his face, eyes screwed tight. He picks under his nails with a frantic thoroughness.

“Sorry,” Satoru says, hurriedly using another bucket’s worth to wet him down and warm him up. "It won't take much longer, though."

A mix of finely ground rice bran and ash is hurriedly worked over Suguru's goosepimpled skin and through his hair. With two sets of hands at work, the blood and gore is scrubbed from him in short order. He’s rinsed once more and at last made clean. Satoru then pours a little on himself, scrubbing the last of the red from his own hair, and dumps the rest of the water onto the engawa to wash off the filthy puddle that had formed under their feet.

Suguru hurries back inside first, freezing from the cold breeze on his bare, wet skin. He finds the room steam-filled and mercifully empty. Haibara and the rest no doubt read their master’s mood and thought it best to clear out as soon as the bath was prepared.

Suguru clambers into the tub and sinks himself down until the water is past the crown of his head. Once he surfaces, he smooths his hair back and starts working his sore neck in small, testing circles. It hurts. Certain angles are worse.

“It feels good to be clean again,” he sighs out loud. The heat is a wonderful balm on his shoulders and other aches from the earlier incident in the garden.

Little ripples lap against him as Satoru climbs in behind him. Long legs splay out on either side of Suguru, unnaturally white beside the healthy color of his own skin. Satoru presses up close to his back and blatantly sniffs him, clearly pleased to have cleansed him of the pungent blood that had soured his scent; greedy hands already wander across Suguru’s bare chest and wet skin.

Suguru smiles at the feel of Satoru’s cheek rubbing on his shoulder and arms winding around his middle as he is embraced from behind. For quite a while.

"Are you okay, Satoru?"

An affirmative grunt is muffled against Suguru's back. "For now, yes. I'll be satisfied once you have some of that leftover healing decoction."

"It's just bruising, I think," Suguru says, lightly touching his fingertips to the sore spots under his jaw. "I doubt it's worth dipping into our supply."

Satoru's low, drawn out groan of disagreement says otherwise, but they can sort that out after the bath. After supper. If Suguru isn't passed out before then, given the drowsy exhaustion seeping in now that he is somewhere safe and warm.

Strong, long-fingered hands slide into the heavy drape of Satoru's wet hair, working scented bath oil through to get any missed specks of blood out. Satoru’s thumbs press in along the base of his skull—above the tender bruising that circles his neck—to chase out the seized-up tension there. His fingertips move up and around Suguru’s head, mimicking the same sort of massages Suguru often gives him.

“Surprised you don’t get headaches more often with how heavy your hair is,” Satoru murmurs. “I could never tolerate mine this long. I'd go mad.”

Suguru, with his eyes closed and the full weight of his head resting in Satoru’s hold, smiles.

“I suppose I’m just better than you. Stronger. More resilient,” Suguru murmurs, grinning to himself when he hears Satoru’s indignant little scoff just behind him.

“You’re something, alright,” Satoru teases back, briefly rubbing a knuckle into the side of Suguru’s head.

“So,” Suguru says, leaning back against Satoru. Under the surface of the water, a pearly-scaled tail swishes around; it curls against Suguru and coils around one of his ankles, its clinging touch habitual at this point. “What do you plan on doing about this… incident? Dead envoys and all. Me getting pounced in your own territory.”

It may never happen, but Suguru has entertained fancies of one day bringing Nanako and Mimiko here, if only for a while. They would marvel at the castle and its inhabitants. They would match Satoru in voraciously devouring the sweets the kitchen here creates. They would be thrilled to see the ocean and enjoy the hot springs. And they would appreciate, as he has, having tubs large enough to sit in, heated floors and generous meals, luxurious futons and a vast, protected space to roam—all kinds of outlandish comforts that Suguru wants them to know, too.

Nearly being eaten by Satoru’s own diplomatic guests within the complex’s walls has really put a damper on that idea, though.

The pale arm resting along the side of the tub tenses. Tendons stand taut as Satoru’s fingers curl and his claws sink into cedarwood, carving little shavings out of it. But he says nothing.

Suguru is readying to change the topic when Satoru pulls his head close and presses a kiss to his wet temple.

“I’ll handle it.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Satoru says, more focused on tracing little lines between the moles and freckles dotted along Suguru’s back. Then he pushes aside the heavy curtain of Suguru’s soaked hair and kisses his nape, which no doubt sports bruises as well from being ground into that tea house wall.

Suguru soaks in the attention like he is the steamy heat, letting it soothe him. “Can I help at all?”

The light suckling along the back of his neck slows. Satoru’s teeth scrape over his skin before he pulls away, the brush of long canines making Suguru give a little shudder.

“Help…?”

“With making it safer. Not just for me, but anyone here.” Suguru clears his still-sore throat. “I mean, if I hadn’t come along, Miwa could’ve been…”

“It’s not your responsibility to fix, Suguru. It’s my house and reputation to get in order.” It’s not spoken like chastisement. It’s Satoru feeling responsible for it all and loathe to let Suguru worry. “That said… I don’t think it would hurt if you spent some time learning a weapon that’s close range and more substantial than a dagger. A katana or a staff, maybe. A naginata? Oooh, I have some tekko you could try. You’re decent with your fists.”

“More than decent.” Suguru isn’t opposed whatsoever to the idea of broadening his expertise. “I think the bigger issue lies in learning how to handle opponents who tower over me, if you have some pointers. I'm accustomed to being the tallest person in my village—in my whole valley—but here, there are plenty of your guests I have to crane my neck to look up at. Which I'm not terribly fond of," he grumblingly admits.

“Mm, that is tricky.” Satoru tap-tap-taps his claws along the wooden rim of the tub. “I could cut them all at the knees to level things out for you, if you like.”

“You need to stop joking like that.”

“Did I say I’m joking?” His cheeky grin is practically audible, especially with how close his lips are to Suguru’s ear. “I’ll have taller geta made for you then. Hm? You can be a head taller than me, if you want. I wouldn't mind having your chest at eye level.”

“You’re so unserious,” Suguru sighs, leaning heavier into Satoru. “And when I break my ankle because you have me walking around on stilts, what then? You would inconvenience Shoko for my sake again?”

“No, I would nurse you back to health myself,” Satoru says while walking his fingers down one of Suguru’s arms. “I would feed you and entertain you and kiss your ankle until it’s all better. And maybe for a while after that, too.”

Suguru laughs, mostly at the thought of Satoru once more letting his clan duties fall by the wayside just to sit by his sickbed. “Good to know. But I like your training idea better. Hopefully I won't need to put it to use, but in case there is a repeat of something like today—”

“There won’t be. I promise. But you know… if you want to send a message, loud and clear, about who you are and why no one should touch you,” Satoru whispers in his ear, “there’s an easy way to go about that.”

This again.

“Is marrying into a clan like yours easy, you think? As a human? The only human? And a man. And a commoner. And a bast—”

“Suguru, your future in-laws have a healthy fear that I’ll eat them. They’re not going to bother you.”

Suguru hums a low, dubious note at that.

Satoru may be mostly impervious and largely unkillable, but that does not mean the world is empty of people who would strike at him nonetheless. If a dragon of his power is too frightening and terrible to challenge head-on, someone like Suguru makes for a much easier, softer target. The very same method Satoru means to use to protect him—loudly, publicly binding Suguru to him and shielding him with his fearsome reputation—also announces to the world that Gojo Satoru has one very particular weak point.

And Suguru does not want to be the chip in Satoru's otherwise flawless scale armor. He can think of few things worse than being helplessly used in such a manner.

Then again, their current situation is more or less identical to a married state anyway. His being here in Satoru’s castle, dressed in the kinds of clothes and jewelry he wears, is surely something of a tip-off. Anyone in the Gojo clan would take note of—and issue with—a human being granted such a privileged position within their own family's ancestral hold. It's not exactly a well-kept secret that Suguru shares Satoru's room and bed. And combined with the apparently broad circulation of rumors that Gojo-sama has recently wed… well, it all paints the same picture to an outsider looking in, doesn't it?

But appearances are far from his only consideration.

“What about continuing your line?” Suguru dejectedly wonders. He is glad Satoru is behind him so they need not look each other in the eye while discussing something so surely uncomfortable. “That must be immensely important to you.”

He feels the motion of Satoru’s shrug.

“Not really. I’ve got Yuta as a work-in-progress heir so I’m covered on that front. But just for our own entertainment? Some little whelplings crawling around?" He lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum, thoughtful. "We can always try, if you like. If it happens, it happens.”

The warm reassurance Suguru had initially found in his words turns to acute confusion.

“What do you mean, ‘try?’ And ‘if it happens?’ It can’t happen.” Not from what little he has gathered of how dragons do things with other dragons, anyway. He swivels his head around to look at Satoru from the corner of his eye. “It isn’t possible. Satoru. You know it isn't. Not for me, at least.”

Satoru makes a warbly, doubtful little sound in the back of his throat. “There’s magic for all kinds of things. I mean, Shoko—she’s clever. And there’s nothing she won’t do for the right quantity of tobacco.”

Suguru can’t even listen to this, utterly rocked by the insinuation that he'd, what, lay eggs? Or somehow otherwise produce squiggly little dragon-human offspring? Delusional. Several degrees more delusional than Satoru's wishful suggestions on how they might fit together in his true form, even.

“Let’s put a pin in that and leave it there. What about alliances? If circumstances and fortunes change? Don't you think it’s worth keeping yourself open just in case…”

Suguru doesn’t even want to finish the thought, really. While he knows Satoru might be better served in a more mutually beneficial marriage, the thought of him with anyone else twists his insides to the point of nausea.

Satoru snorts. “No, I don’t. As if I need to beg favors from anyone other than you. Worry less, would you?”

“Perhaps I could if you exhibited more caution. Your family—the other big clans, too—are going to have strong feelings about you snubbing them for decades just to turn around and take me into your clan. Their clan. And they may not take their grievances out on you alone, Satoru. They might not direct them toward you at all."

He does not want to give voice to his worst imaginings, which entail his home and family somehow bearing the brunt of the backlash against Satoru's willfulness. There is probably a better chance of Satoru's clan looking the other way if their relationship remains an informal, ambiguous arrangement. A legitimate marriage that grants an unremarkable human unearned status within the Gojo hierarchy, however? Of course they would object. Of course they would resent it. Of course Suguru is right to worry that some harsh comeuppance will come of their anger. 

“So? If anyone so much as gives you a snide look, you tell me and I’ll address it.” At Suguru’s prolonged, thoughtful silence, Satoru shifts forward, hunched so he can wrap his arms around Suguru from behind and rest his chin on his shoulder. “Suguruuu, you're once again fretting yourself for nothing. Setting aside the fact that those useless old bags of scales wouldn't dare risk bringing my wrath down on their heads, it’s not as if marrying you is going to dash their hopes. My clan has none left for me. I exhausted their ‘suitable’ options decades ago. They’ve long since given up on meddling in my marriage.”

Suguru can’t help but think that quite a few people in Satoru’s sphere would likely prefer him to be single and unattached if the alternative is a human holding undue influence over him. But if he takes Satoru at his word, then it is of some comfort... as is the way Satoru holds him, sways him, and runs his fingers through the ends of his hair.

“Even if that truly is the case, I think making such a consequential decision in haste is a poor idea. It’s barely been four months since we met.”

“Oh, as if people don't marry near-strangers all the time. You’re really going to drag your feet on this, too, Suguru?” Satoru questions, amusement running through his words. “And then what? You’ll pounce one day when I least expect it and drag me into a full wedding procession, just as abruptly as you took me to bed?”

“Very funny,” Suguru mutters, his cheeks warm at the ribbing over how he’d crumbled and thrown himself at Satoru after denying himself for so long. “But it’s no small commitment to consider. For you, I would only be the first marriage of… however many you end up having over the next millennia or five. But for me—for the rest of my life, however long it might stretch—it would only be you."

The hand stroking over Suguru’s wet hair pauses, then resumes.

“No,” Satoru says, his voice a low, soothing whisper. “It’s only going to be you for me as well.”

Suguru's next stubborn remark curls up and dries on his tongue, withered to nothing by the last sort of words he'd expect. Even for a surprisingly devoted romantic like Satoru, it's an outlandish claim. Only him? Ever? Barring a battle that Satoru cannot win, Suguru will surely be the first of them to perish—and by some large margin, too. He doesn't expect Satoru to remain tethered to him forever after, in lonesome mourning for ages after the fact. It would be a cruel demand to make. Suguru would never dream of asking it, even if he wanted to. Even if he wants to.

Yet here is Satoru, simply saying it will be so.

Suguru tips his head, resting it on Satoru’s shoulder. Half testing and half teasing, he murmurs, “Only me, Satoru? You promise? Don’t make any claims you don’t really mean or I might end up haunting you. Wandering down your halls at night. Chasing everyone else out of your bed.”

Satoru's soft, brief laughter shakes the both of them, as he is apparently unfazed by Suguru's offhanded threat-making.

“I do mean it. Unequivocally. But you should haunt me regardless. Hypothetically speaking,” Satoru adds, clearing his throat. "I of course prefer to have you alive by my side. Forever, ideally.”

“Is that so?” Suguru turns his head a fraction, smiling as he looks up at Satoru. The tea he imbibes each day can perhaps afford him centuries, per Shoko's best guess, but it isn't miraculous enough to keep him around forever. Nor can it guarantee that he won’t be slain well before old age can catch up to him, as the close call in the garden today can attest. But it is a good wish to share. “Well, that's my preference, too. But failing that, I'll turn into a fearsome ghost and visit you every single night, then. How does that sound?”

“Better than not seeing you at all, certainly." Satoru's gaze trails slowly down Suguru's profile and the column of his neck before lifting again. With the surety of someone stating that the sun rises in the east, Satoru adds, "And the bed will only ever be yours and mine, so no need to worry about catching anyone else in it. You know I only sleep well with you beside me."

It is a one, two, three succession of fondly-delivered, matter-of-fact remarks that leaves Suguru dumbstruck. The note of wary pessimism and uncertainty that underpins so many of his thoughts quiets down, quelled by a such frank reassertion of Satoru's regard for him: singular, untempered, unwavering. And it's so Satoru, bowling him over with some sincere, heartfelt sentiment delivered whilst Suguru was guardedly making light.

He swallows thickly and pushes down the choke of emotion that threatens to come up otherwise; the deep, strangling bruises around his neck make themselves felt in the process. Suguru is sure that even in the bath room's dimming light, Satoru must be able to make out the warming blush spreading out along the back of his neck.

“So. Anyway. I don't know if any of that has assuaged your doubts or satisfied your reservations,” Satoru says, the closeness of his voice like kindling to the warm, tingling heat that already suffuses Suguru, "but just let me put this out there... four months isn't too soon to at least be betrothed, is it? Formally?"

Suguru's slight, soft-edged smile cracks into a grin. He'd not expected Satoru to suggest an announced intention to marry as an alternative to marriage itself, but he can appreciate the shameless angling to get his way.

"I suppose not," he concedes, the tips of his ears burning warmer than the steam-filled room can account for. The constancy of Satoru's affection and intention—and how frequently he expresses both—has Suguru blushing, shy, and fussing with his hair. "But that will ruffle feathers just the same. I'm still me, so it will still cause a stir, as you mentioned before."

"Oh no, not ruffled feathers," Satoru cries in feigned distress, his head lolling along the back of the tub. Then he snorts. "It will. So what? My very existence ruffled my uncle's feathers. My surviving the Zen'in assassin he sent and showing up to my own birthday banquet drenched in blood caused a stir. Interfering in Yuta's execution made a scene. If I cared to refrain from doing anything that would cause a little uproar, I'd have been obliged to lie down and die long ago."

"Satoru," he weakly interjects, brow knitted tight, upset by any mention of Satoru's own near brush with death as little more than a child.

"There's no point in constraining ourselves to appease the sensibilities of irrelevant old geezers who will find fault in us either way," Satoru goes on, and it makes sense in a fundamental way. Suguru knows it does. "Not when I am both very capable and very willing to do whatever it takes to handle them."

Suguru believes that, too. 

"I can never help but worry the worst," he softly explains, for it's always seemed prudent to be prepared rather than disappointed, "but you have a talent for making those fears and uncertainties feel significantly smaller. And I take your point. I do. Trying to skirt around strife by living in accordance with your very worst relations' standards is... no way to live, really."

"It isn't. I'm glad you agree. And, in fairness, I've had a lot longer to come to that conclusion." Satoru sighs. Then he clears his throat, nudges his knee repeatedly against Suguru's leg, and asks, "What about my other point?"

"What?" Suguru turns his head and plays dumb for a moment, watching Satoru's eyes grow wider and buggier as he waits for Suguru to get it. With a pretend pop of realization, Suguru goes, "Ohhh, the betrothal thing?"

"Yes, that. Suguru, I'm casting the widest nets and the longest lines I possibly can to get something going here," he huffs out all at once, exasperated. "Throw me a bone. Throw me a splinter of one. We don't need to have an auspicious date picked out or make any plans. We could drag it out if you like, too. A years long betrothal, if that's what suits you. But something... it would help to have something that connects us made known. Everything that happened to you today—what almost happened—it shouldn't have. But it wouldn't have, if every soul passing through the gates was already aware that the beautiful, too kind, sometimes shabbily-dressed human within is no servant or pet or temporary bedwarmer."

Suguru bites his bottom lip and shifts where he sits between Satoru's long legs. It never gets any easier to form a coherent response to his praises. 

So instead he laughs under his breath and says, "Shabby? Satoru, you had those clothes made for me."

"Because you asked for peasant fashions," Satoru dryly complains. "Don't insinuate those frumpy garments were made to my tastes."

Suguru twists around at the waist and pushes his palm up under Satoru's jaw, his fingers squished into his cheeks. Between slow, even blinks, he stares into a set of startled-wide eyes that dart as they study him right back.

"You're so opinionated," Suguru says, squeezing his fingers in until Satoru's lips purse out like a fish's. "And loud-spoken. And spoiled rotten. And I can definitely see myself marrying you," he adds in softer tones, leaned in close enough for his breath to fall on Satoru's lips. There is a nervous, excited flutter in his core at the look Satoru gives him in turn. "One day."

The muscles in Satoru's cheeks push against Suguru's fingertips as he smiles—as much as he can, anyway, with his lips still squished outward.

"That's a yes?" Satoru asks through the clench of Suguru's hold, each word slightly distorted.

"I can't say I'm all that familiar with all that a formal betrothal entails," he admits, letting go of Satoru—who is still grinning even as he rubs at his lower jaw—with a quick pat on his cheek. "But yes. If it means so much to you. If you think it would be good for us. If it won't put anyone else—you know I mean Nanako and Mimiko, mostly—in harm's way."

Perhaps Satoru making his intentions known beforehand will soften the shock of a human marrying into the Gojo clan. Or maybe the betrothal period will prove that Suguru's anxieties are largely overblown. Both, ideally. 

He finds himself wrapped up all over again, hugged back-to-front by Satoru and swayed side to side. Laughter bubbles past his lips as Satoru nuzzles up close and rubs their cheeks together, clearly luxuriating in gotten one step closer to his ultimate aim.

"Good, good, good, good," Satoru murmurs while lipping his way up Suguru's neck, skimming featherlight over tender bruises; he plants a kiss under and behind Suguru's ear, right over a mole he likes to pay particular attention to. "It does, I do, and it won't. Whatever it takes to keep your family safe, I am more than capable of," he says in a sunken pitch that causes the fine, wet hairs on the back of Suguru's neck to stand. "Same with your little friend. Your home, your people. Whatever and whoever you care about. If it's yours, it's mine to look after, too."

Suguru couldn't ask for better assurance. He lets out a long, slow breath and relaxes further in Satoru's embrace. Comfortably lounged against him, Suguru takes one of Satoru’s hands and holds it underwater, lightly tracing the lines on his palm with a thumbnail. Satoru's tail holds onto him in turn, wet scales slipping up and down around his calf.

"Suguru..." Lips brush the shell of Suguru’s ear. After a moment spent hovering there, Satoru asks, “You'll look after me, won't you?”

Of course being freshly betrothed isn't enough to satisfy him. Suguru being vow-bound to stay isn't even enough to console Satoru. But it's an easy question to answer, given the way Satoru has wormed into Suguru's heart and mind and other places, rendering them inseparable.

“As I have from the moment I first saw you," Suguru gently teases. "And for as long as I can, ghost or otherwise.” Leaned back as Suguru is, Satoru’s low, purrlike moan of contentment passes right into him. “You’ll do the same for me?”

He knows Satoru’s answer even before asking. He knows he knows it. But having it whispered in his ear, spoken with such confident reverence, while cradled close and kissed to seal it? It leaves vanishingly little room for doubt.

Chapter Text

The Gojo clan’s sprawling territory is home to all sorts of wondrous and unusual things: beaches littered with jewel-like ice, pale forests filled with strange plants, caverns with icicles longer than Suguru is tall, and myriad smaller domains belonging to youkai and kami that either serve or pay tribute to Satoru. One of its finest features is, of course, a plethora of snowy hot springs. And the small ones that lie within the castle’s walls, while terribly convenient, cannot compare to the large, wild springs that are terraced along the nearby mountainsides.

They pass over them on their trips to the sea and visits to Shoko and aimless skyward explorations, always meaning to stop sometime and view the bubbling waters up close. After some weeks of putting it off, Suguru insists on finally setting aside an afternoon to pay a proper visit.

Satoru, who knows the lay of the land best, flies them to his personal favorite of all the springs he can lay claim to. It lies several peaks over, hidden away on the western face of a forested mountain. Even from afar, Suguru can tell it must be huge—the steam cloud furling up into the sky looks large enough to get lost in.

Satoru dives low over the treetops, icy branches rustling in his wake. The forest under them thins, then vanishes, and then his long forelegs stretch out to touch down upon snow-bare stone. Satoru lopes along the barren edge of the hot spring, gradually shedding the speed he’d had in the air; Suguru bounces lightly on his back with each slowing stride, head swiveling to take in their surroundings.

For all the steam, he can’t even see all the way to the far bank. What he can glimpse of the hot spring, though, makes the one in their private garden seem like a mere puddle. Its waters are a clear, pale jade along the edges. Out towards its middle, brief windows in the steamy fog reveal a darker, murkier teal. It makes sense, Suguru supposes. For a dragon of Satoru’s stature to comfortably lounge here, the spring must run quite deep.

The rocks and gravel under Satoru’s clawed feet shift noisily with every step he makes along the shore. Aside from some occasional mossy patches, no greenery thrives by these waters. Snow does not encroach anywhere close to the jade pool’s edge, either; flakes of it melt away before even reaching the ground, right before Suguru's eyes. The steam billowing off the surface shifts with the wind and drifts around them, at times thick enough that Suguru cannot even see beyond Satoru’s shoulders. The air itself is thick and sultry, the climate entirely different from the crisp bitterness that one would expect at these altitudes.

And there are macaques, as Satoru once mentioned. Fortunately, the fearsome sight and tremble of Satoru landing in his dragon form is enough to scatter them all away and out of view. Their absence gives Suguru peace of mind. The last thing he wants is to drowse off while he soaks and wake up to a sharp-fanged monkey making eye contact with him.

Once Satoru picks a spot, stops, and settles, Suguru slides down from his back with a heavy basket of snacks and spare clothes on his arm—no sense in not coming prepared for a full afternoon spent splashing and soaking. While crouched to set the basket down, he pulls off a glove, gathers up a handful of smooth gravel, and rolls it gently in his palm. Though they're a good distance from the water, the stone is warm to the touch. Steam even rises from the ground itself in some spots further down the bank.

"Wow. It feels like summer back home," Suguru laughs, already tugging at his collar. In mountains this far north, all cozied up to an ice dragon like Satoru, this is probably as close to summer's sweltering humidity as he's going to get.

Already beginning to sweat, Suguru drops the stones and starts untying his short coat. After spending the past three days frantically rescuing and re-writing old records damaged by a leak in the archival room, he feels well-deserving of a long, leisurely dip to unwind.

“So? How do you like the place?”

“Judging on looks alone? I’m liking it well so far. The size is a little scary, though,” Suguru admits, staring at the darker, more intense blue-green at the center of the spring. “How deep down does it go?”

Satoru cranes his long neck upward, head twisting as he peers across the drifting steam and into the middle of the jade-colored pool. “Mm, maybe three or four times my full length? And there are all sorts of interesting things to be found at the bottom.”

“Really?" While shrugging out of his bulkiest outer layers, Suguru twists to look up at him. "Like what?”

“Gold, bones, relics, jewelry, chests of armor, curious rocks. In bygone ages, it was not uncommon for dragons to reside in places like these—nor for daring humans to seek them out. The warriors and sorcerers who journeyed to this spring in search of wisdom or aid left gifts in exchange.”

“Oh.” Suguru would never have guessed he was standing anywhere of such significance. Unlike the abandoned temple in the mountains of his home vale, there are no standing structures to suggest this was once an ancient place of pilgrimage. “Were any of them friends of yours?”

“It was well before my time, you little smart-mouth,” Satoru snaps, the tip of his tail swinging over Suguru’s head just near enough to tousle his hair. “Anyway, there are all sorts of treasures still down there, buried deep in the silt. I wish you could come with me to see. The colors are different, too. Brighter. But it gets hotter the deeper down you go…”

“I do prefer not being par-boiled,” Suguru shrugs, now unlacing his boots and pulling off his socks. “I can’t hold my breath anywhere near as long as you can, either.”

“A pity,” Satoru laments, truly disappointed that he can’t drag Suguru to the bottom of the spring with him.

“Yes, it’s very sad.” Suguru pats one of Suguru’s long, skinny legs. “Go on and enjoy yourself snuffling around down there. Don’t let me get in the way of your fun.”

“My point is that it would be more fun with you there,” Satoru mopes. His already sizable eyes grow wider, watery blue and bright with excitement. “Ah! I'll just find something good and bring it to you!”

Without a further moment wasted, Satoru rears up onto his hind legs and flops himself over into the hot spring. The long, vertical column of his body strikes the surface with the same force as a falling cedar might. Geyserlike jets of water shoot upward around his densely muscled body before splashing down over a wide area. Waves span out across the spring’s surface, sloshing heated water up all along the shore.

Like an afterthought, the back end of Satoru’s long, serpentine body slides into the water like a wet noodle, the stark paleness of his form disappearing in the green-tinged depths. A rapid string of bubbles pop at the surface, and then Satoru is gone.

Suguru can only shake his head and laugh to himself. He continues undressing at a leisurely pace, giving the steamy water time to settle before he so much as dips a toe in.

Once stripped, he picks his way barefoot across the warm, stone-strewn bank with a small, cloth-wrapped bundle of fruit in hand. He sets the fruit down on a nice dry rock first, then scoots himself close to the water. Tentatively, he touches the bottom of his foot to the surface and tests the temperature. Despite all of Satoru’s reassurances, it still seems wise to double check that this isn’t one of those deceptively attractive ponds that can strip the skin and flesh off of those who fall in; having his impenetrable scales to armor him, Satoru might not have noticed.

Fortunately, Suguru finds the water no hotter than the small spring near their room in the castle—at least here at its shallow edge—so he slips his legs in and finds a nice spot to sit half-submerged by the shore.

Every so often the breeze changes, pushing the perpetual cloud of steam off in a different direction. The view in any of them is second to none. Stone and snow and forest backs one side of the spring, as picturesque as an ink painting. If Suguru looks the other way, he has a perfect view of the range’s lower peaks and foothills and distant green plains. The sky, too, is a lovely sight. Sheer, ribbony clouds streak across blue and like so many things, it reminds him of Satoru.

The spring’s surface has almost gone still again. Suguru can only guess that means Satoru is having fun scooting along the bottom, finding interesting rocks and allegedly lost relics to bring up to the surface. He does something similar whenever they descend from the mountains to an empty stretch of beach, diving down and resurfacing with jaws laden with crab, scallops, and thick ropes of seaweed. It’s always a cute gesture, Suguru thinks, how eager Satoru is to present him with whatever odds and ends he discovers.

Suguru drags the fruit he brought with him closer. While he soaks from the chest down, he peels a few mandarins—enough for himself and for Satoru, should he come up and want a snack—and sets their cleaned flesh onto the carefully spread square of cloth. He nibbles on one of them section by section as he listens to the birds, savoring its sweetness. The spring's heat is like heaven on the tight, cramped muscles along his forearm and down the back of his hand. It relaxes the muscles between his shoulder blades, which were still tense from days hunched over a table to write. It does not take long for the radiant warmth to lull him drowsy, his thoughts and cares all moving slow as honey—even when something scaly bumps the sole of his foot.

Suguru is only mildly surprised when he glances down and sees an enormous dragon head under the steamy water, distorted by the soft ripples on the surface created as his horns emerged. It figures Satoru would come check on him.

Satoru’s jaws open in a grin and a flurry of air bubbles slip through his long teeth. His snout remains pressed to Suguru’s foot, scales rubbing against skin as he pushes intently against Suguru, and—

“Ah! Don’t lick me there!” Suguru shouts as the tip of Satoru’s tongue flicks up from his heel to curled toes. His leg jerks in response and the ticklish sensation darts all the way up his spine. With a huff, he smacks the surface of the water in warning.

More bubbles appear, Satoru no doubt amused to have gotten a reaction out of him. Brat that he is, Satoru then pokes his nose above the surface, sprays Suguru dead-on as he exhales, and retreats into the jade green murk before he can be told off. A swell rises along the surface where his arching back nearly breaks the water’s glossy tension, and then his pale form once more vanishes into deeper, darker depths. 

Suguru folds his arms on a nearby rock and rests his cheek atop them, eyes slipping shut while he soaks away the strain of the last few days—and plots some way to get Satoru back for his little tricks. Calm stillness returns after a time. Just as he begins to almost-doze, an enormous, almost deafening splash has his eyes snapping open again. An abrupt wave follows, large as the ones that roll in off the sea. It lifts Suguru up and sweeps him backward onto the pebbly, rounded stones at the spring’s edge. The fruit he peeled earlier is a tragic casualty of the surging water, naked mandarins bobbing away as the wave recedes.

Satoru’s antlered head hovers over him in the aftermath, water still coursing down his scales and dripping off him the way heavy rain does from eaves. Between the steam and the slightly opaque water, the rest of his long body is a vague shadow under the surface. He lowers his nose to Suguru’s, blue eyes almost crossed as he focuses in on him. 

Suguru is just about to open his mouth and complain when scaled lips curl up, baring lengthy fangs just a hand’s breadth from his nose. Satoru’s jaws then part, too, and… there is something glimmering just behind the bottom row of his curved, spear-sharp teeth.

Suguru glances up, making quick eye contact, before turning his attention back to Satoru’s mouth. A soft clicking sound issues from the back of Satoru’s throat as his tongue wriggles and pushes whatever he has in there forward, closer to Suguru. He bends his arm as he reaches in, careful to avoid jabbing himself on any of Satoru’s teeth. Blindly, his fingers brush against something firm and fixed—metal, all of it warm and wet to the touch. Feeling along the length of it, Suguru finds somewhere safe to grab and withdraws the discovered relic from Satoru’s mouth.

“A… sword?” He twists and turns it, examining the unusual blade from all sides. He can’t believe one actually sat somewhere in the mud at the spring’s bottom—and in such good condition, too. “Shouldn’t it be ruined?”

“A tsurugi! And not necessarily.” Satoru’s head swivels, his cheek facing Suguru so he can better peer at the sword with one enormous eye. “Weapons forged with the assistance of certain kami can last ages without deteriorating. This is no common blade.”

Suguru blinks at that, wondering if he ought to be holding it, then. The sword looks old. Suguru has never seen one in such a fashion before, either—not that he saw many swords at all before arriving at the castle and being granted full access to its armory. There is no curve to the blade whatsoever. Both sides are cutting edges. It’s noticeably shorter than any of the katana to the Gojo clan’s name and its grip consists of ornately decorated metal, though the designs are hard to make out with some silt still stuck in the grooves. Looped through a hole in the pommel is a string of cord that should long since have rotted away, he’d think. Stone magatama beads are strung along it, alternating in black and white. Suguru runs the back of his thumb along them, letting the stone clink softly against his nail.

Suguru then lays the sword across his bare lap, thinking it too precious to set on the ground. “So… what do we do with it?”

“What do you mean? I found it for you,” Satoru tells him, pointed teeth showing in full as he grins. “We’ll bring it home and see if it suits you in sparring.”

“But… is it really alright to take something from here?” Suguru wonders, running his fingertips along the flat of the blade. He'd expected to feel more scratches. “Especially something this special?” 

Satoru’s shoulders roll in something like a shrug. “Were I a blade, I would rather be held in your hand than left to gather dust. Or mud, in this case. It isn’t cursed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That is more what Suguru was getting at. Finding assurance in Satoru’s words, he gently curls his fingers around the tsurugi’s metal grip. It still feels warm to the touch from the simmering water at the bottom of the spring.

“It would probably be better off in the grasp of someone more accustomed to wielding a blade, but I suppose it’s at least worth a try.” If nothing else, it will make for a nice addition to the Gojo clan’s armory. “Oh, and Satoru,” Suguru says as he stands, sword in hand. “Come here.”

Satoru’s long head looms in closer, following the beckoning of Suguru’s finger. And once he draws near enough, Suguru presses a kiss to the middle of his warm, scaly nose and lets his lips linger.

“Thank you. Considering how long you were down there, this can't have been an easy find.”

He gives Satoru’s snout a fond rub before stepping back and walking up the shore, the gravel underfoot growing cooler the further he gets from the water. Suguru wraps the blade in one of the spare kosode he brought and tucks it carefully against the basket for safekeeping. They probably won’t be here much longer anyway.

By the time Suguru returns to the little spot he staked out by the spring’s edge, Satoru is half-submerged and slithering around like a watersnake. There is an eeriness to the shadowy silhouette of branching horns gliding through the warm mist hanging above the spring. Such a massive creature lurking just out of sight would be enough to set anyone else’s heart hammering.

The pale glow of Satoru’s eyes is accentuated by the steamy haze, giving them the appearance of ghost fire drifting upon the water. They lock onto Suguru the moment he dips a foot back into the hot spring—and then they’re gone, along with every other sign of Satoru.

Not even a second later, a pale, toothy snout breaks the surface right in front of him; the rest of Satoru’s long head and neck and upper body follow after. In the surge of displaced water that accompanies Satoru’s sudden reappearance, Suguru is once more lifted off his toes and carried back, washed further up the stone-lined shore. As the dragon-made wave recedes, he finds himself lying on a smooth slab of rock that rests at an angle.

“What are you doing?” he laughs as Satoru’s scaled nose needily nudges against him, breath tickling against his middle. “Am I not allowed back in the spring now?”

“Suguruuu.” At this size, Satoru’s voice makes itself felt, not just heard. The low, pleasing vibrations of it shake the sliver of air between them and resonate right through Suguru and into the rock at his back. “You said—Suguru, you said when we were alone, we could try something…”

The smile slips right off Suguru’s lips, replaced by a rush of blood so quick and hot it makes him light-headed. He lies back on the warm, wet stone and looks up at the dragon who is staring him down like an unattended morsel, perfectly recalling such a conversation. Every so often, the mountain breeze cuts through the hot spring’s billowy steam and causes him to shiver. Yet the goosepimples dotting him all over are less from the occasional kiss of cold and more from the anticipation and uncertainty swirling through his insides.

He swallows, uncertain what awaits him. “Try what?”

“You tell me.”

Suguru lays his hands over his bare middle, feeling particularly vulnerable under Satoru’s keen, unblinking stare. When Satoru first broached the topic of experimenting in his dragon form, one particular experience came to Suguru’s mind—and it’s equal parts embarrassing, risky, and greedily self-centered.

“Suguru,” Satoru purrs when nothing is said, head snaking back and forth above him. “Tell me what it is you’d like of me. Like this.”

Suguru's gaze slides down the long, strong column of Satoru's neck, over the wider, flatter scales that line its underside, to a broad chest and shoulders. He thinks of Satoru's whiplike tail, his meathook-sharp claws, and the ease with which he can topple walls and crumble bedrock underfoot. There is nothing about a dragon that does not scream of danger, and yet...

“Would you think me strange if I said I’ve given your mouth some thought?” Suguru tentatively poses, waiting to see if Satoru laughs then and there. When no judgment is immediately delivered, he cautiously meets Satoru's stare and adds, “And that even when I was all frostbitten and half-delirious, when you were licking me to keep me warm I felt something… not-unpleasant?”

The very tip of Satoru’s tongue traces down one of his long fangs, teasing in the guise of being thoughtful. Far too cheeky, he says, “I have always thought you strange.”

“Well, nevermind it then,” Suguru huffs, pretending as if he is about to roll onto his side and go.

“No, no, no! Suguru, wait!” That cocksure attitude falls by the wayside. Gravel shifts under Satoru’s front feet as he scrabbles forward, claws raking into the stone-strewn bank for anchor. Water sloshes as more of his lengthy body slides up onto the hot spring’s shallow edge. His neck bends in a tight arch as he hangs his head over Suguru, nose planted against his chest to pin him to the stone. “Don’t. I meant it in a fond way, for I am strange, too. You know that better than anyone.”

His eagerness and sincerity are more than enough to appease Suguru into revealing a smile.

“Mm, I do. I do. I was only teasing you back, Satoru. You make it too eas—ah!”

The tail end of that last word gets caught on a gasp as the smooth, rounded fronts of Satoru’s upper teeth rub testingly against his chest. Their smooth, solid pressure glides gently over wet skin, teasing both his soft brown nipples to firmness. Suguru gasps again, sucking in his stomach, as the point of one long, prominent fang skims delicately over his hip and across his belly. A small, resurgent flicker of fear, too primal to ever fully banish, makes itself known low within the same place. Rather than heed it, Suguru waits and trusts and lets it shudder through him, until that heightened, tingling awareness of peril feeds his excitement instead of running counter to it.

Jaws large enough to cradle Suguru—or to crush him—split open. Strings of saliva stretch, snap, and drip from curved, glistening teeth. The tip of Satoru’s blue tongue uncurls and descends upon Suguru, tracing down the soft skin and muscle of his abdomen. It is no firmer than the touch of a hand but so much warmer... and wet.

Out of pure, ticklish reflex, Suguru tries to curl himself up like a pillbug. The breadth and closeness of Satoru’s snout prevents him from so much as sitting up or rolling over; it keeps his body from wriggling the way it desperately wants to, leaving him with no resource but to quiver under the light, exploratory touches of Satoru's tongue.

And then those soft, teasing little licks cease. The soft, slick heat of Satoru's tongue retreats. Granted a moment of reprieve, Suguru lets out a shuddering breath he’d pent up in his chest without realizing. His thighs tremble as he pushes them together, jittery from both arousal and his body’s natural, nervous reaction to lying under a maw meant to devour him—a maw which suddenly yawns wide open above him, warm breath billowing onto Suguru as Satoru’s tongue lolls out in full.

The first long, slow swipe of it conjures a flood of physical memory that rivets Suguru in place. The last time he felt anything like this, it was with deep exhaustion and numbed limbs and bulky layers of clothing dulling his senses. On his bare, sensitive skin? Without a care for actually being devoured? Suguru’s toes curl and his hands blindly flutter for some kind of purchase, nails scraping helplessly on stone and scale. His whines are poorly stifled behind a bitten bottom lip. Of their own volition, his hips roll up into the slick pressure plied against his front, chasing for more as Satoru’s tongue travels further up the length of his body.

Suguru’s rising moan cuts off into a sputter as Satoru carelessly licks across the bottom half of his face. He even can’t find the breath to complain all that flexing, undulating heat molds against his front anew. The next agonizingly slow lick has Suguru’s head buzzing with an absence of thought and his body trembling with an excess of sensation.

Satoru’s jaws lower around him like a spiked cage, long teeth hooked on the edges of the stone slab underneath Suguru to keep them safely spread. Like this, the loll of his tongue is heavier and its reach more full. It teases Suguru everywhere all at once, its length extending almost head to toe: squishing in between his thighs, covering his aching cock, and lapping across his chest.

Suguru squirms harder, knees pinching inward and hips jerking. Stuck between a rock and a dragon’s yawning, fang-lined mouth, he can do nothing but writhe and feel it all. His reflexive discomfort and disgust—there is drool coating him and pooling under him and dripping places it’s never been—is cast into the ether somewhere along the way, forced out to make room for whatever madness has him aroused at the mess Satoru is making of him.

His breaths hitch higher and shallower in time with the motions Satoru makes. Time and again he tries arching up into the slick press of Satoru’s tongue, but there is too little room or grip to do it. His heels slip on smooth, wet stone when he tries to angle his hips upward. His fervent efforts are answered and easily quashed by the press of Satoru’s tongue, grinding him down into rock until he’s once more whimpering with nowhere to go.

He swelters under the heat of Satoru’s breath and the molten desire licking at him from within. Feverish pleasure makes his muscles weak and his eyes slide half-closed. As Satoru drags his tongue up the whole of Suguru’s body, he slowly snakes it side-to-side, too. The rippling movement paired with its smothering weight is too much—the soft, wet heat of Satoru’s tongue presses in and envelops him, practically nestling around his cock while squeezing it down against his own slippery belly.

With a jerk and gritted teeth, Suguru comes right there, helpless and wordless. Satoru must taste it, given the low, pleased rumble that reverberates up his throat and leaves Suguru’s bones tingling. Suguru’s body is strung taut, fingers curling and mouth agape. His sticky lashes flutter and his eyes roll, breath held painfully in his chest until the intensity of it releases him.

And then he shudders. The tension squeezing him all over melts away. Suguru sighs out of satisfaction.

Only… Satoru’s tongue hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it renews its efforts, pressing even more insistently on skin left glossy and blushing from the earlier attention. Without sparing Suguru even a minute to regain his senses, the tip of that blue tongue goes straight for his hips and in between his legs.

The resurgence of pleasure crosses into agony and then back again several times over. It’s good and too much and Suguru doesn’t know what to do with himself. His thighs clench inward but it’s of little use—Satoru’s tongue is so slick that he can’t squeeze it out. All firm, flexible muscle, it easily pushes his legs apart to make room and burrows itself as far into him as it can go. Which… isn’t far at all. Even just the tip of Satoru’s tongue is too thick to actually fit inside him, no matter how determined it is.

But Suguru doesn’t need it inside to have his hips snaking and rocking upward, moving desperately within the miniscule sliver of space between the stone at his back and Satoru’s bottom jaw. Satoru’s tongue folds on itself and wriggles against him, its tip flicking up between his legs and sliding into the seam of his backside. It almost seems to pulse, to thrust, to plunge into the gap between his thighs while lapping at his cock, making obscenely wet sounds all the while.

Suguru grasps onto one of Satoru’s fangs as he’s pushed and prodded into another climax upon Satoru’s tongue, squeezing tight as he rides it out. Left fully undone after, he lays there under the slow, steady puffs of dragon’s breath, twitchy and dazed and mute for lack of the ability to string two words together.

His lashes stick to his cheeks as his eyes fall shut. His legs splay open as he catches his breath, dense, sticky strands clinging between them. Suddenly aware of how much dragon drool is gooped all over him, Suguru's most coherent thought takes shape around the need to clean off before it dries down on his skin and in his hair. It's a shame, really, that being doused in Satoru’s saliva lost any and all appeal the moment he finished. But it’s his good fortune that they’re right beside a scalding hot spring, which should help cut through even a thick, slick coating like this. 

When Suguru opens his eyes some minutes later, he finds Satoru staring down at him with thoughtful interest, long head turning this way and that.

Between slow, bleary blinks, Suguru croaks, “Finished with me?”

“For now.” He seems to be admiring his work, one heavy claw tapping slowly in the loose stone under them. “Unless you want—”

“No, no, no,” Suguru groans, the back of a sticky arm pressed to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll come apart if you do that again so soon! It was good, gods, but…”

Too good, maybe. There’s still a tremble in his fingers and a quivering weakness in his legs. His heartbeat hasn’t yet settled. Suguru grimaces as he rakes his fingers into his hair and remembers it's all drenched.

“I must look horrendous.”

“Not at all,” Satoru purrs back, his pale mane ruffling up in interest. Lower, uttered through a grinning cage of teeth, he adds, “You look good like this, Suguru. So good, in fact, that I’m tempted to eat you up.”

Suguru groans and rolls his head the other way, one palm blindly pushing at the scaled snout hovering close over him. “That joke isn’t any funnier now than it was the first time, Satoru. And with the way you just licked me all over, I worry you might be serious.”

“Mmm, maybe I am?” Satoru mouths lightly—delicately, for his size—at Suguru’s hand. “You’re just the right size for a snack.”

“Hm. But not sweet enough for your tastes, I think.”

“You’d be wrong, then. My Suguru is the sweetest inside and out,” Satoru flatters. “Although I wouldn’t mind dressing you in honey first the next time you want in my mouth…”

Suguru wrinkles his nose at Satoru putting it that way, in those words. Then he grins as he’s playfully bumped and nosed by Satoru, making only a lazy effort to flail back.

This could hardly have gone better, really, considering the idea was a half-baked mix of trauma-induced and erotica-inspired. And for Satoru to suggest a next time already… given that only one of them really got anything out of this, Suguru appreciates that Satoru is willing to indulge him further. And if dousing himself in honey makes it a little more enjoyable for the tongue doing all the work, Suguru isn’t opposed. It isn’t like he can get any filthier than he already is.

He closes his eyes again and hums contentedly, blindly petting whatever part of Satoru is closest: the tip of his snout, the length of his jaw, the underside of his chin. Worn out and unfocused, he only half-listens to the sounds of Satoru’s long, deep breaths and scales sliding over stone as he shifts around. 

“Suguruuu…”

Suguru cracks one eye open and peers up into a long, slitted pupil that is growing wider by the second.

Satoru still lays on his belly, half in the spring and half out of it. His neck is drawn high, his shoulders set stiff, and his forelegs primly crossed, all giving him an air of barely-restrained excitement. A ways off down the shore, the end of his long tail begins to slap the shallow water in a hurried, building tempo. Two round, crystal blue eyes are fixed upon Suguru, already pleading before the dragon says another word.

“Suguru,” he croons while fidgeting in place. “Since we did yours… can I try something?”

Both of Suguru’s eyes are open now.

“I… of course.” It's only fair, considering the thorough effort Satoru just put in. Suguru lets out a soft sigh as he sits up, propped by shaky arms. “As long as it isn’t anything too strenuous or liable to kill me, I’m up for it. But I should clean off first—”

“Oh, don’t bother.”

Suguru opens his mouth to protest before realizing it’ll do no good. Satoru has a point—whatever he wants will almost certainly make washing up a wasted effort. 

“Care to explain first?” Suguru weakly wonders while watching Satoru slither and stand up out of the water. He can’t recall if Satoru actually named any specific wants or wishes when this last came up. “Or do you…”

The sense to form words trickles out of him as Satoru’s long back arches up out of the spring, followed by scaled hips and muscled thighs and something large hung in between them.

Somethings, that is. Because there are two of them, Suguru suddenly remembers, all the color blanching from his skin before a blush brings it roaring back. Seeing them in the flesh is nothing like hearing it so casually mentioned by Satoru. That book of shunga prints he had Suguru look at really did dragons no honest justice.

He cannot tear his eyes away from these new, heavy-hanging bits of Satoru’s anatomy. The closer Satoru’s back half lumbers, the more Suguru can see of the long, dripping members that have emerged from a scaly slit between his hind legs. They’re identical, as far as he can tell: snowy white at their base, a rich blue at each slender tip, and a soft fade in between; equal in size, and both of them proportional to a full-grown dragon; curiously ridged and frilled in places… and very, very stiff, periodically twitching up toward Satoru’s belly.

Did they get like that just from Satoru lying here and licking him? Heat dances under Suguru’s skin at the thought, a mix of flattered excitement and embarrassing want causing his heart to hammer again. He blinks for the first time in too long, suddenly aware he’s been mute and openly gawking for several drawn out seconds. Granted, it’s not as if Satoru will take offense…

Long, lean legs and clawed feet step in close around the rock Suguru is perched on, giving him an even more generous view of what the dragon is clearly showing off. He sucks in a deep breath, eyes wide as Satoru sidles closer and circles round him and lines himself up just right. Once satisfied with their arrangement, Satoru lies down right beside the slab where Suguru sits. He rolls onto his side, hips angled toward Suguru as he wriggles them, and—

Suguru swallows as two unbelievably large dragon members come to lay atop the slick stone and Suguru himself, bouncing slightly before their considerable weight settles. Each one stretches nearly as long as Suguru is tall; at their girthiest, they’re wider than his thighs. And stacked together—the ridges along their lengths seem complimentary, helping them fit snugly against one another—they’re thick as his torso.

Satoru’s scaly hips flex and it’s enough to send both cocks bumping and sliding Suguru’s bare, saliva-slick body. A harder thrust could send him rolling right off this rock and onto the smaller, rougher stones around it.

“O-Oh, wait. This is…”

Suguru stares down the twin lengths rubbing against him, still in disbelief at the disparity in their size versus his. He knew they wouldn’t be small, but…

“More than you can handle?” Satoru’s long neck twists to bring his head near, a note of sad, sulky disappointment already creeping into his tone.

“I didn’t say that.” Suguru braces a hand against the curved underside of the pushier of the two, trying to make a little more space for himself; the immediate and vigorous throb against his palm almost startles him. “I’ll… do my best. And you—you’d better be careful,” he adds, craning an arm to point warningly at his giant dragon of a husband-to-be, “not to roll onto me.”

After a small beat of silence, Satoru solemnly replies, “I’ll do my best.”

“Satoru.”

“I’m kidd—Suguru, it was a joke. Of course I will exercise the utmost care with you,” he whines, tail lashing in the water. “Now, can I move? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?”

“Um, yes,” Suguru says after getting himself situated, uncertain he’ll ever be properly prepared for what's to come. Under his breath, for his own benefit, he mutters, “I can do this.”

…How does he do this? 

Satoru does not dawdle and wait for him to figure it out. His hips rock back before swiveling forward, dragging both his cocks down the length of Suguru before thrusting right back into him. The slickness left by Satoru’s tongue and the thin, pearly white already dripping from each head ease their way, their considerable weight gliding against and over Suguru.

Satoru finds his footing first, claws anchoring into the gravelly earth with a sharp crunch. Then he finds a rhythm, quickening the gentle roll of his hips to something bordering on urgent.

Suguru, for the most part, just braces himself and lies there, letting Satoru rut against him. There is not much else he can do, he thinks, while being repeatedly battered by two appendages nearly as large as he is. On the upstroke, their tapered heads catch his chin and bump against his cheeks and leave smears of warm pre-spend on his skin. As Satoru rocks back, the raised, supple ridges patterned along each cock rub down Suguru’s chest and hips, teasing him into arching forward. Every minute shift of Satoru's hips translates into Suguru being nudged from a slightly new angle; each thrust inches him toward the far edge of the slicked stone slab he lies atop, forcing Suguru to wriggle back to the center as best he can.

The sheer physicality of it is has Suguru sweating. He's more aroused by the strange onslaught of attention than he’d thought he’d be, too. But as the twinned pair of dragon cocks jostle against each other in a desperate bid for greater claim to Suguru, for more constant contact, it’s so obvious that they’re seeking more—a tight channel, a heat where they fit, the full friction and contact that Suguru can’t quite give.

Not as he lays right now, at least.

“Sa-Satoru,” Suguru hisses under his breath, knowing it’s entirely lost under the sounds of sticky, gliding flesh, shifting stone, and stirring water. “Give me a second, here.”

It takes some force and a fair bit of maneuvering, especially with two needily insistent bits of Satoru knocking him around all the while, but Suguru manages to resituate himself. He gets on his side and raises a leg, positioning himself just right to be sandwiched between the pair of them when Satoru next snaps his hips forward—and it works. The underside of one long, slightly curved cock grinds flush against his front; the top of the other glides along his back and backside, twitching up against him.

The mostly-even pace Satoru has managed abruptly picks up. Suguru lets out a long, low moan as his knees are pushed open and the slicked ridges of Satoru’s upper cock squeeze in between his thighs. The underside of one blue-blushed, frill-lined cockhead brushes his open mouth, his lips and nose dragging along its length as it slides up and down against him. With eyes half-closed, Suguru sticks his tongue out and flattens it against the length in front of him. 

Even half-lost in sticky pleasure, Suguru can’t help but register the delighted noise Satoru makes: it begins as a rumbling groan that vibrates the very rock under them and then curls up into an airy, needy whine. Though it’s the first time Suguru has ever heard a dragon make such a sound, it is undeniably very, very Satoru.

He smiles openmouthed and semi-dazed between little licks and kisses laid on the flushed, pearly-sheened cock frantically rutting against his front; fumblingly, Suguru brings his knees forward and gets his thighs around its length, squeezing in. Then he twists at the waist, shoulders turned to sling his left arm behind him, palming along the length of the cock at his back and guiding it closer, too.

Wrapped around and squeezed against Satoru, he comes again—an afterthought to what he’s trying to do for Satoru, but perfectly pleasurable all the same. His cries, which always seem far too loud no matter where they are in the castle, might as well be a whisper here. Suguru can’t even hear himself over the racket Satoru is making: roars that dissolve into moans and breaths that have his flanks heaving and the hiss of his scales scraping along stone as his long, lean body begins to writhe and curl in upon itself.

Satoru’s sinuous hips jerk forward. His thighs bunch as he draws his scaled legs up under himself, digging and kicking in the loose stone gravel while he hunts for the leverage to drive himself harder into Suguru. For several hazy heartbeats, Suguru worries that Satoru will forget himself and get atop him, hips poised above Suguru to fuck him down into the ground, the woeful difference in their size forgotten.

Fortunately, it need not go that far. It doesn’t take much more for Satoru’s excitement to get the better of him.

While still flailing around on his ground, his hips give a thrust that sends Suguru sliding several feet. With a snarling roar that makes the small pebbles around them jitter in place, Satoru’s uppermost cock gives a firm twitch where it’s jammed between Suguru’s legs and against his belly. The first thick jet of his spend paints Suguru and the stone all around him milky, shimmery white. It is still pulsing out more as his other cock jerks, pushing stiffly against Suguru’s spine and making just as much of a mess against his back.

Suguru feels it all, his whole body turned tender and oversensitive—every mindless twitch of release against him and ever drip and dribble of molten heat on his skin. The familiar salt-sweet taste of Satoru coats his mouth, inside and out. It pools under him. It keeps coming. By the time Satoru is done bucking and grinding both lengths into him, there isn’t an inch of Suguru that isn’t stained in some way by Satoru.

And if Satoru’s spit was bad, the come clung all over him now is ten times worse. Gooey and sticky to an unbearable degree, Suguru lets out one long, continuous groan as he slides out from under the satiated, softening pair of cocks and blindly shimmies himself down into the water, leaving something like a hideous slug trail behind him.

He submerges himself slowly, hissing as the shallows' warm water laps against his sore muscles and bruised skin. His first priority is dunking his face under and wiping his eyes, scrubbing his cheeks, clearing his nose. Even with steam and plenty of water to work with, it takes minutes of splashing and wiping to fully remove the layers of slippery gunk coating his skin.

And that’s only his face. His body’s in an even worse state, in various stages of tacky and slippery-wet. And his hair, ugh… covered in filth from head to toe, Suguru tries not to think of how thoroughly he’s sullying the spring. It’s really Satoru’s fault, anyway.

“Get up,” Suguru calls at Satoru, who is still lying limply on the shore of the spring. “If I didn’t get to nap, you don’t get to either. Up, Satoru.”

In response, Satoru rolls around and stretches the upper half of his serpentine body, in no great hurry. His eyes are closed up in little halfmoons like a flat, lazy lizard enjoying the sun—which Suguru would find deeply, endearingly cute in any other circumstances.

“We’ve both had our fun,” he goes on, unwilling to sit here slime-coated until Satoru feels like stirring again and, heavens forbid, going for a repeat. He wades over to the section of dragon tail still submerged in the water and gives it a feeble two-handed shove, as if that will budge Satoru even slightly. “Now help me get your mess cleaned up! I'm too sore to even bend certain ways.”

With a rumble of great reluctance, Satoru finally rouses. He scoots himself backward and lazily reverse-slithers into the water, stone and gravel making a horrible racket as literal tons of scaly dragon slide over them.

“I need you to have hands for this, Satoru,” Suguru reminds him, watching on as the much-feared head of the Gojo clan wriggles himself into the hot spring with all the grace and dignity of a worm.

With a groan that makes the water above his body vibrate and bubble, Satoru poofs into a shower of snow and ice that quickly melts away in the steam-heated air. Given that more than half his length was already submerged in the water, Satoru’s much smaller, more human form emerges in approximately the same place.

He bobs under for several long moments before popping above the surface again, some ten or fifteen strokes from the shallow edge of the jade pool. Fully clothed, too. Comical.

“You look ridiculous,” Suguru shouts, tutting after. “I suppose this is why I found you fully dressed in the lake when we first met? How impractical.”

“What, would you rather I shed my clothes every time I change shape?” Satoru huffs with his chin just above the water. Then he laughs out loud. “I mean… you probably would like that, wouldn’t you? From the moment you first laid eyes on me, you couldn’t wait to see me naked.”

Suguru doesn’t bother dignifying Satoru’s teasing, revisionist history with a comment. Nor does he bother chastising him for being of no help whatsoever—he will remember it, though, when Satoru next wants some little favor. He sighs and starts washing between his thighs, resigned, when a sudden flurry of splashing pulls his attention right back to Satoru.

“Ah, help! I’m drowning!” he cries, fake-floundering in the water just offshore. With the back of a hand pressed to his forehead and his silky clothes billowed all around him, Satoru wails, “Won’t some human with zero sense of self-preservation come and rescue me? One who loves to bark orders while sporting constant bedroom eyes, preferably.”

Suguru tries to ignore him. His silence results in Satoru breaking character just long enough to sit up straight in the water and yell, “Oi! Suguru, that’s you.”

As if the reference was lost on him. Suguru’s deadpan stare—or perhaps bedroom eyes, to Satoru—follows his betrothed as he dramatically pretends to drown thrice over, re-emerging each time with an even more exaggerated gasp for air.

“Suguruuuu, save me! Save me, Suguru! Hurry! I’ll drown for real if you don’t sweep me up in your arms and carry me to shore!”

Satoru’s dramatics devolve into a fit of obnoxious snickering. He then begins a lazy backstroke in Suguru's direction, easily keeping his head above the water even with a full outfit of waterlogged clothing on.

“I’m so glad that you amuse yourself,” Suguru dryly remarks, resisting the temptation to grin at such immature antics. He wrings out his filthy hair for the second time. “And at the expense of my concern for you, no less. I ought to have turned around and left you there in the lake that day.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Satoru laughs, unbothered, while paddling toward the shore in his sodden clothes.

Suguru lets a smile show at the corners of his mouth. “If you don’t come and help me get the last of this out of my hair, then I absolutely do mean it.”

Satoru knows his teasing too well to take it to heart. All grin, he bounds through the shallows to lend his hands to Suguru’s clean-up—after first tackling him into the water and then making him blush with talk like are you certain you’ve never laid with a dragon before, Suguru? Because you seemed to know just what to do there and ah, if you were my size I could really show you what I’m capable of and next time, we should make a whole day of this...

While Satoru babbles on, his hands busy rubbing Suguru’s sore back and painstakingly finger-combing through the clumped tangles in his hair, Suguru rests waist-deep in the spring and picks under his fingernails. Clawing at everything within reach while in the throes of passion did quite a number on them.

By the time he is rinsed passably clean, Suguru is hot-flushed and pruny all over. He’ll still need a bath when they get home, too, if he hopes to smell like himself again. Satoru, ever fond of marking him in one way or another, openly pouts when Suguru says as much.

On still-wobbly legs, he stands and takes his leave of the hot spring. Unasked, Satoru lays out a dense carpet of snow for Suguru to walk across before it melts, sparing his feet from the steam-heated stone and gravel underneath. After hours spent soaking and sweating, the chill is welcome.

Beside their little picnic basket, Satoru helps to hold Suguru steady as he pulls on one nice, dry layer at a time. His hair is still dripping, unfortunately, but there’s little to be done about it here—the sun is already sinking toward the western mountain peaks and time is short. He’ll wrap it up under the hood of his coat for the duration of the ride home, which shouldn’t take long at all.

“You’re not going to change into something dry?” Suguru asks while jamming on one of his boots, not bothering to hide his judgment as he eyes Satoru. The man looks ridiculous, swathed in waterlogged kosode that make wet little slop slop sounds whenever he moves. “I brought spare clothes for this exact purpose. Use them.”

“Why bother? I’ll just put something else on when we get home,” Satoru yawns, still holding out an arm for Suguru to use for balance.

“Seriously? Even if the cold isn’t a bother, I don’t know how you can stand the discomfort,” Suguru grumbles, shoulders pinching in unpleasantly at the mere thought of having to walk around with wet, cooling fabric rubbing against his skin.

“Easily.” Satoru’s smile turns toothy. “But I can go ahead and strip, if what I’m wearing bothers you so much.”

Suguru all but rolls his eyes. He’s worn out past the point of such flirting being enticing. “Save that for when we get home too, then. Just hurry up and put on your real skin, would you?”

Satoru needs no second invitation. While Suguru gathers up his belongings—including his newly salvaged tsurugi—and ensures he’s thoroughly bundled for the freezing ride home, Satoru strolls some paces away and transforms. Still wet from the spring, he then arches his long back and shakes furiously, sending a spray of little water droplets in all directions. Including Suguru’s.

Suguru makes a point of sighing and brushing flecks of water from the waxed hide of his riding coat. “If I crust over with ice mid-air, I’m holding you responsible. Can you lie down, please?”

Eager to please, Satoru drops to his belly and slides closer to Satoru. Far, far down the length of his body, his tail is whipping back and forth incessantly.

“Suguruuu… are you sure you don’t want to fly home in my mouth? It’d be warmer,” he teases while passively watching Suguru struggle to clamber up onto the slippery scales of his back. “And you wouldn’t have to worry about holding on.”

After what they just did? Satoru’s face flushes hot behind the heavy scarf drawn up over his nose. He’ll never think innocently of that tongue again, if he ever could.

“And undo the work we just did to get your saliva off of me? So the castlegrounds servants can all see me get spat out in some courtyard for a second time? No, thank you.” He grunts in irritation as he slides down Satoru’s side once more, unable to clamber high enough to reach the long spill of his mane. “I’d appreciate a hand up, though.”

He gets Satoru’s tail instead. It presses under his backside—of course it does—and pushes him along, up the smooth breadth of the dragon’s flank and safely onto his back. It then gives Suguru an extra smack on the rear for good measure. 

Suguru huffs as he rolls himself upright and gets situated as comfortably as he can. He also makes sure to grab two extra firm fistfuls of the white hair that runs the length of Satoru’s spine, making sure Satoru feels it. “You know, I think we ought to get you fitted for a saddle soon. Riding you bareback is no easy feat.”

Satoru’s snakelike neck kinks around as his head immediately swivels toward Suguru.

“You’d saddle me?” he asks with as much amusement as indignation, teeth bared as he gives something like a laugh. “Do you have any idea what the rest of my clan would think of that? Or what the other clans would say?”

Suguru ponders it, his stare wandering for a moment. “No worse than they think and say of you for doting on a human in the first place, I’d imagine.”

A long beat passes, the distant chirping of birds the only sound to fill the silence. Slit-pupiled eyes finally blink at him.

“Hah! That’s true enough,” Satoru snorts, swinging his head forward and shaking out his still-damp mane. All the muscle and rib bone and impervious dragonscale underneath Suguru vibrates with the low pitch of his humming. “I would still prefer having you in my mouth, I think—mm, like a bit of candy to savor—but I’ll allow you a saddle.”

“How generous.”

Suguru is already jostling forward and back as Satoru begins loping across the uneven ground in growing strides, building speed as he veers them towards the sheer drop-off of a nearby cliff.

No matter how many times they do this—and they’ve shared at least two dozen flights beyond the castle grounds thus far, ranging up the coast and back again—Suguru’s stomach still sinks in that first weightless moment where Satoru trades earth for air. His hips lift from his dragon’s back, spine tingling at the floating sensation. For one inhale, his grip on Satoru’s silky mane is all that tethers them together.

Then he drops down onto hard scales again, his sore thighs squeezed tight to keep from sliding backward. Suguru's gloved fingers burrow deeper into Satoru’s hair, anchoring himself as he leans low and forward, making his profile small as he can. The closer he is molded to Satoru’s sleek form, the better the howling mountain winds slip over and around him instead of buffeting him side-to-side. 

Yes, no matter what sort of remarks it draws, a saddle would be an awfully nice addition if they’re really going to be doing this sort of thing together for years to come—and with every passing day, Suguru has less reason to doubt it.

Chapter Text

Tsukimi arrives upon them sooner than Suguru expects. Then again, Satoru’s domain has a vague timelessness to it, disconnected as it is from the rest of the world. Atop these airy white peaks, the worldly goings-on of people and places elsewhere feels distant enough to be forgotten. And without the rise and fall of the seasons to measure by, the holidays they share serve as Suguru’s frame of reference for the passing weeks and months.

While folding linens and making conversation with Haibara, he learns that the servants and other staff make offerings and hold their own small get-togethers in their quarters several baileys from the castle-palace itself, and Gojo-sama… well, no one ever really knew what Gojo-sama did, but the expectation is that he passed the night alone somewhere in the castle, as he did most other special occasions, too.

Suguru finds it perplexing for more reasons than one. Few things are more important than the harvest and showing proper gratitude for it. For villages that live or die upon what the land gives, as his does, Tsukimi is celebrated accordingly—under the moonlight, with friends and neighbors and plenty of food to share. There is no reason a castle as grand as this should do any less.

And he certainly won’t be letting Satoru observe this one all on his lonesome, either.

Suguru goes out of his way to involve himself in organizing the castle’s festivities, quietly making his plans known to the kitchen and the groundskeepers and the runners of the castle household. He then spends a week pressing Nanami and Haibara—who needs little encouragement, honestly—into helping him procure the food, decorations, and furnishings he’ll need. If he can keep this all a pleasant surprise for Satoru, all the better.

In the days leading up to the night of the full moon, he makes special arrangements for Yuta to take a package home to Kurosaki. Given that it must fill the space of his absence, Suguru packs the parcel with everything Manami, Nanako, and Mimiko might want for: new outfits and jewelry, candles, wooden boxes of creamy white dango, chestnuts, and persimmons. To keep his mind off missing them terribly—and off of all the other special dates and ceremonies he’s missed taking part in back home—he keeps himself busy with the castle’s expanded preparations.

When the evening finally arrives, all he has left to do is invite Satoru, who has been letter-writing and stamping documents of receipt for days, to a party he must attend.

“I’ve never seen you so diligent,” Suguru muses when he finds Satoru still in one of the rooms where he regularly holds court, working away. Smiling at the sight—candlelit and studious, brows set in concentration as he reads—Suguru pads over and kneels down beside him. “Why are you still here when everyone else has already retired for the evening?”

“Oh, just taking care of some business meant for tomorrow.” Satoru turns and gives him a wink. “So we can sleep in.”

It’s thoughtful. It’s quite sweet. And if not for the gathering he’s planned—one where Satoru himself is expected—Suguru would be very content to sit here with Satoru and help along.

“That’s very kind of you, Satoru, but I think this can wait,” he gently suggests, his hand sliding along the back of Satoru’s, guiding him to put the brush down. “I’d like you to come to the bedroom with me.”

Satoru’s long ears perk at that, a lopsided smile across his mouth and the record on his writing table forgotten. “Oh?”

“No, not—not for that. To get dressed up! To go join everyone else for some moon-viewing.”

“Oh.” Satoru’s tongue clicks against his teeth, his previous delight forgotten. He goes back to writing. “I don’t really do that.”

Suguru sits and stares, his own smile stricken too. “What do you mean you don’t do that?”

It’s a ludicrous thought, as far as he is concerned. Satoru is head of his clan and this whole castle complex. Tsukimi is a time for appreciation—of the moon and of the crops that sustain them and of the food on their table and of each other. If anyone should be in attendance, it should be him. If nothing else, he ought to lead by example.

Satoru’s inkbrush stills for a moment before he resumes writing. “I mean that the vast majority of this castle’s occupants are guards, servants, and the like,” he murmurs, “and they celebrate amongst themselves. Do you think any of them would be at ease with me moving around in their midst?”

“Oh. Hm. I… perhaps not in years past, no. But I think it would be good for them to see you in a more… approachable setting,” Suguru cajoles, folding his hands atop Satoru’s shoulder and then resting his cheek atop them. He bats his eyelashes a little, knowing Satoru is paying attention to the periphery of his vision. “You’re such fun company, Satoru. I should not have you all to myself.”

Satoru laughs at that, close-mouthed, and keeps writing. “Well, I’m content to be yours alone.”

Suguru sighs heavily enough to tickle across Satoru’s cheek, slumping against him in disappointment. He’d not imagined that enticing Satoru out would be a whole back-and-forth.

“You could go spend a little time with everyone else, if you’re so keen on it. Take Yuta with you. I bet he’d like to socialize more,” Satoru says, as if that is even remotely Suguru’s idea of a nice night out—or Yuta’s, for that matter. “But I expect you back soon to keep me company. We can do our own little moon-viewing together.”

“But that’s not…” Suguru readjusts, resting his head directly on Satoru’s shoulders so his hands are free to wander. He runs them down Satoru’s upper arm, tracing along muscles he cannot see but knows by touch. “But… Satoru, I went through so much trouble…”

Now Satoru sets his brush down. “Did you?”

This is ruining the surprise. Suguru sighs again, deflating.

“Tsukimi is no small affair back home, you know. Since I can’t be there, I wanted something like it here.” Albeit grander, in accordance with the size of the castle and the wealth available to it. No moon-viewing in Kurosaki has ever had leisure boats or enough food for hundreds of mouths. “Out under the moon with friends and loved ones. With everyone. With you in particular.”

“You went sneaking around under my nose to plan an outing and lure me into it?” Satoru says, his smile widening with each word.

“I did. And it was tricky to keep it a secret, since you’re so nosy,” he adds, cupping his hand over Satoru’s mouth and pinching his nose. He’s spent the last three days convinced one servant or another was going to blurt to Satoru out of sheer nerves. “So get up and get dressed with me. Come make an appearance. It’s just one night, Satoru.”

Satoru opens his mouth—to protest, probably, so Suguru acts first. He takes Satoru’s hand, palm-to-palm, and laces their fingers together before squeezing gently.

“Please,” he interrupts, watching as Satoru’s words dry up on his tongue and his eyes take on a different shine. Suguru looks up from under his lashes as he pulls Satoru’s hand close, turning it so he can press the backs of pale knuckles to his lips. “Please, Satoru?”

❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅

It takes them ages to get dressed, thanks to Satoru’s frequent, handsy interruptions. Suguru had rightly suspected Satoru would become more amenable to his plans after a bit of pouty pleading; he had not accounted for his betrothed becoming hopelessly worked up over it.

“Later,” he hisses for the fourth or fifth time, swatting a clawed hand aside. He won’t let himself be tempted into delaying them any further… even if Satoru does look strikingly handsome, all adorned in jewelry and clad in fine unusual clothing. “You can wait a few hours. Be patient.”

Satoru, whose pout is far more practiced and persuasive, reluctantly resigns himself to it.

By the time they cross the castle’s expansive grounds and arrive at the largest, wildest garden within its walls, the feasting and conversing are already well underway. At the end of a well-trodded, lantern-strung path, they arrive at a clearing where the snow has been raked away to make room for platforms and seating and long banquet tables. More than a hundred familiar faces are bustling about—gardeners, cooks, servants, guards, Yuta, and so on. Even Shoko opted to attend, though in all honesty she may be here more for the sake than anything else.

The volume of chatter drops off sharply at the sight of Gojo-sama on Suguru’s arm. A few people hurry to bow before Satoru waves them off, smiling broadly as he bids everyone to keep enjoying themselves.

Which, in a way, is also an order. The din of voices slowly bubbles back up, for who is willing to risk drawing their master’s ire by walking on eggshells while he’s here?

The moon hangs full and low over the mountains, nary a cloud in the sky to obscure it. Dozens of braziers and bonfires burn away to keep everyone—other than Satoru, whom the cold cannot touch—comfortably warm while enjoying the view. Vases filled with tall pampas grass and autumn blooms add some much-needed color to the banquet area, which is set up with long tables piled high with offerings and food: roasted chestnuts, kabocha, and sweet potatoes; soba and soup; grapes and persimmons; dango and other sweets, plus enough sake to make drunk half the castle.

It’s easier to mingle so many different types of people with a little alcohol in the mix, Suguru thinks. It raises spirits and lowers guards. It makes tongues looser and bolder, too, and while that can often cause trouble, it serves a purpose here.

Satoru, for all his capacity to be caring and protective and make playful conversation, is also undeniably intimidating. Especially to the Gojo clan servants and castle inhabitants who saw firsthand how he handled his uncle. And to those who have borne the brunt of his icier moments. And to the ones who have only viewed Satoru from afar or in glimpses, or from stories whispered by the staff who attend him in the castle. But Suguru trusts that with good food and good sake freely available, everyone present will get to enjoy the night together—Satoru included.

As the milling crowd thins, Suguru easily spies Haibara’s flailing arms from across the clearing and tugs Satoru along in that direction.

“Suguru! We saved your seats!” Haibara crows the second Suguru is within earshot, beaming as he gestures to two empty cushions on the other side of the table. The moment he locks eyes with Satoru, however, his expression turns half-serious and his voice drops to a somber pitch, long ears bobbing forward as he bows his head. “Gojo-sama.”

A ripple of concerned murmurs and movement travels down the length of the table, all the seated gardeners and blacksmiths and off-duty guards also moving to pay their respects to the clan head joining them. It’s Satoru himself who cuts them off, excusing the table from any effort to formally acknowledge his presence as he sits down beside Yuta.

Suguru hides his grin in the palm of his hand, watching as Satoru immediately strikes up a conversation with Nanami across from him and Yuta on his other side. Good. Good! Everything is going just as he’d hoped.

“Not a bad turnout,” Shoko says as she sits to his left, a bottle of sake in one hand and her lit pipe in the other. “But I suppose free food will do that. Did you invite the whole castle?”

“Um, more or less… I think a good number have posts to watch or family gatherings of their own, but… this is nice, isn’t it?” he asks, raising his voice over the growing din that comes with a hundred-odd people gathered to eat, drink, and enjoy themselves. “And I’m glad you were able to make it after all.”

Shoko smiles and shrugs a shoulder. “Well, how could I not stop by when the Gojo clan’s wine stores are on offer? It’s a shame that that guy is sitting on some of the finest sake around but won’t touch a drop of it.”

Shoko pours for him. Generously, too. Suguru returns the favor.

“He can’t help that he has no affinity for the taste. And he likes to keep his wits about him, understandably.” Suguru feels safer, too, in the knowledge that he can relax and imbibe while Satoru keeps an eye out for them all. “Which just means more for us, so…”

Shoko happily raises her cup to that, matching his grin.

They spend more time chatting and drinking than eating, sampling through various bottles of fine quality: sweet sake, strong and bitter sake, pleasantly fruity sake, and even a rare bottle of imported wine. Little wonder Shoko is always raiding the castle’s supply for payment in lieu of gold. 

Following a short drinking game with Nanami, who is nearly Shoko’s match in holding his liquor, Suguru finds himself tittering at the smallest things: the off-key singing from several wolflike guards a few places down, their warbling voices breaking into howls midword; Ino toppling off his floor cushion after trying to keep up with Nanami’s casual drinking pace; the way several passersby blanch ghost-white upon realizing they nearly stepped on Gojo-sama’s tail, which is swishing loose behind him.

Still giggle-prone, Suguru spins one of his silver earrings round and round as he listens to Haibara tell story after story—most of them unintentionally embarrassing for Nanami, who steadily grows redder beside him.

Satoru’s shoulder nudges into his. Warm lips hover close to Suguru’s ear, ensuring no one else hears.

“Mind getting up and taking a little walk with me? If you can do so without stumbling, that is.”

“I can,” Suguru scoffs, though his face feels terribly hot from all the drinking and his head is a bit light. Perhaps stepping away from the crowded banquet table and getting some brisk air will help with that.

He’s not too proud to accept the helping hand Satoru offers him. He is likewise quick to grin and accept the freshly filled cup Shoko hands him, which wins him a heavy sigh from Satoru.

They amble some paces away, right on the fringe of the lively, well-lit section of the garden, and spend a silent moment observing it all—the plentiful offerings before the moon, the decorations and companionable chatter, the feast and fires and festivities. The breeze is refreshingly sharp on Suguru’s flushed cheeks and sweaty brow. The short walk feels good after so long spent sitting half-absorbed in his own conversations while slyly watching Satoru delight in teasing Yuta and pestering Nanami.

But perhaps the nicest thing of all is Satoru sweetly pressing a few large dumplings into his hand, bidding him to eat up.

“Very thoughtful,” Suguru praises, happily nibbling on one between sips from his sake cup. “Thank you, Satoru.”

“You get sick when you drink on an empty stomach. I’d rather not have you hurling on me later,” he grumbles back.

Suguru smiles while chewing, still enamored with the idea of Satoru bundling dango up in a little handkerchief to bring along for his sake. “Satoru. ‘Twas one time. And it wasn’t on you.”

“Oh, fine, beside me,” he huffs. “As if that’s any better. If you’re going to get yourself drunk, the least you could do is keep it all down.”

Suguru’s smile only grows wider, eyes half-lidded as he leans in toward Satoru. At normal conversational volume, he says, “Perhaps I could have done so last time if you hadn’t bounced me so hard I couldn’t see straight—”

“Shh, shh, shh,” Satoru hisses, squeezing at Suguru’s cheeks and lips to quiet him. Suguru’s laughter muffles against his palm, warm and wet, and only then does Satoru drop his hand—so he can pry the half-full sake cup out of Suguru’s and set it on a statue pedestal nearby. “How many of these have you had? We were only sat at the table for an hour or two.”

Shoko poured so liberally that Suguru isn’t quite sure. Somewhere around nine or ten, maybe. He hadn’t thought to count.

“Not too many,” he says, seeing no need to worry Satoru with specifics. At his size, he’s always needed to down more than anyone else around him to achieve the same effect. “I’m nowhere near drunk.”

The arch of Satoru’s brow shows his skepticism there, but he leaves it alone. Looking down the length of Suguru, he asks, “Are you sure you’re warm enough in that? It’s only going to get colder out here as the night wears on.”

Suguru hums as he glances down at the outfit he chose for looks over practicality. The multiple layers of dark, flowy silk aren’t the warmest ones in his wardrobe, but they suit the occasion: two pure white kosode under a blue overrobe covered in silver-threaded scenes of moonlit forests and mists and mountains. The colors aren’t his typical choice, either, but they seemed appropriate for Tsukimi. And they match well with Satoru, besides.

“I’m fine. For now.” Suguru hooks two fingers under Satoru’s obi and gives it a firm tug. His sultry expression morphs into pure amusement as Satoru teeters for a split second, thrown off balance by the sudden, assertive gesture. “As long as you stick close to keep me warm…”

Satoru’s owlish blinks and softly parted lips give way to a sharp-toothed smile and pleased, crinkled, half-moon eyes.

“Oh, that’s no issue at all,” he assures while clasping his hands around Suguru’s middle.

Months of being well-fed and underworked gives Satoru’s fingers something to sink into. Suguru bites down on his bottom lip as he’s pulled in against Satoru’s front, brought up on his tiptoes, and held close. Their chins almost touch as Suguru tilts his head back to get a good look at his someday-husband.

“We can get a whole lot closer, even, if you like,” Satoru murmurs to him, lips a whisper shy of brushing Suguru’s. “I bet I could have you sweating out here despite the cold.”

Suguru gives it a pondering hum, unable to stop one corner of his mouth from showing his smile. He does like the sound of that, yes… but not before testing Satoru’s patience a while longer. And maybe not outside in the snow.

With a building ache in his cheeks from smiling all evening long, he leans back and toys with one end of the sloppily made scarf hung around Satoru’s neck.

The rough, motley fabric clashes terribly with the finery worn alongside it: a hitatare cut from a heavy black fabric with a fine, oiled sheen that plays well with the moonlight. Satoru wears it comfortably loose and half-open from the waist up, revealing the single snug kosode he has on underneath, which is pale and gossamerlike with white-thread snowflakes embroidered on the almost-sheer material. It’s wildly impractical but arrestingly pretty. Only Satoru could get away with wearing a garment so thin in these temperatures—and only he would slap an ugly scarf on top of it all.

“You still insist on wearing this ratty thing around?” Suguru thumbs the fraying edges along patches of coarsely-spun cotton. No two are the same shade of blue, different portions of the cloth sun-faded and blood-stained over years of use, mending, and re-use. “I’m surprised it’s held together this long.”

Satoru pats the scarf where it lay against his chest, over his heart, as if it needs protecting from such criticism. “I’ve taken excellent care of it.”

That much is abundantly clear. With how often Satoru wears it around, that thing would be in tatters if not for delicate handling.

“You’re surprisingly sentimental.” And Suguru finds it deeply endearing, even if Satoru’s attachment to this one piece in particular seems excessive. “But I could make you a nicer one, you know. With better thread and fabric. And the stitching won’t be so wonky.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to another, if you’re offering. But this scarf is always going to be my favorite, so you’ll be seeing it for a long while yet.”

“It doesn’t reflect well on my needlework,” Suguru complains, a little embarrassed at the thought of Satoru’s foes and relatives—sometimes one and the same—thinking something this poorly constructed is the best he can do, “but I’m touched that you like it even so.”

Satoru hums softly while looking down at him. In the bright moonlight, his lashes seem even more ethereal. “It reflects well on your other admirable qualities, though. A kind nature. Concern for others’ well-being. Your generosity—far, far too much of it, actually—toward ungrateful, hopeless young masters inexplicably wandering alone in the wilderness…”

The ribbing is apt and, even to Suguru’s ears, well-deserved. The sake in his belly makes it easy to laugh in disbelief at his own prior judgment—or lack of it, really. As his self-amusement fizzles down into slight hiccups, he leans his weight into Satoru again and rests his forehead on one broad shoulder.

“I really, actually believed you were some inept fifth son lost in the middle of nowhere without a horse, a sword, or any basic supplies. In the dead of winter, too. How did it never occur to me,” he groans, though that too gives way to a fit of giggling. “I found you in a freezing lake. You followed me up a dragon-mountain. You never once shivered. Ugh. I’m so dense.”

“You? No,” Satoru says with a quick scoff, though his tone… it leaves something to be desired. As he pats Suguru’s upper back, he goes on with, “You were simply too preoccupied with the journey ahead to worry about less pressing matters. And hopelessly besotted with my good looks, probably. There’s no shame in either.”

“Mhm.” Suguru smiles against the fabric covering Satoru’s chest. When he straightens up, he teases Satoru with, “I did find you a distracting sort of pretty.”

Interest alights in Satoru’s eyes at the praise. With a crooked grin, he asks, “Oh? Really?”

“Really. A soft, spoiled pretty. Like you’d never worked an honest day in your life.” He laughs through his nose as Satoru’s flattered smile falls right off, a sulky pout replacing it.

Satoru is soothed, however, the moment Suguru stretches his arms up and hooks them around the back of his neck. A touch of pink brightens the heights of his cheeks and tinges the tips of his pointed ears as Suguru’s thumb trails up and down his nape, brushing across the fine, close-cropped hairs there. His tail, overly excitable as it is, expresses his desires without reservation; after lashing back and forth, it swings around to grasp at Suguru’s ankle, tethering them together.

Suguru is all too used to the slithering caresses now working their way up to his knee. He lets the little tail wander as he leans forward onto the balls of his feet, chest to chest with Satoru, and admires him up close. He is always fine to look at but never more dreamy than this—lit by both the pale, icy moon and warm bonfirelight, his horns decorated with silver bands and bells for the occasion, and so handsomely dressed… aside from the scarf he still carries from the second day they met.

“I forgot how clingy you are after a few drinks,” Satoru murmurs, a broad, fangy smile locked in place as he brackets his hands around Suguru’s waist and strums his fingers against his lower back. “I like it.”

“I’m clingy? You’re the one wrapped around my leg like you mean to hobble me.”

“Hobble? I’m simply keeping you steady,” Satoru purrs, as if it isn't an established fact that he would stay adhered to Suguru all day if he could get away with it, “in case you’re too tipsy to stay upright on your own.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Suguru balances himself on one leg and slowly rubs the top of his foot up and down the back of his other calf—and over all of the scaly coils that ring it, causing Satoru to twitch from the sensation that shoots up his spine. “It’s all for my benefit.”

It’s one little push too far. As intended.

Suguru smiles into the mouth that meets his just a tad too hard; the kiss softens after that first desperate lunge but loses no urgency. The hands around his waist slide lower, cupping under his backside to hoist him higher and closer, their hips flush together. In response, Suguru braces one hand on Satoru’s shoulder and reaches the other in under his hitatare, groping at the silky, sheerly-masked muscle underneath.

Though Satoru has a hundred years on Suguru, he possesses the unbridled enthusiasm of a man freshly grown, starving for a taste or touch anywhere he can get it. Suguru likes keeping him well-fed.

He lets his eyes slip shut and swings his head to one side, gladly letting Satoru lick a long, possessive stripe up his neck. Sharp teeth click against the bright silver in his earlobe before pinching and nibbling the cartilage at its tip, making Suguru squirm up against Satoru’s body. The tail now wedged between his thighs has some part in that, too.

Suguru lets out a long, low moan, knowing how Satoru likes to hear it, and—

The emphatic clearing of a throat cuts right through Suguru’s noisemaking and startles him silent. The haze of pleasure and alcohol thins to a wisp.

They’re… not alone. In fact, they’re the furthest thing from it.

Suguru’s eyes shoot open. His head swivels around to find they’re not far from the banquet table they’d got up and left. Likely within earshot. Most definitely within eyesight. At least a dozen immediately recognizable faces—Nanami, Shoko, Haibara, Ino, Yuta, Ijichi, the guards who lets Suguru pass through the east gate when he wants to hunt, and the crowlike courier he picks up parcels from, a trio of serow attendants with matching blushes—are staring at him. At them. At the way they’re embracing, pressed flush together and tangled in each other’s hold. At the tail noticeably rummaging around under his clothing.

Suguru has never sobered so quickly.

“S-Sorry.” He slips down out of Satoru’s hold and gives him a frantic shove, putting some space between them for decency’s sake. In his haste to straighten his rucked up clothing and save face, he also steps squarely on Satoru’s tail. “I, um… we were—”

“Just about to take this elsewhere!” Satoru brightly announces, shameless as ever. In the brief gap of quiet that follows, Nanami’s sigh of distaste can be heard. “Carry on without us. Eat, drink, be merry, and all that. Goodnight!”

While Suguru covers his face with his hands and bravely peeks between his fingers, wishing he could inter himself at the bottom of the nearby pond, Satoru has the gall to double back to the table for a few more sweet dumplings. As the dragon fills his pockets, he hums a jaunty tune that a few of the guards had been singing earlier. With all the leisure in the world, he then returns to a paralyzed Suguru, loops an arm through one of his, and tugs him along—out into the moonlit dark of the garden.

Suguru’s back burns hot as they leave behind the bonfires and celebration, well aware stares are trailing after them. As the organizer of this very moon-viewing party, he quite literally set the stage for his own embarrassment.

“How miserable,” he groans out low, bumping his shoulder into Satoru’s with every step. “Practically everyone I see on a daily basis had a front row seat, too…”

Satoru makes a horrendously delighted noise—a high-pitched, close-mouthed giggle—and grins so big that his eyes squeeze shut.

Suguru sighs, still unsure which he finds worse: Satoru’s jealously possessive moods, surly and borderline menacing at the thought of undeserving eyes lingering too long on his Suguru, or his tendencies toward smug exhibitionism, eager to bite and squeeze and demonstrate his claim to Suguru in plain sight. They’re each a headache in their own way. Sometimes enjoyable, too, but still…

He pokes Satoru’s side, pride still smarting from getting caught right out in the open. “You’re supposed to stop me if I start getting worked up like that in public, not encourage it.”

“Oh, best not to rely on me for that,” Satoru breezily admits. “If you’d wanted it, I’d have let you have me right there on the banquet table.”

Suguru sighs again, longer and deeper. One silver lining to their location is that there’s plenty of garden to retreat into while he wallows in shame for a bit. He is comforted in having Satoru by his side, too, even if he is just as much to blame for getting handsy in front of half the castle.

As they walk down the sparsely lit path to this garden’s large pond, Satoru noisily stuffs his mouth with dango and mochi and whatever else he nabbed from the banquet before leaving. Suguru, well-used to his ill-mannered eating, quietly admires the moon’s reflection on the black water… and spies two silhouettes near the pond’s edge. Miwa and that strange, treelike yokai she frequently speaks with, if he had to guess.

Suguru steers himself and Satoru in the other direction, giving the young couple some privacy while maintaining their own, too.

Not far down the lantern-lit shore sits a short, narrow dock with a few empty boats tied along its posts, their paddles laid within. Three are already occupied and out on the water, taking advantage of the pond for a better view of the moon.

“Want to go out on one of the boats?” Suguru suggests, half to enjoy an experience he’s never had before and half to put further distance between them and the gathering they left behind.

Satoru hums, the note wavering indecisively. “Only if you’re sure you won’t teeter into the water, you wobbly little drunk.”

Indignant, Suguru scoffs and marches out onto the narrow dock.

“I have had ten cups at most and a bit of food. I’m neither drunk nor wobbly. Just because you can’t hold your liquor doesn’t mean I’m unable.” He then swallows and focuses very hard on stepping down into the boat without toppling overboard, knowing Satoru will never let him live it down if he does. 

It’s easier than one might expect. The thick sheet of ice along the pond’s edge has encroached in and around the boat, holding it steadier as Suguru carefully clambers in. As soon as he is seated, both paddles laid across his lap, he crows, “Hah! See that? I’m fine. We will need to do something about all the ice, though…”

“Yes, yes, very impressive how you managed to get in there without landing face first,” Satoru snorts as he steps off the dock and drops himself hard into the boat, causing the attached ice to crack and the stern end to dip precipitously into the water. 

Suguru keeps a straight face as the small, narrow vessel he’s sitting in bobs dramatically down and up before settling evenly in the water again. He gives Satoru a blink and a stare after, tilting his head. “Was that really necessary?”

“What? I was breaking up the ice so we can actually leave shore. I wouldn’t do anything that’d put you in the water.” With a sniff, he mutters, “Even though you did step on my tail a few minutes ago.”

“Did I?”

“You didn’t even notice!?” Satoru all but cries, wounded. “You tromped right on me! I wouldn’t be surprised if you put a kink in it.”

Suguru has to bite back a smile at Satoru’s sulking. For a dragon considered among his own kind to be impervious and unkillable, he’s making an awful lot of fuss over one footfall from a single human.

“Your poor, poor tail.”

Indulging him, Suguru holds out his hand and waits. It takes only a moment for Satoru’s tail to snake toward him, its tip lifting to wrap around his palm.

Suguru smiles as he brings it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to it with the side of his mouth, eyes still on Satoru. “Is that better?”

“...One more ought to do it.”

Suguru rolls his eyes but appeases his spoiled dragon anyway, lips briefly touching against warm, polished scales before wriggling his hand loose of the coils and reaching for the paddles. He tosses one to Satoru, who catches and stares at it with a vacant look—and then realizes he is meant to help paddle, too.

“Oh. So you’ve incorporated manual labor into the festivities.”

Suguru’s scoff trails off into a sigh. “If you consider this labor, one day in a field would kill you. Now help me paddle.”

It is easier said than done, in fact. Neither of them has much experience in the way of maneuvering a boat, they both quickly discover. After spending several minutes going in circles thanks to Satoru’s forceful, show-off paddling—and then arguing about how to get moving in a straight line—they talk each other into a tempo that works.

Steering clear of the few other couples and threesomes out on the water, they find an open stretch along the far side of the massive pond all for themselves. Suguru lays his paddle aside and lounges back in the boat, getting as comfortable as he can given that the wooden planks under him are chill to the touch. The water under and around them is frigid enough to kill in short order. And without bonfires and braziers to stave off the cold, the night air skimming across the pond’s surface is wickedly sharp.

If not for Satoru being here with him, Suguru would be in a knot of worry over how underdressed he is for lingering in the mountains’ bitter nighttime cold. As it is, he has the luxury of being a little careless; should he so much as shiver, Satoru will be wrapped around him like a living comforter.

The ripples gradually recede and the pond returns to its usual stillness. The moon, of course, is far and away the most magnificent sight in the night sky—bright, silvery, and utterly unreachable, even from a soaring dragon’s back. Its reflection, however, lays no more than a few arm’s lengths across the water, almost close enough for Suguru to run his fingers across it. All around them, faint stars speckle the pond’s mirrorlike surface. The pale, star-strewn ribbon that spans from one horizon to the other, too, has a stunning twin upon the water.

Suguru has never before considered Tsukimi to be romantic. Everything back home revolved tightly around the fall harvest, when even hunters and shopkeeps and carpenters set aside their usual work to ensure nothing in the fields went to waste. Their moon-viewings were a brief respite from it all—a chance to reflect and feel grateful rather than weary. They could enjoy the bounty of their ripe harvest at its fullest, sharing food and wine and company. They could start their prayers and preparations for the winter looming ahead. They could admire and appreciate the moon that watched over them through the peak harvest, as full and golden as the rice grains dripping from bent stalks. 

But with views and company like this—and the ample leisure time of a lord to enjoy them both—he can’t help but find it all rather dreamy…

“Aren’t you going to recite some poetry for me, my lord?” Suguru teases, eyes half-lidded as he trails the toe of his boot up the side of Satoru’s calf.

Satoru’s tail stirs in response, transparently eager to loop itself over his leg and rub against him in turn. Any betrayal at being trod upon earlier has apparently been forgiven and forgotten.

“What, about the moon?” Satoru questions, a toothy smile in place as he watches Suguru awkwardly—and with an attempt at a seductive slither—lower himself to the bottom of the boat, lying stretched between the wooden benches. “Or about how handsome you are?”

“Either.” Suguru grins as Satoru clambers down to join him without so much as a question. The rowboat is not terribly wide and Satoru has to lie on his side to make himself fit, tucked up snug against Suguru. Like this, they’re entirely out of sight of anyone else enjoying themselves on the water or shoreline. “Or both. Don’t plenty of poets compare their lovers to the moon?”

“Oh, they do. But in your case, there’s no comparison to make,” Satoru says while combing Suguru’s loose bangs back with the rest of his artfully arranged hair. “Never have I ever lain awake imagining the moon or felt a pang of longing when it’s away. It gives me no cause to smile or laugh or sleep soundly. I’ve never once desired to have it all to myself. Or to hold it in my arms. Or to kiss it until my lips ache.”

Suguru rubs his feet together, his tipsy attempt at flirting no match for that litany of compliments or the easy confidence with which Satoru delivered them. His face burns fever-hot as Satoru continues to toy with his hair—and then his earring, and the lobe it pierces, and all the particular spots along its curved shell that he loves to nibble on.

“It goes without saying, but you’re a lot nicer to look at, too,” Satoru adds, voice low and pleased—with himself or with the situation, it’s hard to say. After giving Suguru a moment, he questions, “Do I need to compose all of that into tanka for you, or…?”

Moonlight loves Satoru. Sunlight does too—there is no lighting in which he looks the least bit unfortunate, which is wholly unfair—but there’s something special about the glow on his skin and the silvery shine in his eyes at night. It’s doubly true right now, under a moon as full and bright as this one.

“I’d rather you put some action to the words,” Suguru murmurs, his stare pointedly fixed on the mouth just a palm’s width from his own. Satoru makes him more shamelessly forthright by the day. “You said something about kissing ‘til your lips ache?”

Satoru pounces so readily that Suguru barely has a chance to finish that thought, let alone draw a breath after. The first kiss is ravenous in its excitement. The next few are deeper and comfortably unhurried, more interested in drawing out the moment than chasing on to something more. Even Satoru’s tail takes it slow, busying itself with light caresses down his lower legs.

Satoru moans low and satisfied into his mouth, his long lashes fluttering whenever he lets himself blink. The clawed hand cupped around Suguru’s head and buried in his hair is unyielding, holding Suguru firmly in place for a chain of kisses that seems to go on and on forever. 

Only as Suguru starts to twist and wriggle for want of air does Satoru let him breathe.

“Mm.” He runs the side of his thumb along the wet corner of his mouth and complains, “I can hardly taste you under all the sake.”

“Oh, perhaps we should stop for the night, then,” Suguru suggests through panting breaths, playing at being serious. “We wouldn’t want you to get drunk off kiss—”

He grins at the lips suddenly crushed against his own again, Satoru braving the much-loathed taste of alcohol just to have him.

There is no rush tonight. Tomorrow’s schedule is deliberately light and late to start—Suguru had Nanami see to that weeks ago—which gives them more time to linger in bed come morning. Minutes slip by slowly, marked only by the near-imperceptible movement of the moon and stars they lie under. Water splashes lightly against the wood of the small boat; the sounds of singing and conversation drift over on the wind. Suguru closes his eyes half the time they’re kissing, indulging in the laziness of it. The other half, he looks just past Satoru, through the framing of his antlerlike horns, and watches the sky that is looking down on them in turn.

A low, throaty giggle bursts out of him as Satoru’s tail finally manages to get under his clothes, its scales and long fur ticklish on the bare skin above his hip.

“We can’t,” Suguru mumbles against Satoru’s lips, knowing it’s wiser to stop this before they’re both riled past the point of caring. He slips his hand inside his own robes and circles his fingers around the tip of Satoru’s tail, giving it a slight squeeze and a stroke; the touch diverts its attention, causing it to instead coil around his hand and wrist. “Not here. Not in a boat like this. You’d sink us.”

Satoru snorts at that but otherwise offers no protest—probably because Suguru has the right of it.

With one last, yearning moan against Suguru’s mouth, Satoru allows him a sliver of space. It’s not much—the boat is tiny and closeness is comforting for them both—but enough to let some of the heat building in them dissipate off. For now.

After wedging himself comfortably against Satoru’s chest, head leaned on his shoulder, Suguru asks, “So, have you enjoyed yourself tonight? Wasn’t it worth it, coming out with everyone?”

“It was. You did well. Good food, good company, and good choice of venue. And you even showered me with affection in front of everyone,” he adds with a fangy grin, clearly considering it the highlight of his night. “But spending the evening with you alone, just the two of us, would have satisfied me.”

Suguru’s smile grows a little wider. While holding Satoru’s hand and playing with his fingers, he whispers, “Are we not alone right now?”

“We aren’t even alone out here on the water,” Satoru wryly reminds him, peeking above the side of the boat to check that there’s still some distance between them and the handful of other boats. As he settles back down against Suguru, he drops his voice to a murmur. “We could have a little more privacy back in the castle, you know, and enjoy ourselves accordingly. And still with a nice view of the moon, too.”

“Oh.” Suguru isn’t sure what to say to that. It doesn’t seem nearly as special as getting to see it as they are now, with nothing but open sky above them. “Leaving the door to the engawa open while we make love isn’t quite the same thing, Satoru. I wouldn’t exactly call it moon-viewing just because we can see it over the garden wall…”

Satoru wrinkles his nose and waves a hand. “No, that’s not—look, Suguru, before I knew you had a whole affair of your own planned for tonight, I… might’ve made some special arrangements, too.”

Suguru frowns to himself, not having anticipated any such thing whatsoever. “You made no mention of it.”

“Oh, like how you mentioned all this to me?” Satoru poses back. “It was going to be a surprise. With another surprise within that surprise, even. Little did I expect you to arrange a garden party for half the castle. And insist I attend, too.”

Suguru’s mouth forms a silent ‘oh’ of surprise, a little squirm of guilt in his belly at having unknowingly ruined Satoru’s plans instead.

“Not that I mind,” Satoru is quick to add, his hand squeezing Suguru’s. “This was far better. And I can always show you what I had planned later.”

“Later? Why not now?” Suguru groans as he sits up, back a little achy from lying on stiff wooden planks. “If we go now, there’s still time enough for us to spend together, isn’t there? It’s not even the hour of the rat yet.”

Satoru’s teeth are bright in the darkness, the moonlight clinging to their wet white. “If you don’t mind leaving your own party early…”

“Oh, I think I’ve shown my face enough for one night,” Suguru says with a hollow, breathy bark of a laugh. And then he leans into Satoru. “I… it’s too embarrassing to even walk back the way we came. I made a fool of myself.”

“Suguru. It’s nothing.” He pinches one of Suguru’s cheeks, not too firm, and gives it a teasing pull. “I guarantee that every person there is well aware we do worse to each other on a regular basis.”

Suguru scrunches his face tight, knowing it’s true and not finding it the least bit comforting. He tilts his head and squints open a single eye at Satoru. “If we left the boat ashore somewhere around here, is there some back way we could sneak to the castle? I’d really rather not run into anyone.”

Satoru’s eager grin is answer enough.

After paddling the boat to the nearby shore, they climb out and set off on foot. This garden is large and unruly, its groves intentionally left untamed. Hand-in-hand, they weave through ice-covered trees and bound over splintered logs. Having spent so much of his life here—especially his early youth confined within the complex—Satoru knows just the route to take to quietly slip past the gathered feasters and moon-viewers unnoticed.

After scaling several icy stone walls, loping together through empty courtyards and gardens and walkways, and slipping through a side gate, they arrive back at the castle with only a few guards having glimpsed them. Suguru’s fine outfit is snow-damp and his boots mud-caked, but that matters little. He won’t be in these clothes much longer anyway.

Arm in arm, they take to the castle’s long, many-branched halls. Lit floor lanterns shed a little light here and there, as does the moonlight slicing in through narrow archer’s slits. Suguru knows the steps to their room by heart—including which floorboards chirp as they’re walked upon, alerting keen ears to any unwary intruder or unexpected visitor.

A gentle tug from Satoru has them headed in a different direction, though… Quizically, Suguru stares at Satoru’s back as they begin climbing the castle’s five stories. Once they pass the floor with the armory, Suguru can think of only one place Satoru might be leading him.

After opening the hatch that leads to the castle’s topmost floor and poking his head out, Satoru slides back down the ladder and gestures for Suguru to climb up ahead of him. A surprise within a surprise, he’d mentioned earlier. How curious. Suguru returns his smile before ascending the ladder to the open air moon-viewing deck.

In the entirety of his stay within Satoru’s domain, he has only ventured up here a handful of times. His first visit remains his fondest: with a priceless gift of a bow in hand and Satoru at his side, watching him shoot for pure thrill.

Tonight might top even that, though.

The airy, open-walled space is furnished with every comfort they might need. A handful of flickering lanterns and ember-filled braziers provide both warmth and a soft, subtle glow to see by. Three small tables are piled high with the same festive fruits, treats, and offerings featured at the garden moon-viewing down below. Further across the frost-laced floorboards lies a futon, an extra thick kakefuton, and an oversized yogi, all clearly prepared with the intention of letting them sleep comfortably in full view of the autumn moon.

Suguru is careful of where he steps, in awe at every effort Satoru has made. Vases filled with pampas grasses and golden-yellow chrysanthemums sit beside the wooden railing, which itself is covered in flower-like blooms of hoarfrost. He steps closer to the rail, enchanted, and discovers dozens upon dozens of small, delicate ice sculptures nestled among the frost-flowers: frogs and snakes and snails and mantises and salamanders. It’s a tiny menagerie of all his favorite creatures hewn out of ice.

Even the ceiling’s dark wooden beams are decorated in a layer of exceptionally beautiful frost; the flickering firelight catches on swirling, crystalline patterns of ice that remind Suguru of fern fronds and feathers. After marveling at Satoru’s handiwork, he turns to find Satoru himself standing there by the closed hatch door, observing him with an air of satisfaction.

“You did all this?” Suguru asks, even knowing no one else could or would go to such lengths to impress him.

“I mean, I had Ijichi fetch a few things.” Satoru gestures to the plates of food clearly prepared by the kitchen—and long gone cold. Then he plucks an icy camellia from one of the wooden columns supporting the roof overheard. “But the rest? I’d hope it’s all very obviously me.”

Suguru smiles as the frost-flower is offered to him. He slowly twirls it by the stem, watching it sparkle, until the chill seeps into his fingertips. He doesn’t even mind its sting.

Satoru does, apparently. Before all the heat can be wicked from Suguru’s fingers, he pinches the camellia and draws it out of Suguru’s gentle grasp. The flower is promptly returned to its spot on the nearby column amid the rest of the little ice sculptures.

“So? What do you think? Not too shabby?”

The avid, hunting gleam to Satoru’s eyes only makes Suguru smile more fondly.

“Beautiful,” he comments, though it really goes without saying—Satoru just likes to be told when he’s done well, is all, and deserves to hear it, too. He spends a few moments longer turning his head this way and that, taking it all in. “I don’t have the proper words, Satoru. You’ve outdone yourself.”

It doesn’t take much in the way of a compliment to have Satoru’s chest puffed out and his cheeks full and dimpled from smiling. And it’s very charming. Irresistibly so.

Suguru steps in, hands settling on Satoru’s shoulders, and gives him a kiss that sends his tail curling around one of Suguru’s legs and tugging him closer; its grasp only loosens as Suguru begins removing his snow-soiled clothing and heavy boots. Between the warmth emanating off the multiple braziers lined along the open space, the bed Satoru has set up, and Satoru himself, Suguru isn’t worried about catching a chill.

Once stripped down to just his innermost silk kosode and socks, he settles on the futon and pulls the heavy quilt over himself, feet kicking under the covers. Satoru is slower to undress and join him, given that he doesn’t have the cold nipping at his bare skin to encourage him.

From his comfortable spot on the floor, the moon is perfectly visible in the gap between the railing and the overhang of the roof. Perhaps it’s just the angle of where they are now, but its hue now seems more golden than silver. It’s just as lovely.

Warm arms slip around Suguru and a firm, familiar body molds against his back. The crisp night air, the spread of stars, the snow and ice surrounding them while Satoru bakes him warm under the covers… it conjures all kinds of things in Suguru. While he is pleased with how the Tsukimi festivities went over—one glaring, drunken moment and their early departure aside—this is undoubtedly the best way to wind down their night.

He winds his legs in between Satoru’s until their feet—and one tail, always insistent on being in the mix—rub together. There’s something about the vast, deep cold just beyond their little bubble of comfort that makes the moment even cozier.

“You have strangely keen instincts for romance, you know,” he murmurs, smiling at the way Satoru squeezes him in delight. “This feels a little like when we first met.”

All the softer, fonder moments they’d shared, at least. No harsh, skin-scraping wind howls around them. No sickening undercurrent of dread dogs his every breath. No toil awaits him on the morrow. No chill threatens to snuff him in his sleep, and he need not sap Satoru for the warmth needed to wake in the morning.

“It’s certainly brought back some memories. Granted, for the full experience, we should’ve taken a little midnight dip in the pond before coming here,” Satoru breathes heavily into his ear. “Then you’d just need to strip naked and yell at me… what was it? Out of those clothes! Take them off! Take them off!”

“I didn’t say it like that!” Suguru elbows him for being annoying with no provocation. “You make it sound as if I was lecherously bullying you into the nude for my own personal enjoyment.”

“But you did enjoy it, didn’t you?” His feet bump and nudge against Suguru’s, toes curling and scratching at him in the exact way he knows Suguru hates. “Didn’t youuu?”

Suguru pointedly rolls his eyes, smiling despite his refusal to answer. He cranes his head to look back at Satoru behind him. “You were the one who got an eyeful of me first. And apparently you liked what you saw so much that it had you following me around like a dog on a lead.”

Satoru’s whole face scrunches inward. “Did not. You looked like a skinned, half-drowned fox, trembling and howling at me. It was the very opposite of appealing, actually.”

Suguru silently rolls over to face him, expression flat. “Forget what I said about your romantic instincts. You need lessons.”

“Disagree. I think it’s pretty romantic that I fell for you despite first appearances.”

“Oh, because you made such a good first impression yourself,” Suguru reminds him with a roll of his eyes. “If that’s the case, what made you come sleep with me that night we first met?”

“Hm? I’ve told you. It was how pitiful you looked, of course.”

Suguru’s brow knits slightly alongside his smile. Satoru is rarely moved by such things.

“But why? I’d have been miserably cold on my own, but I would have lived. If I was such a scary sight and so terribly disrespectful—especially for a lowborn human—why extend me any kindness at all? It’s not as if I actually saved your life that evening.”

Satoru’s eyes are brighter under the light of the full, low-hanging moon. A faint curl forms at one corner of his mouth.

“Well. For all your strange, suspicious behavior, once you quieted down and went to sleep I realized… you really weren’t angling to get something over on me. You’d been genuinely kind to me for no reason at all.” He hums there, as if the act still holds some surprise. “I’d seen you grab that knife of yours. Your mother’s. And I thought, ah, there it is. But while I watched and waited for you to do something with it, you fell asleep. Shivering. Because even though I was a stranger who might do you harm, and you knew it, you wouldn’t leave me in that lake or put me out in the snow.”

“Well, it would have been a death sentence. If you weren’t an ice dragon.” Suguru rests his cheek atop folded hands, comfortable under their shared quilt. His knees and shins rest against Satoru’s; a certain tail wiggles slowly and softly by their feet. “So, that was it? Because I had no ulterior motive?”

Satoru’s lips smack softly as he starts to speak, reconsiders, and then tries again.

“It was novel, being cared for like I am… vulnerable. Being spoken to like an equal. Being so aggressively fussed over.” His stare wanders before drifting back to Suguru like always. “Most of the servants here are fixtures of the castle, you know. Generations of the same families living here and serving the Gojo clan, regardless of who sits at its head. Meaning, there is a due I’m owed as Gojo-sama—responsibilities they must attend to, like cooking my meals and maintaining my castle and assisting in my duties. But they’re not here for me.”

While Satoru speaks, Suguru brushes the floppy fringe of his snowy white hair with his fingers, combing it back from Satoru’s face just to watch it flop forward again.

“You, on the other hand, had no obligation whatsoever to care about me. As far as you knew, I had nothing of value to offer you on your journey, either. If anything, I was an added burden on your back.” Satoru’s smile broadens. “You treated me well anyway. And worried for me. And chastised me. You even sliced up your own clothing to make a scarf and handcoverings I had no need of.”

“You’re making yourself sound awfully easy to win over,” Suguru gently teases while rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“I am the furthest thing from it. My opinion of humans was not particularly high, either. But the longer we climbed on, the more impressed with you I became. I’d never before lowered myself to travel up a mountain on foot… not that it was a challenge for me,” he hastily adds. “But even with the cold taking a toll on you, you went on. While starving, too. I’d never have guessed a human could be so resilient.”

It would be a lie to say he’s unaffected by the praise. Suguru rubs his warm-burning cheek into the cushion under his head and fidgets, rubbing his socked feet together. But he says, “You have a poor imagination, then. I’m nothing special.”

“Nonsense,” Satoru snorts right in his face. “You’re the strongest human alive, as far as I am concerned. A fitting match for me.”

Suguru has no clue how to respond to that—or to Satoru lacing their fingers together and bringing Suguru’s knuckles to his smiling lips, eyes bright and shining. Though he no longer doubts the sincerity or intensity of Satoru’s feelings for him, the fact that they exist at all is its own perplexing, felicitous mystery. Of all the souls in the world who might fall in love with a poor-in-coin hunter from the remote backcountry, a proud, spoiled dragon should have been the last.

And of all the people in the world that Suguru would have found it in himself to forgive, Satoru should’ve been the last, too.

“Satoru…” He hopes his palm is not too clammy against Satoru’s as he whispers, “Tonight has had me thinking of home. Is it… is it still too soon to talk of returning there?”

He has waited so long already. And this may not be the best moment, and it may ruin the mood Satoru so carefully cultivated for the night, but Suguru can’t keep the question corked inside him any longer. He can’t be faulted for it. And he won’t be punished for it, he’s quite sure, but…

Satoru remains silent, his thumb brushing back and forth over a spot on the back of Suguru’s. Rather than meet Suguru’s hopeful, searching gaze, his stare lingers on Suguru’s mouth.

“I love being with you, Satoru, but I’m homesick,” Suguru goes on in hushed tones, though somewhere inside Satoru must already know that. “It’s been months since I’ve seen Nanako and Mimiko or heard their voices. I don’t want them to know of me only through letters. I can’t ask Manami to care for them indefinitely on her own. And I need to visit my mother. My grandparents’ graves, too. It’s been too long as it is.”

He could go on at length. What kind of son doesn’t make time to clean his family’s gravesites? To spend time with them? He has missed local festivals meant to be enjoyed year upon year and celebrations that only happen once in a life. Nightmares have passed without him there to put his arms around his girls and comfort them back to sleep. And with every passing day, the void left by his departure becomes a lesser thing—less a pitfall and more a puddle, his purpose in the place he always belonged stretched thin and scattered among others. Life goes on in his absence. Even Nanako and Mimiko will learn to live without him, eventually.

And that ought to be a relief. The last thing he wants is for the twins or anyone else to be miserable over him, but…

He listens and waits, unsure whether he’ll get Satoru huffing and puffing about his place being here, the kept consort of a dragon, or pure, sulky silence.

“Yuta could take you, I suppose.”

Despite the flatness to Satoru’s tone, his words ring loud in the clear, cold air.

Suguru sits up, eyes wide and locked on him. He can’t quite believe his ears. Could it be so easy? While he is happily surprised to have gotten his way with so little wheedling and guilting and arguing…

“Why not you?”

He has not spoken of it, but Suguru’s imagined homecoming naturally includes Satoru. It has for months now. He had thought it a given—if allowed to return to his village, Satoru would be there to jealously guard over him and ensure he doesn’t run off. Should they go south, Suguru had naturally anticipated showing him around Kurosaki the same way Satoru toured him about the castle when he first arrived.

With a flat, dry look, Satoru says, “Are you thinking that the rest of your village would be delighted to see me? Or to receive some mid-autumn snow? Right at harvesttime?”

Suguru sucks in a half-breath and holds it behind his teeth, no good answer coming to him straight away.

Satoru’s prickly look softens. “Did it slip your mind, Suguru?”

“A little,” he admits, deflating. He has been here so long and grown so used to the perpetual cold, the everlasting winter, that he had somewhat forgotten he nightly lies beside the cause of it. Much of it, anyway.

Satoru’s concern only leaves Suguru more perplexed. Given the dragon’s initial reaction to the mere suggestion of his leaving, he had expected a fight of persuasion to get Satoru to accompany him home. It never occurred to him that he might be sent away on his own with only Yuta for a watcher.

Satoru himself looks lost in thought, his eyes dull and his stare unfocused.

“Are you worried that I’ll run off and leave you without a backward glance?” Suguru half-teases, half-comforts, one hand settling atop Satoru’s chest and gently rubbing up and down his sternum. “Don’t be. Surely you know by now that I love you.”

Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and the corners of his mouth give a curl. Briefly. Then sharp, cold blue once more peers at him from under a heavy fan of white lashes. “And you love your sisters. And your muddy little village. Your friends and neighbors, too.”

“I do,” Suguru agrees, an almost questioning lilt to the words. In myriad, differing manners, but yes.

“So, I leave you there for a week and you might never come back.”

It’s a laughable thought, so Suguru laughs. At Satoru’s fixed, somber expression, he lets the sound trail off and drifts into quiet again.

“You… you’re serious?” The notion is so ludicrous that he has to ask—it would be ease itself for Satoru to find and reclaim him. By habit, his fingers seek Satoru’s hair and thread through it to soothe him. “As if you couldn’t hunt me down and swoop me up wherever I go. As if you cannot taste my scent in the air from hills away.”

Satoru says nothing to that.

“Or do you think I could outfox you?” He squints at Satoru. No forest or village could hide him. No city would shelter someone who brings a desperate dragon to their gates. “Even though you know exactly where I would be and who I would be with?”

“I know I have the ability to drag you back here kicking and screaming, if need be. I’m…” Satoru clicks his teeth together while gathering his next words, “less certain if I could.” At Suguru’s doubting look, he sighs and explains, “If you find you enjoy it there so much better… if you remember that you were happier without me… it would be difficult to tear you from that a second time. I don’t know if I could, if it gave you cause to hate me.”

Suguru’s eyebrows go up. He has to wonder if Satoru’s current feelings on the matter would hold true if tested, but given that he is willing to let him go alone with Yuta…

“I thought it didn’t matter if I hated you,” Suguru pokes in the gentlest way possible. “If I recall correctly, you once said you would make me stay here with you regardless.”

Satoru ducks his head and buries himself face first in Suguru’s chest, a drawn, miserable groan muffled into silk and skin. “I did care what you thought of me. I just didn’t want you to leave me here. I still don’t, but…”

Suguru tucks his chin until his smiling mouth brushes the crest of Satoru’s fluffy hair. “It won’t be for long, Satoru. I promise. And I’ll miss you day and night the whole time I am away.”

It’s the consolation Satoru needed, apparently. He twists and turns his head just enough for one eye to peer up at Suguru from the comforting pillow of his chest. “I will miss you even worse.”

“What, is it a contest?”

“It is, yes,” Satoru says, at last tearing himself from Suguru’s bosom, “and I’m the favorite to win. As always.”

Suguru tsks and slowly smushes his palm in Satoru’s face, which predictably sets off a grappling contest under the cover of the heavy quilt.

Still awash in elation at having gotten Satoru’s blessing to visit home again, Suguru doesn’t muster much in the way of defense. He lets Satoru roll him over and drag him under and pin him whatever way he wants… which is apparently face down with one arm bent tight behind his back and all of Satoru’s impossibly dense weight piled on him.

While snug in Satoru’s press, Suguru has a few moments to think—if he ignores the hand fisted in his hair, the hot breath on the back of his neck, and the teeth hovering just above his skin, poised to leave yet another bite where others will see it—on their dilemma. If they share a hope of visiting Kurosaki together, their best bet might be winter, given Satoru’s tendency to bring ice and snow with him. But worsening already-bitter weather might make a poor second impression on the village. And Suguru would rather not wait that long, either. Nor does he like the idea of Satoru remaining cooped up here in his northern territory three out of the four seasons.

“Satoru, when it comes to the weather,” Suguru says between soft gasps at the possessive licks and fang-backed kisses being delivered to the side of his throat, “can’t you just… not make it snow? For a little while?”

Satoru stops mid-kiss, a sliver of warm, dense air between his lips and Suguru’s lovebitten skin. “Mm? Just… don’t do the thing that powerful ice dragons naturally do? Suguru.”

“No, I—actually, this isn’t the position I want to have this conversation in.”

After a moment’s grumbling, Satoru relaxes his pinning hold and flips Suguru over under him. They’re at least face to face now.

“You’d said before that you’d never had cause to measure the effect you have on your surroundings, much less control it,” Suguru goes on. “But you have ample reason now, I’d think. So, what if,” he poses, fluidly pushing a lax, yielding Satoru onto his back and then pressing to his side, one hand still splayed over his amply-muscled chest, “you try?”

The tip of Satoru’s tongue runs along his teeth while considering it. To further persuade him, Suguru leans down and in. He tucks a lock of hair behind an ear and lets his lips brush Satoru’s cheek, eyelids and lashes lowered as he meets Satoru’s stare up close.

“We could travel out of the mountains, southward, to some island where there is no snow or anyone to bother. We’ll finally have an idea of what your contribution to all of this is,” Suguru murmurs, glancing up and around at the ice-frosted wood and fat snowflakes drifting past on the wind, “and a means for you to test how tightly you can tamp down on any ice storms or blustery weather you might bring. Then all you need to do is practice consciously controlling it! And once you have some mastery of it, we can safely visit Kurosaki! Together!”

Suguru beams down at Satoru, who manages a dry, squiggle of a smile in return.

“Hah, yeah. Easy. We—I—can definitely do that. To an extent.” Satoru clears his throat, eyes avoiding Suguru’s. “Just so you know… zero snow is probably out of the question, Suguru.”

“Oh. Oh, I know. That’s fine. I’m not—I don’t expect you to shed your nature, Satoru,” he reassures, cupping one of Satoru’s cheeks and stroking along the pink-tinged skin. “I’d just like you to be mindful of those around you. And not bury whole villages under snowdrifts, if you can help it. Oh! We could go visit my valley at the end of autumn! Once the harvest is done, a few flurries would be no bother to anyone.”

“Oh, sure. That is the only grievance your folk would have with me. Flurries.”

Suguru smiles cheek to cheek, finding it adorable that a widely feared dragon like Satoru is apparently concerned with the opinions of his fellow villagers.

“Well, about that… it might not be as bad as you’d think? Between Yuta’s deliveries and Manami passing along the good stories I tell about you, your reputation back home has been salvaged. Miraculously, I’ll add, given what you put those people through. Apparently, my village in particular is leaning very hard into the notion that you’re their patron or benefactor or something, and I’m… that we’re… so, there’s a tiny little shrine they’ve put up,” Suguru sighs, rubbing his eyes as he thinks of what Manami described—and sketched—in one of her recent letters, “dedicated to my heroic efforts to bed you and save the valley.”

“Really!?” Satoru then deliberately schools his exuberance down into feigned seriousness. “But let’s be real here. Heroic efforts? I wish you’d been that desperate to have me.”

“I’d say my nightly efforts are pretty heroic,” Suguru mumbles back, leaning his weight onto the elbow he has planted on Satoru’s sternum. If not for the medicinal oil purchased from Shoko by the jugful, he’d probably have a chronic limp. With a pointed glance down the length of Satoru’s barely clothed body. “Most people would take one look at this,” he adds, tracing the outline of Satoru’s cock through the fabric, “and head for the hills.”

“Would they?” Satoru rolls over on top of him without a word of warning, for Suguru is well used to it. His tail snakes up Suguru’s side and inside his kosode, curling up against his bare skin. “All the more reason you’re the only one for me,” Satoru praises while peppering kisses along Suguru’s throat.

“So… you’ll work on it, then?” Suguru breathlessly checks while letting Satoru lap his way up under his jaw. “Please? So you can be the one to take me home?”

If worse comes to worst and Satoru cannot help but conjure snowfall around him, well… they’ll wait a few weeks into winter and keep the visit shorter. A few days, maybe. Less, if even that causes the weather to turn grim. But Suguru doubts a brief visit could do much harm—it had been months of unabating cold and snowfall that debilitated the valley last winter, not merely a few extra chilly nights.

“I will work on it. I’ll figure it out. I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Satoru lifts his head to promise. “Having an excuse to travel with you while I practice is even better.”

It’s everything Suguru wished and hoped to hear. Buoyed by the thought of seeing Kurosaki again—and Nanako and Mimiko, most importantly—he smiles warmly up at Satoru. With his arms wrapped atop Satoru’s shoulders, he says, “I want to see some of the places you’ve already been, too. Eventually. And then we could find some new ones together, maybe?”  

Satoru hums approvingly into a kiss against Suguru’s jaw.

“But you can’t completely shirk your work here, either,” Suguru adds as an afterthought.

Satoru groans against him now, shoulders slumping at the reminder.

“Maybe I can draw up a schedule for us,” Suguru goes on while staring up at the frost-glazed ceiling, absently petting down the back of Satoru’s neck. “And check your maps for promising places to visit. Ah, I’m so excited to see how well you do! And to start planning our trip home. I can’t wait to see everyone and show you around.”

“You’re very confident that I’ll manage to control myself well enough for all that.”

“Of course I am. I trust you’ll work hard.” Suguru’s gentle cupping of Satoru’s cheek turns to fond kneading and squishing. “And there isn’t much you’re not good at. I believe you can accomplish just about anything you set your mind to.”

Satoru blinks at him, the soft, fond look in his eyes turning mischievous. “Yeah? You stand by that?”

The crooked, cocksure smile Satoru is sporting gives Suguru instant regret.

“No, not—I’m not referring to your weird egg thing, obviously,” Suguru hisses under his breath, now pushing Satoru’s face away. “I mean realistic, attainable goals.”

“What’s unrealistic about an egg we both have a part in? Too late to walk it back now, Suguru. You’re right. I can do anything I want.” He sits up and back on his heels, still smiling. “Which is… okay, well, speaking of, I’ve been teaching myself to do something new. Something special. And useful. And I want to show you.”

Suguru pushes himself up into a sitting position, too, bemused but excited. With the heavy, stuffed quilt draped around himself, he wonderingly asks, “Is it… about handling the weather?”

“What? No, it—I didn’t—making my presence hospitable to humans wasn’t exactly foremost on my mind,” Satoru grumbles, looking borderline guilty. “Until now! It is now my highest priority. But this… this was a… a personal endeavor.”

“Alright,” Suguru says, intrigued by this preamble. “What do you have to show me, then?”

Satoru holds his palms up, gesturing for Suguru to wait, and then stands. After moving across the open-air floor, well away from Suguru, their futon, and the ember-filled braziers, Satoru lightly claps his hands together.

“I did a lot of thinking about us, you know, after looking at that shunga book together,” he says, which causes Suguru’s attention to snap firmly on him. “And even more after that first time in the big spring. And I found the obvious solution. Prepare yourself to be amazed.”

“I’m prepared,” Suguru says with a note of wary watchfulness, trying to trace where exactly Satoru’s mind’s gone. “I think.”

A plume of powdery snow whites out Suguru’s vision as it fills the moon-viewing floor. Panic sets in with haste, as such displays typically precede Satoru’s transformation into his full-scaled form—a form that would surely crack the tiled roof above and buckle the floor beneath. But no groaning of joists or splintering of wooden beams follows.

The dense cloud of snow thins as it begins to drift on the breeze. Heavier flakes of it scatter and dance across the wooden floor, reminiscent of the pale cherry petals that carpet Suguru’s vale in spring. They cling to his lashes, dust his hair, and melt against his lips. And in the wake of all that fading white, there stands a very familiar dragon.

Only... smaller. Much smaller.

“You…” Suguru is on his feet in an instant, heedless of the swirling snow and cold floorboards underfoot as he closes the gap to Satoru. “Satoru, you… you’re… you’re adorable? You’re adorable!”

“Oh, that’s… not quite the reaction I was angling for,” Satoru sighs, the depth of his voice closer to his humanlike form than the lower pitched rumble that comes with his proper dragon size.

If he is truly disappointed in Suguru’s assessment, Satoru does a poor job of being convincing. He twists this way and that to show off his new, more compact proportions, preening under Suguru’s cooed praises. He delights in the chin rubs and neck scratches Suguru gives him, his eyes squeezed to little half-moons as he purrs. He prances.

Suguru is well accustomed to seeing Satoru’s dragon form in partial glimpses—from astride his back or staring up at the underside of his scaled throat or peering into one brilliant eye fixed on him through a window. Never before has he been able to take in all of Satoru at once like this. Never this close.

“Look at you! You’re almost down to Yuta’s size,” Suguru remarks, barking a soft laugh at the lingering shock of it: a miniature Satoru, scarcely taller than a horse! Albeit one that is stretched out and elongated, too. “It never occurred to me that you could shrink yourself down like this.”

“Nor did it occur to me, until recently. I don’t think it’s commonly attempted, to be truthful. Taking on two legs and passing as human has its conveniences, so it’s a well-practiced transformation for just about every dragon.” Satoru swings his long neck in something like a shrug, his claws clicking as he strums them along the floor. “I might be the first to deliberately turn my true appearance more pathetic.”

“Pathetic?”

“Look at me, Suguru,” Satoru says, almost petulant, as if Suguru personally requested this of him. “Small. Weak-looking. Runtish. In passing, I could be mistaken for a shrimp.”

“Oh, hush. You don’t look weak at all,” Suguru tuts. A 'small' and 'runtish' Satoru is still more intimidating than even the largest bears or boars he has ever encountered. “You do look precious.”

And it is true. Even in his dragon skin, his lashes are long and snow-white. The squishy pads on the bottoms of his clawed toes are even more tempting to touch. His scales gleam under the moonlight as if lit from within. The round blue of his reptilian eyes is cute. In less than a year, Suguru has gone from finding such features coldly and dangerously inhuman—as he first saw them in bleak skies above his village and the mountain temple at its peak—to be quite beautiful.

His palms press against scaled cheeks, cradling Satoru’s bowed head, while his lips touch the rounded end of his snout.

“And it’s much easier to kiss you at this size,” he adds, pressing another to the center of Satoru’s forehead. 

The white mane running down Satoru’s body noticeably stands and fluffs. The pearly, moon-bright scales along his neck ripples with the low noise reverberating in Satoru’s throat.

“It’s a lot easier to do many things at this size,” Satoru suggestively contributes.

The tip of his tail whaps and lashes against the floorboards, always the first bit of him to betray his excitement.

“You said,” he continues, the slits of his pupils widening as he stares at Suguru point-blank, “that the scenes in that book weren’t practical because we differ too much in scale. You said that we could only do them if I were smaller. And this is as small as I can get myself to be.”

“I did say that,” Suguru recalls, mouth pressed to his curled fist to help stifle the laugh he wants to make. “But I didn’t realize that one off-handed comment would motivate you to pursue… this.”

Suguru steps back and surveys Satoru again, his bottom lip held between his teeth while assessing the dragon’s more manageable dimensions. His narrow eyebrows lift and his cheeks redden as he observes that they are of a compatible size. Close enough to it, anyway. And from what he recalls of the shunga book Satoru showed him months ago, they certainly could recreate some acts from its pages… 

“You’re sure you won’t accidentally pop back to your normal state while you’re… in me?” he wonders out loud, eyeing Satoru. “Even one of those things at full size would kill me instantly—”

“I won’t! I would never. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.”

Still skeptical, Suguru poses, “You’re certain you’re not going to lose focus while you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Have I ever before turned to my true form while in bed? Or in the bath? On the throne? In the archives? Or when we’re in a linen closet and you’re—”

“No, I suppose not,” Suguru has to concede. He pinches and pulls at his bottom lip, still thinking it over. “That is a shape you’re more practiced at assuming, though. This one’s new.”

Satoru has no quick answer for that, as evidenced by his jaw helplessly opening and shutting. With mopey eyes and a pitiful voice, he croons, “Suguru…”

Suguru tilts his head slightly, one finger curled under his chin, and waits with an expectant look.

For a dragon supposedly averse to appearing pathetic, he certainly embraces the look now. He sits down on his haunches, tail curled around himself, and hangs his head. Big, watery blue eyes blink up at Suguru.

“Don’t you believe in me?”

It’s too adorably pitiful to withstand. Suguru has the strongest urge to wrap his arms around Satoru and squeeze him silly. He sighs through his nose, a faint smile across his lips. 

“I do, actually. Quite a lot.” Still smiling, he lifts his eyebrows at Satoru. “So, I’m willing to try whatever—”

Satoru’s scales shimmer and blur with speed as he bounds forward. In one blink, Suguru finds himself staring point blank into eerily bright eyes. Before the next, he is bowled over backward and dragged onto their blanket-covered futon, which slides several feet across the floor; Satoru’s snaking form follows, pouncing atop Suguru in an instant. Claws hook into the loose, trailing fabric of his kosode and rip at it, eager to rid Suguru of what little clothing he has on.

“What, up here?” Suguru laughs, cheeks stinging from the cold, and props himself up against their pillows. “With no walls?”

For all the dragon’s unabashed eagerness, his forehead plunks oh so softly against Suguru’s.

“Why not? Where better? What reason is there to wait?”

Suguru licks his lips and glances out beyond the frost-covered railings and over the castle’s sprawling grounds. The hour is late and the night is dark but for the light shed by the moon. More than half the complex’s occupants are probably asleep by now; the rest are likely still at the moon-viewing party they’d left behind, where the glow of lanterns and bonfires are still faintly visible beyond stone gates and through distant trees. The hatch that leads up here is locked. Despite the open air on all sides, no one will glimpse them up here. Probably.

Though the night and wooden floor are freezing, the multiple braziers set around the space stave off much of the cold. The thick wadding of the futon will protect him. And Satoru… Satoru is always comfortingly warm, and he’ll be very close.

“You’ll be too busy exerting yourself to catch a chill,” Satoru murmurs, as if having read his mind. Or perhaps they are now so well accustomed to each other that he can simply read whatever thought and emotion cross Suguru’s face.

Suguru runs his hands along Satoru’s cheeks and down his neck, lost in the fine shimmer that dances across those scales with every slight movement. He’s prettier than any snake Suguru ever handled. Prettier than all the fish in the sea and the rippling show cast by their schools darting around in sunlit waters. No sparkling frost on the snow can hold a candle to him.

“Promise?”

Satoru’s soft snort sends stirs Suguru’s loose bangs. His nose rubs into the mussed updo of Suguru’s hair, sniffing even more obviously than he does in his usual manlike form. Taking the hint, Suguru pulls out the pins and lets his coiled hair come undone; with a shake of his head, it falls to curtain his bare shoulders and back. He also finishes what Satoru could not, sinuously sliding out of long sleeves and shrugging off whatever clothing Satoru hadn’t already ripped away.

Clad in nothing but a scant few shreds of silk and the locks of hair spilled down his front—one long, black ribbon of which Satoru hooks under a claw, admiring it—Suguru waits.

“I’m getting cold, Satoru.”

With a bit of his own hair twirled around a finger, he smiles up at Satoru, who stares back at him with a mix of whetted appetite and deer-frozen-before-a-hunter.

“How should I keep you warm?” Satoru’s clawed feet click on frozen wood as he steps over and around Suguru’s outstretched legs, the sharp, dark slivers of his pupils fixed on him even as he circles slowly around the futon. “With my mouth?”

Suguru inhales softly, cheeks warm at the thought of the times Satoru’s done so before. But that was when he was large enough to fit Suguru between his jaws and blanket him with his tongue. Now, with Satoru’s head closer to a horse’s in size—with a long, fang-lined mouth—it seems there is less he can do with it…

“Can you?”

Satoru, ever eager to prove himself before Suguru, descends on him with his long, narrow maw split open and a length of blue tongue lolled out.

Suguru scrunches his nose at the wet slide of tongue along his cheek and over his ear, a quick little shudder going down his back. Satoru dips to his throat next, nose pushing Suguru’s chin upward for better access. Pointed teeth graze along either side of his neck so briefly that Suguru even doesn’t notice until they’ve gone, that could-be-deadly touch replaced with the worming of his wet tongue. Liquid heat trails and pools wherever it touches—the dip of his collar, between the firm peaks of his chest, across soft brown nipples that stand pert as the night air breezes across them.

Suguru arches as Satoru trails lower, hips rolling up to meet him. Drips of warm drool wet his belly and hips and—

“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” Suguru gasps out, higher in pitch the lower Satoru’s tongue goes.

It strokes down his already-hard length, long and deft enough to curl around it, before dipping lower still. And then Satoru’s long, angular jaws snap wide open, and somehow… somehow, they’re even more frightening than when they were large enough to clasp Suguru whole.

At this size, Satoru is far more akin to the predators Suguru grew up wary of. The damage he could inflict comes to the mind’s eye with ease: bones snapped, limbs torn, a chunk of flesh parted from the whole in a snap. Laid low before Suguru as he is, long body ribboned across the floor, Satoru looks something like a waiting viper—especially with his fangs bared in between Suguru’s legs.

Teeth skim along his skin as Satoru slots his head between tensed thighs, scaly cheeks rubbing along their insides. Suguru’s heels slip on the kakefuton’s silk covering as he lifts his hips higher, off the bed and into Satoru’s waiting mouth. One wrong, sudden move as those toothy jaws fit around him and…

Such worries evaporate as Satoru’s tongue drags against him before inching inside. Just the tip squeezes in at first, the rest wriggling and pushing until Suguru’s body can’t resist. The thick muscle squishes tight within him, soft and flexible and greedily eager. It draws out halfway just to plunge back in, loosening him with every thrust.

Suguru’s already-straining thighs squeeze inward, his sweaty skin slipping against the smooth scales of Satoru’s horned head. Both his hands clutch at the long, narrow nose that reaches past his navel, fingers pulling at Satoru’s upper lip and across his gums when he’s feeling desperate. His cock rubs continuously along the curved, ridged roof of Satoru’s mouth, caged between it and his own belly by rows of wicked teeth.

And should Suguru look down the length of his body at Satoru slavering in between his legs, he finds two avidly bright, pale eyes peering back at him with slitted-pupils grown fat at their centers. Satoru holds his stare even as he twists and turns his head for better access—for the angles to make Suguru curl his nails against his pearly scaled snout and bead with fresh sweat—the points of his teeth brushing Suguru’s lower belly and pressing into the meat of his thighs.

Suguru’s whole body trembles with the effort of holding his hips up within Satoru’s hungry maw. Every skim of fangs or slice of breeze against his feverish skin has him twitching. The plunging and twisting of Satoru’s tongue makes it impossible to breathe steady, if Suguru can remember to breathe at all. The heat of Satoru’s mouth envelops him and even if the dragon is now too small to manage it one go, Suguru still feels as if he’s liable to be devoured. 

His hips jerk upward as he comes suddenly while impaled on Satoru’s tongue, making a mess against the roof of his mouth. The sharp, sore prick of teeth on tender flesh brings clarity quick on the heels of ecstasy—any sudden, overwrought movement could have him punctured and scratched a dozen times over. Suguru hangs onto any part of Satoru within reach while his body remains bowstrung taut, riding out the climax that goes on and on thanks to Satoru’s persistence… until his trembling legs falter and he slowly collapses down onto the futon, Satoru’s tongue slipping out of him as the dragon pulls his bottom jaw out from under him just in time.

“Over,” Satoru says, the powerful coil of his tail already rolling a dazed Suguru onto his belly.

Sluggish and still wracked with little shivers of pleasure, Suguru follows the prodding direction of Satoru’s tail and gets up on his elbows and knees, cheek pressed to the pillow under him. His hips are barely in the air before Satoru is tonguing him again, the points of his teeth dimpling into Suguru’s backside without breaking the skin.

Suguru hadn’t braced for more of this. The full, deep stuffing of Satoru’s tongue has him clawing the quilt with both hands, fabric knotted tight in his fists. His spent cock drips between his legs, half-soft, as Satoru drives in and out of him with purpose. He buries his face into the pillow under him, letting it muffle the whining noises being driven out of him.

He can hear slithering over the floor behind him, and the drag of claws on hardwood, and the wetness Satoru is working into him—and then purring, the rolling vibration of it felt on his saliva-drenched skin and inside him, where Satoru shoves his tongue deep and holds it there while panting hard against him.

Just as Suguru thinks he might soon climax again from Satoru’s hard-working mouth, the hot breath against his backside goes cool and the tongue jammed in him retreats. He lets out a long shudder of a sigh, both bereft at being left on edge and relieved at the reprieve from such sharply stoked pleasure. And then the night’s cool air starts to ghost over him, all the sweat and dragon saliva on his skin turning icy cool.

“Satoruuu.” He does not care that it comes out pathetic and needy, for he is full of need. “Satoru.”

“I am here.”

Satoru stirs behind him, claws tapping against wood and rasping across silk. Shadow covers Suguru as the dragon steps in over him, his warmth faintly radiating; long, lean forelegs plant themselves just ahead of Suguru, scaly feet within arm’s reach. Given the relative length of Satoru’s body, aligning their hips puts him head and shoulders in front of Suguru…

Satoru’s long tail whips to one of the nearby tables and drags a small, wooden chest over, tumbling it around in his haste. Suguru knows well enough what must be inside. Satoru is rarely unprepared.

He’s not even sure if it’s absolutely necessary, honestly, given how wet Satoru’s already left him. Still, he drizzles the medicinal oil bottled within over his fingers and works them in, making certain he’s slick and ready for what’s to come. A quick look over his shoulder in the process gives him an eyeful of a familiar pair of cocks swaying between Satoru’s scaly thighs, pretty in their color and pleasing in their shape—only they’re manageably sized to match the rest of him now. If Suguru weren’t so desperate to be filled and fucked, he would pause and show them both all the attention they deserve.

Just as overeager, Satoru shifts and widens his stance, lowering himself nearer to Suguru under him. Suguru reaches back and fumblingly finds the two swaying cocks now bumping along his raised hips and guides them down lower—one nudging firmly against his slicked entrance as the other slides under the curve of his backside and pushes against the backs of his thighs.

From there, Satoru needs no further guidance. His hips roll down into Suguru’s, burying one cock inside him and the other between his thighs in the same smooth thrust.

Suguru gasps and arches deeper, his chest pressed down into the futon’s cushion and flat against the wooden planks underneath. It’s the first time he’s actually had Satoru inside him like this, the way Satoru’s so plainly wanted for some time. One cock has him pleasantly full, its soft bumps and ridges unlike anything he has ever felt before; the other is lodged between his thighs, the length of it rubbing along his own. Neither is quite as thick as Satoru is in his usual humanlike form, which Suguru is most accustomed to taking. But the newness and peculiarity of their shape—and the fact that there are two of them—is more than exciting enough.

And then Satoru starts to move in earnest, drawing out to ram back in. His claws carve into the wooden floors as his hind legs spread wider still, chasing the right angle for fuller, deeper union. The softer scales of Satoru’s underbelly meet Suguru’s back, following its curve.

Suguru’s knees press down into the futon with the motion of every thrust. He is reminded, through the haze, that even at this size, Satoru is easily three or four times his weight. His strength? Even more considerable.

He drops his forehead to the cool silk under him. The sweat on his brow immediately dampens it. With his eyes closed, he pants through an open mouth, steamy breaths half-muffled into the plushness of the futon. His fingers curl down into rumpled fabric, blissfully thinking of nothing beyond the two of them right now.

Satoru comes quickly and without slowing. Suguru can feel the jerky throb of it inside and the sticky wet heat between his legs within a second of each other. He moans through it, aroused at Satoru continuing to take him through it—with more passion, even, as if this has all just gotten him started.

And as good as it already is, Suguru craves more. More than he is accustomed to. More than he usually has the chance to try.

“Saaa-toru,” he chokes out between heavy thrusts that lift his knees up and rock him forward. “I want—can’t you—give me both? I want to…”

It hardly seems as if Satoru heard him, and Suguru would forgive him for being lost in the chase. Then the drag of Satoru’s cocks slows within Suguru and between his legs, eventually withdrawing until just one slim, tapered head still rests inside him.

Satoru’s sides and belly are still heaving even as the rest of him holds perfectly still. There is something held at bay under the restrained evenness of his voice as he answers, “I can’t do much with these claws, Suguru. If you want it, you have to do it yourself.”

Suguru groans at being made to wait—at it falling to him, though it makes perfect sense. He twists his shoulders, gnawing down on his lip as he stretches to reach back and between them, fingertips fumbling along the slippery, dripping length of the cock that had made its home between his thighs.

It takes precious seconds to get his hand around both of them. Like this, squeezed flush together, they’re most definitely thicker than the Satoru he is familiar with. There is more give to them, though, and less rigid firmness, which makes it even trickier to get them where he wants. One head always pushes the other out of the way, or slips across his skin, or bends and balks in his grasp, refusing to fit alongside its twin—until Satoru bears down just as Suguru has the pair pressed against himself just right.

In one push, Satoru feeds him every inch of both cocks. Their combined girth, the raised ridges and veins pressed firm into his inner walls, the doubled heat—barely any sound passes Suguru’s lips as he cries out, eyes fluttering wide open before settling shut again. His head drops forward between his forearms, fingers clenched tight into the bed Satoru made for them. 

That first thrust squeezes out much of the spend Satoru left inside him moments earlier. Suguru moans through it, and the next, and the next after it, his volume and steadiness wavering as the pace turns frenzied. He rubs his cheek against the sweat-soaked silk under him, feeling every shift of the two lengths crowding and slipping against each other inside him. It’s so much—the most he’s ever taken at once—and even so, Suguru finds himself rocking back to try and meet Satoru’s full, forceful rutting.

The sweat and seed pooling down under him has his knees slipping atop the futon’s cover. With Satoru sunken down atop him, belly against his back, Suguru lays pinned in place through it; lost in his own building, burgeoning pleasure, he stares out at the starry sky through the gaps in the ice-frosted rail without really seeing any of it. His loose hair is trapped under his cheek, sticky from his own drooling mouth. And when he loses the strength to continue shamelessly grinding himself back onto Satoru, Satoru’s tail slithers in and winds itself thrice around his waist, doing it for him. Like a pair of strong, guiding hands clasped on his hips, it repeatedly hoists him backward onto Satoru’s cocks in time with each pounding thrust.

When Suguru at last finds his voice again, it’s thin and scratchy from huffing in so much frigid air. His throat will be sore tomorrow, along with the rest of him.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he cries in time with Satoru’s fierce, rocking tempo and rake of claws splintering through solid wood. If anyone resided on the floor under them, they’d be hearing him through the ceiling. “Satoru! Ah-ah-ah, Satoru!”

His thighs snap in together as he writhes in on himself, spilling out onto the rumpled, ruined futon under him. He twists, biting down onto his pillow as the rough clap of Satoru’s hips lifts his knees off the floor and bounces his ass higher into the air.

A growl rolls out above Suguru, both heard and felt. He is then dropped down and squished into the futon, pressed flat as both shafts inside him pulse and twitch and spill so much come that half of it is already dripping out of him. It takes Satoru forever to finish and longer still to actually withdraw, both of them content to linger under the spell of warm, thorough satisfaction.

It feels strange to be empty after. Suguru manages to roll himself over and stares up at the ceiling with bleary, watery eyes,still working to catch his breath. His lips are bitten red-sore and his whole body drained, every limb and muscle slack from exertion. 

He begins to shiver as he comes down, the fever in his blood waning now that he isn’t being mounted and mated. The futon and kakefuton they’d meant to sleep upon lie gouged and split, their wadding spilled out across the floor. The braziers around them are burning low.

With the cold already kissing his fingers and toes, Suguru is comforted with slow, lazy licks up his thighs and over his chest as Satoru cleans him. His closed eyes blink halfway open as he is lifted and shifted and laid somewhere warm—another bed, he deliriously thinks, until it begins to move under him. But even that realization is not enough to stave off the exhaustion that overtakes him.

❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄❄

Suguru fully rouses to an almost sultry darkness. In small gaps between Satoru’s coils, moon- and lanternlight peek in—until Satoru shifts, supple dragonskin bunching and rippling as the muscle underneath contracts.

He lies in a living, writhing cradle. All around him is Satoru: scaled flanks pushing in against him with each inhale; the deep slowness of his heartbeat all around; the light scent that always clings to him no matter the shape he takes; and, of course, the heat he effortlessly gives off, which has Suguru roasting.

In a good way. In a drowsy, pleasing manner. And Suguru, having glanced around and already accepted that he’ll spend the rest of the night in Satoru’s clutches, wiggles down to get comfortable.

The dragon nestled around him stirs in response. An opening appears overhead, above Suguru, and a long, pale face peers down at him.

“Are you cold? Since you’re awake, we can get you into the yogi over there.”

“I’m not cold. Only because of you.” Suguru runs his hand along a stretch of scaled flank beside him. But he’d rather not have Satoru fretting all night about staying coiled around him just right, trying to keep him warm without smothering him. “But that might be a good idea.”

Satoru slowly unravels around him, letting Suguru down gently. The wind up here is not so kind. 

He hurries to slip his arms into the kimono-shaped comforter that Satoru drags over to him, wrapping himself up tight. It’s big enough for the both of them to fit, if Satoru were human sized and human shaped. Alone, Suguru is swimming in thickly padded fabric.

With a stretch and a yawn, Satoru says, “I can join you.”

“You can stay as you are, if you like,” Suguru says before he goes ahead and changes. He doesn’t mind either way, but… “There’s more of you to cuddle up to.”

Satoru seems pleased to hear it, given the way his tail flutters.

Suguru shuffles to his side and lies down on the remnants of the futon. He shifts until the back of his head is comfortably supported by the soft stretch of dragon belly behind it, lulled by the rise and fall of breath as it moves down through lungs that must stretch half the length of Satoru’s long body. A fur-tipped tail curls up at his blanketed feet, piling warmth on them. And the rest of Satoru curls around him, blocking the wind and shielding him with impenetrable scales.

Satoru lays his long head down across Suguru’s lap, using him for a pillow. A well-satiated little rumble of contentment sounds in his throat as he crosses his forelegs and settles for the night, too.

Suguru pets along his dragon’s cheek, certain he must look a mess to the bright blue eye facing him—which gradually squints shut, losing focus and rolling back as Satoru purrs himself to sleep. Then again, Satoru surely liked what he saw, being the cause of it.

The moon hangs lower in the sky than when Suguru last paid it any heed. Dawn can’t be terribly far off. Comfortably warm despite the crisp mountain air, he yawns and nestles in to take whatever rest he can get before the light of dawn wakes him and they’re forced to shuffle indoors.

For now, he finds contentment in all that he has to be glad for: the beauty of Satoru’s ice and the night sky all around them; their shared, soporific afterglow; the promise of one day soon seeing home again; the slight, resonant vibration all around him as Satoru dreams pleasant dreams. As he drifts to sleep along with Satoru, Suguru’s lips hold their soft smile.