Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When he’s tending to his chores and responsibilities within the castle grounds, Osamu learns to tune out his brother. He doesn’t do it to be mean, but he just can't afford to get distracted by some stupid idea that Atsumu has and risk not completing his daily to-do list by dinner. If he doesn’t finish, he’ll be late to eat, and if he’s late to eat, his meal will consist of stale bread and leftovers (which are usually crumbs, considering how much his father and his brother eat).

He’s brushing the coat of one of the wilder horses when his brain latches onto a familiar name during Atsumu’s passionate spiel, and is once again distracted by the agonising reality that is having a sibling such as his twin.

“—with Keiji-kun! and then she told me to call him Prince, or his Majesty, and I felt like throttlin’ her, ya know? Like, how is it fair that first, we ain’t allowed to see him, then second, we can’t even say his name without a title? Like, we’ve been friends since—“

“What d’ya mean we ain’t allowed to see him?” Osamu cuts in, twisting his upper body around to face his brother with a pinched expression. Atsumu is sitting on some stacked bales of hay, a pink apple in his hand that he’s stolen from one of the buckets meant for the horses.

Blinking at his brothers’ sudden interest in the conversation, Atsumu bites into the apple, chewing in an obnoxiously loud manner that makes Osamu wrinkle his nose at him. “Yeah,” he continues, his voice sounding forlorn even as he shrugs in a silent ‘what can you do’ kind of way — an effort to behave nonchalantly. “She caught me this morning, comin’ back from trainin’. Dad’s probably gonna ban ya, too. She’s definitely gotten to him by now— that's who she was on her way to see before she stopped me.”

“Ban me,” Osamu says, tone laced with disbelief as the connotations of the verb bounce around vigorously in his skull. Lately, he hasn’t really seen Keiji much at all, but he’s just been chalking that up to them both being busy. He‘s never thought that there might be something else beneath the surface. “That’s so—“

A whinnying neigh pierces through the stale air of the stables, and the large brown mammal knocks the brush out of Osamu’s hands with its muzzle. Frustrated at not being paid attention, the creature stomps its front two legs, hooves clattering against the wooden floor. “Ooh. Ya better get back to that, ‘Samu,” Atsumu comments lightly, as if he hasn’t just ripped the air out of Osamu’s lungs with a few words and a shrug. He holds out his apple to the horse, easily placating the beast with the food. “Too soft for my taste,” he says in regards to the fruit when he notices Osamu’s narrowed eyes.

“Ya could help out, ya know.”

Atsumu smirks, his eyes lighting up in amusement as he wipes down his juice-stained hand on his grass-stained, navy tunic. The dampness blends into the pre-existing muckiness of the shirt, but, somehow, Atsumu makes the whole ‘fresh-from-battle’ look all charming and boyish. If Osamu ever walked around with dried blood from sparring on his collar and mud stains from playful wrestling on the wet ground all over him, he would be getting stares of pity and disdain from the maids, rather than the wistful sighs and the starry-eyed gazes that his brother gets.

Because Atsumu is on the royal guard; Osamu is still just the farmer's son.

The help is never appreciated as much as the flashier responsibilities around the palace, never mind the fact that those flashier roles would be completely helpless to perform activities like forging swords and plowing the field. The help do mundane little things like that daily, and what thanks do they get?

“Nah,” he teases, patting Osamu’s shoulder in a condescending manner before spinning on his heels and beginning to make his way out of the stables. “Not my responsibility anymore, ‘Samu. See ya!”

Huffing out a laugh, Osamu shakes his head. His workload had doubled the moment Atsumu decided that he wanted to be a part of the royal guard. Well, ‘decided’ may not be the right word, considering Atsumu’s true motivations for joining… Anyway, training only takes place in the mornings and late afternoons for fear of overworking the youngsters too much. Apparently, the head of the guard is much more accommodating to the trainees schedules than anyone is to those who actually work in the castle behind the scenes. Now that’s a full time job: maintaining the cleanliness and structure of the palace.

Still, Atsumu makes time for Osamu, even though they’re not joined at the hip working together anymore, and spends hours telling him about his day and Shouyou-kun this and Shouyou-kun that, and—

Keiji-kun.

Osamu sighs. He needs to talk to his father.

Another neigh slices through his train of thought, and Osamu’s hands fly to the horse’s mane, stroking it gently in an effort to keep it calm. He’ll have to talk to his father at dinner later, and as he goes about his day, he wonders if he’ll be able to handle whatever it is he’s told.

The first thing Osamu notices when he gets to their cottage that night is the extra plate set at the table. Raising an eyebrow, he glances over to where his father is rifling through a basket of potatoes, likely from his day tending to the castle crop garden. He’s wearing a burnt orange cloth tied around his waist in lieu of an apron, and Osamu is reminded of the tragic way their old one was lost.

Atsumu isn’t allowed around open flames anymore.

Peering over his father’s shoulder, Osamu glances down at his father’s haul of the day. “Ya got a new lady friend, or somethin’?” He asks, snorting at the way his father’s head whips around at the question.

“Osamu,” he says, shaking his head with a light huff as he turns back to the task at hand. “I didn’t hear ya come in.”

“And I didn’t hear ya answer my question,” Osamu retaliates, sliding into one of the wooden chairs as his father straightens up, four large potatoes in his hands. “Did ‘Tsumu invite Shouyou-kun? Or do ya actually have a girlfriend? ‘Cause, I was jokin’ about that, ya know.”

His father laughs boisterously, moving towards the sink and rubbing away the dirt on the outer layers of the vegetables in his hands. “Ah, he wishes,” Miya Jun says in reference to Osamu's first question, sighing in an exaggerated manner as he hears two sets of feet padding over to the kitchen. “Son, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how I raised yer brother to be such a coward.”

“A coward!” Atsumu rages, lips twisting into a pout that Osamu is certain is supposed to be a scowl. “I’ll have ya know that I asked Shouyou-kun to go on a walk with me tomorrow!”

“Wow,” Osamu gasps. “Don’t go movin’ too fast now, ‘Tsumu. I don’t have a suit for the weddin’ yet.”

From behind Atsumu, Aran smiles at Osamu and Jun, the glint in his eyes mischievous. “He didn’t invite him to anythin’. They’re patrollin’ together tomorrow.”

Osamu blinks, shocked silent by Aran’s confession. There’s a prolonged few seconds of serenity as no one speaks, before a roaring guffaw of laughter from Jun splits through the air, and Osamu instantly joins him. Atsumu is flushed from embarrassment, his cheeks the same colour as the apple he had eaten (and abandoned) earlier in the day. “Aran-kun!” He hisses. “Ya don’t have to tell ‘em that!”

Apologetically, Aran smiles. “I took a pledge of truth when I joined the guard,” he excuses.

“What’s that gotta do with this?” Atsumu whines, glaring at his brother and father from the doorway as they continue to laugh. “It’s not that funny!” He snaps, folding his arms over his chest.

“It’s a little funny,” Aran comments, chuckling.

“Aran!”

“Boys, boys,” Jun cuts in, wiping his wet hands on the front of his makeshift apron. “Let's give Atsumu a break.”

Pleased, Atsumu nods once. “Thank y—“

“It’s difficult bein’ so deep in the friend zone. We should be bein’ considerate of his situation.” Their father is looking at Atsumu sympathetically, his eyebrows drawn together in an apologetic manner.

A scandalised scoff leaves Atsumu’s lips as the other three men continue to joke at his expense. Irked, Atsumu stomps over to the table, angrily pulling out his chair opposite Osamu before sitting and grabbing a roll of bread from the middle of the table. “I hate all of ya! Every one of ya! I’m never tellin’ ya anythin’ ever again!”

“Awh, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu coos, entertained by the way Atsumu is aggressively chewing at his bread, ripping out portions with his teeth. “Don’t feel bad, it’s normal for people to embellish things when they truly want to believe somethin’. We get it.”

To the left of Atsumu, Aran takes a seat, too used to the Miya family antics. He’s dressed identically to Atsumu in a way that is similar to the way the twins were dressed when they were kids: (freshly cleaned) navy tunics and brown braies trousers with white socks pulled high and covering their shins. It’s their unofficial uniform for training, and Osamu supposes that the two are planning on going back out after dinner for practice. Osamu’s dressed more like his father, white, billowy shirt and long, tan breeches held up by dark suspenders: farming attire.

“Don’t ya have more important things to be worryin’ about?” Atsumu points out, raising his eyebrows at Osamu as his lips twist into a petulant pout. Of course, it’s obvious that Atsumu is attempting to divert the attention away from his lack of romantic advancements, but Osamu’s been mulling over the words his brother spoke this morning in the stables all day, and he feels like he has to say something.

He swallows, taking a few moments to work up the courage to ask. Somehow, he gets the feeling that he won’t like whatever he’s told. “Pa,” he starts, busying his hands with smoothing down his trousers so that no one sees them shake. “Is it true that ‘Tsumu and I aren’t allowed to see Keiji-kun anymore?”

The air is heavy around them, the light-hearted, teasing atmosphere morphing into an ominous and sticky one. Osamu feels himself hold his breath, the world around him freezing at the question. He almost feels a little guilty for ruining the mood, but it’s important to him, and he has to know.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Aran shift in his seat uncomfortably. He’s been privy to many Miya family discussions and arguments over the years, but this subject seems to be treading along something much more precarious, like walking across a never-ending tightrope over hot lava.

Jun sighs, and the action disrupts the stillness formed, bringing movement back into the room. “It is,” he agrees, drying his hands on the towel that had previously resided on his shoulder.

“Why?” It’s difficult for Osamu to even attempt to contain his frustration — there’s really nothing that can be said to make him understand, yet he still asks for some sort of explanation. Maybe, if he's done something wrong, he can fix it. He just has to know.

“I don’t know, son. I really don’t.” Jun’s tone is resigned, but his words are firm, warning Osamu to leave it alone.

Before Osamu can open his mouth to argue — about what, he doesn’t know, he just wants to complain — there’s a swift kick to his shin. He turns away from his father to glare at Atsumu but is surprised to find his face completely free of any traces of him being the perpetrator. Osamu’s eyes drift to Aran, who is staring at him with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. The man shakes his head slightly, warding Osamu off.

Baffled, Osamu leans back in his chair, trying to make sense of why Aran wouldn’t want Osamu to continue pushing the subject. Keiji is his friend too, so, shouldn’t he care about his parents restricting his relationships? What would Aran say if he was next on the list of people to ban from seeing Keiji?

He says none of this, just waits in silence for his father to bring over their dinner and tucks in. He finishes quickly, blocking out the small talk made at the table as the blood rushing through his veins is clearly adamant to deafen him with how loudly it courses through him. Perhaps it’s his rage at his concerns being so blatantly ignored and pushed aside that makes his nerves vibrate like a wasps nest and overpower his rational thought process, but he knows to keep his mouth shut before he accidentally curses out the only people he actually has in his corner.

Are they really, though?

He finishes first, so he leaves the table and washes his dishes before heading up to his shared room with Atsumu. All throughout dinner, he’d been getting these looks. Some were pitying, and others were cautious, as if Osamu would have blown his lid at any given second. Truthfully, he felt close to it, but something was holding him back.

Beneath the anger and the confusion clouding his mind, there’s an indescribable sense of melancholy and vulnerability. He can’t see Keiji, his best friend since childhood, and he’s not being given an actual reason for it. He feels so helpless, he doesn’t know what he should be doing. Should he request an audience with the Queen? He’s never had to do that before — she’s always treated Osamu like family because of how close him and Keiji were — but maybe he should be approaching this like a business meeting?

What he’s thinking of reminds him vaguely of asking for a parent’s blessing, and Osamu blushes at the implication his own brain has supplied.

He shakes his head free of the thought, and gets ready for bed.

The sun has long since begun setting, coating the world outside his window in a dull orange. He knows that in twenty minutes, the world will be transformed by the purple of dusk before later fading into the navy-black of night. A part of him wants to watch the world change colours, transforming like a caterpillar undergoing metamorphosis, but there’s the nagging in his chest that prevents him from relaxing enough to do something as mundane and sublunary as watching the sunset. He’s too keyed up for simple, human pleasures.

What he does instead is pull a knife out of his bedside drawer and a chopped log of wood from the pile in the corner of the room. The wood is there for the fireplace in winter, but, seeing as the high temperatures provide no use for it, he begins to carve. He pours all his energy into his creation, the steady sounds of the blade piercing the wood and shaving through the layers cathartic in a way he finds nothing else is.

The familiar motions distract him well enough, and, by the time the sun has fully set, he’s developed a rhythm. He lights the candle by his bed, planning to work right up until the wax has fully melted, when Atsumu walks inside, followed by Aran.

He doesn’t even try to ask Aran about his interference earlier, because he’s secretly glad that he hadn’t found out anything new, and he knows that Aran will have some wonderfully logical explanation that’ll leave Osamu feeling raw with guilt. Something like, “don’t burden yer dad with all this, Osamu, it’s not his fault”. Ugh.

“Hey,” Atsumu says, sitting on his own bed. Aran situates himself on the floor rather than the chair by the door, stretching his legs out flat in front of him. “What are ya carvin’?”

Truthfully, Osamu doesn’t really know. His hands are moving off of their own accord. He tilts the wood towards the candle, and is less than surprised when he sees little indents resembling a certain someone’s facial features staring back at him. He sighs, and tosses the thing to Atsumu, who catches it easily.

Atsumu frowns at the carvings, gently smoothing his thumb over the miniature face. “Is it gonna be a doll?” He asks. “Who’s it for?”

Osamu shrugs as Atsumu hands the wood to Aran, who seems to recognise the face better than Atsumu, as his expression is filled with sorrow when he meets Osamu’s eyes. “Ya really care about him, don’t ya?”

Osamu breathes in shakily, before licking his thumb and forefinger and pinching the flame of the candle, putting it out. “Yeah,” he whispers into the dark, and turns in bed so that he’s facing the wall. “I do.”

That night, Osamu sleeps feverishly, trapped floating in and out of consciousness as his mind runs wild. It’s difficult, he thinks — at sometime between twelve and one am while his brother’s and Aran’s quiet snores provide the subtle comfort of presence — to feel so much, yet be expected to suppress those emotions.

Now, Osamu himself has never been an overtly emotional person, always feeling things more avidly in the privacy of his own home, away from the scrutiny of palace eyes. Growing up in a field of constantly gossiping maids and irritatingly invasive guards, Osamu hasn’t always felt like he was able to express himself fully in the presence of others. He knows now that he’s older that it’s ridiculous to focus your energy on containing your emotions, because the more they build up inside of you — into enormous, razor-sharp balls of misery and anguish and every other negative abstract noun known to man — the worse you handle them.

Honestly, Osamu is terrible at handling his more...despondent emotions. It’s partly because he’s afraid of how people will perceive him, and partly because he doesn’t want to burden anybody with the weight of his own distress. He knows he’s an idiot, Atsumu tells him enough every day. Still, he wishes—

“Osamu?”

Osamu’s eyes flutter open, and then immediately squeeze shut again once the brightness of the sun temporarily blinds him. It takes him a few elongated seconds to figure out what’s going on, and while his eyes are closed, he takes in his surroundings.

Judging by the light breeze brushing over the skin of his face (and the previously mentioned scintillating sun beaming down at him), he knows he’s outside. Once he’s fully aware of this fact, he begins to feel the soft blades of grass underneath him, stroking at his skin. It’s warm, with the sun out, and he feels the weight of cotton shorts and a thin, long-sleeved blouse encompassing his body.

Then, there’s the voice.

It feels somewhat...familiar. Like someone that Osamu might have known a long time ago. It’s high-pitched in a way that reminds Osamu of a prepubescent boy, since the cadence didn’t sound all that feminine to him. Well, he supposes he could be wrong — all he would have to do to check would be to open his eyes, but they’re still screwed shut, recovering from the blistering light attack.

“Osamu?”

This time, the voice is closer, and Osamu feels the breath accompanying the utterance of his name against his ear.

“Are you sleeping?” They whisper, and Osamu hears the person shuffle around before letting out a little huff and finally stilling.

Osamu feels a little colder, and wonders if the person has shielded his view of the sun. Small, chubby fingertips fall to his face, and begin tracing the flesh. Osamu winces, feeling his skin burn and throb at the touch. At the movement, the person stops, letting their fingers rest against a part of his jaw that doesn’t hurt at the pressure.

Lifting an arm, Osamu shields his eyes, just in case he’s wrong and the mystery person hasn’t sat in front of the huge, glowing sphere of scorching hot gas one-hundred and fifty million kilometers away. When his eyes open, he’s greeted with the sight of dazzling cerulean eyes, just centimeters away from his own gray ones. “Keiji-kun,” he finds himself saying, his voice thick and muffled to his own ears. It feels like he’s underwater, everything blurry, yet...sparkling, and overly-saturated.

Vivid.

Keiji smiles, and runs his fingers over the roughened, stinging bridge of Osamu’s nose, giggling when he hisses at the feeling. “You forgot to wear your hat today,” Keiji scolds light-heartedly. “That’s why you’re all sunburnt.”

Pouting, Osamu grabs Keiji's hand, lowering it to his chest where he holds it in his. “I gave ya my hat to borrow, yesterday,” he reminds, watching as Keiji blinks, his lips parting into an ‘o’ as he raises his eyebrows, clearly deep in thought.

“Oh,” he says sheepishly, a cherry-red flush splattering over his cheeks.

“Oh,” Osamu repeats in the same tone, teasing Keiji.

“Are you making fun of me, Osamu?” Keiji asks, expression impassive and eyes scrutinising as he stares down at Osamu, who squirms under Keiji’s attention. “Because if you are…”

And that’s all the warning Osamu gets before his hand is dropped and his sides are ambushed with wriggling fingers tickling him. Shrieking with laughter, Osamu squirms on the grass, trying to push Keiji’s hands away while his body shakes with hysterics. “No more! No more!” He gasps out, managing to tug at Keiji’s wrists until the boy falls on top of him with an ‘oof’.

When Osamu feels the weight of Keiji sprawled across his stomach, he gets the strange feeling that this has happened before: the sunburn, the hat, the tickling. There’s a thick sense of something akin to dread (but not quite) when Keiji lifts his head to scowl at Osamu, and Osamu notices the softness of his cheeks.

They’re round and plump, rather than sharp and angular like Osamu remembers Keiji from most recently. His nose is small and button-like, where it should have a straight bridge and narrow nostrils. His eyes are almost too large for his face, and it reminds him of how adults used to describe Keiji as bambi-eyed when he was a child (not that either of them were ever sure what it meant). Finally, there’s his hands, spread over Osamu’s rib cage. He remembers thinking earlier that the fingers mapping out his face were small, and chubby. Childlike.

Osamu lifts his head from the grass with great effort, considering the entire other person weighing him down. What he sees is himself, limbs short and tubby, and his knees scraped. What he sees is Keiji — nine year old Keiji, gazing up at him imploringly. Osamu isn’t sure why he has that expression on his face for a few seconds, before he sits up properly, and accidentally sends Keiji sprawling onto the grass at his feet.

Surprised, Osamu scrambles to his side. “Keiji-kun! Are ya okay?”

“Attempted murder.” Keiji sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “How cruel, Osamu.”

Before Osamu can say anything in response, Keiji bounces onto his feet and dusts off his shorts. The action does nothing to rid him of the grass stains on the tan fabric, but he smiles at Osamu regardless, and holds out his hand.

“What do you wanna do today?”

As Osamu reaches out to hold Keiji’s hand, he remembers what happens next with a startling level of clarity for something that was ten years ago. It’s the summer before both Keiji and Osamu hit double digits, and Osamu thinks of it as the summer before Hell.

Hell, because this was the final summer before Keiji’s royal responsibilities prevented him from hanging out with Osamu all day every day, and before Osamu was deemed old enough to help with feeding the chickens and harvesting berries and smaller vegetables.

Ten years ago, when Keiji cried every time he accidentally stepped on a bug and insisted on throwing funerals for them to sate his guilt.

Ten years ago, when Osamu thought that the world was their oyster, and that they would get to spend every day together for the rest of their lives.

Swallowing back the sudden emotion clogging up his throat, Osamu squeezes Keiji’s hand, and looks up to meet his eyes. He had forgotten how he had to do that when they were kids, before Osamu and Atsumu shot up at fourteen. “Anythin’ ya wanna do,” he says, the words tumbling past his lips exactly the way they always did whenever Keiji posed that question.

Osamu watches as Keiji’s ears flush, something he’s certain he’s never noticed before. Osamu has to hold himself back from reaching out and caressing the carmine-coated skin; he wants to know if it’ll be warm from flustering. “Okay,” Keiji whispers, not letting go of Osamu’s hand as he turns and leads the way.

(“Should we wake him?” Atsumu whispers to Aran, peering at his brother, who’s tossing and turning in his sleep. Worried, Atsumu pushes his hair out of his forehead. “He’s all sweaty, and he’s cryin’.”

Quietly, Aran sighs. “It took him forever to fall asleep,” he gently reminds Atsumu. “We should leave him.”

Atsumu seems torn, face scrunched up in distress. “But, Aran—“

“He’s had a rough day, Atsumu.” Aran’s eyebrows furrow in concern when Osamu mumbles something in his sleep, another tear slipping through his lashes. “The best we can do is just be here when he wakes up.”

“Okay,” Atsumu says softly, unable to feel at ease while his brother is in such despair. Through cold claws wrapping around his rib cage, Atsumu feels the anxiety seeping into his chest, and he hugs his arms around his torso. “Aran, can ya sleep with me?”

Aran smiles, gentle and kind. “Whatever ya need, Atsumu.”)

Keiji pulls Osamu along for hours, only dropping his hand to pick a flower (which gets them scolded by the gardener, and results in them running away in a fit of giggles) or to climb over the fence.

The fence divides the area where Keiji is ‘allowed to play’ from the area where Keiji is ‘not allowed to play’, like a permanent baby gate. Osamu guesses that it’s probably easier now to keep the fence, even when Keiji’s nineteen, because of how the sections of the palace grounds are divided.

It makes it simple to be able to call people to the designated crop area, or the training area, or the laundry hanging area, etc.

Now, Keiji leads Osamu over the fence that separates his ‘allowed to play’ area (which is more modernly known as the castle gardens) from the stables, where he isn’t allowed to be without adult supervision. “Osamu, hurry, hurry,” he calls, checking over his shoulder as Osamu climbs the fence.

He’s sitting with one leg on each side, and glares down at Keiji. “I am,” he insists, squeezing the harsh, unpolished wood between his hands as he swings his other leg over, and unceremoniously slips, so that he falls on his backside by Keiji’s feet.

“Are you okay?” Keiji asks, and, when Osamu nods, Keiji says, “you shouldn’t have been rushing so much — you wouldn’t have fallen if you’d have been more careful.” At the admonishment, Osamu narrows his eyes at Keiji, who’s now tugging at Osamu’s sleeve.

He’s not sure where Keiji’s taking him now. The entire day, Osamu has been so sure of what was going to happen next, and he basks in the content feeling of knowing everything was going to be happy and secure. He’s been so jovial all afternoon, carefree and gleeful as Keiji pulls him every which way, making the most of their day under the sun.

Now, Osamu was sure they were supposed to go to Keiji’s bedroom to play with the playing cards Keiji had gotten as a birthday gift from his aunt last year, but instead, Keiji’s leading him in a direction that seems oddly like the route all of the palace hands take to the kitchen. Past the stables, past the pond, and past the archery range to the kitchen.

Uneasily, Osamu hesitates while they walk, stumbling over his feet a little. Keiji stops, looking over his shoulder at Osamu. “What’s wrong?” Keiji has always been able to read Osamu’s moods, even when he himself doesn’t know how he feels, Keiji always does. “Are you sleepy?”

Once, Keiji asks, Osamu yawns, and he’s surprised at the sudden wave of exhaustion that hits him, making him sway lightly on his feet. “A little,” he admits. “But, Keiji-kun, where are we goin’?”

Keiji blinks, like he’s surprised by the question. “My room,” he says, “You can have a nap, if you’re really, really sleepy. I can read while you do.”

Frowning, Osamu lets Keiji continue walking, following in his wake. “Isn’t yer room the other way?” The other way, through the foyer, up the stairs, down the corridor and to the left.

The way to Keiji’s room is indented in Osamu’s brain, an eternal map etched out onto the surface of it.

Keiji looks at Osamu strangely, but doesn’t comment on whatever he finds odd about his behaviour. Perhaps he’s chalking it up to exhaustion. “We’re taking the fun way, Osamu,” he says, ominously.

So, instead of being led through the foyer, up the stairs, down the corridor and to the left, Osamu is taken past the stables, past the pond, and past the archery range to the kitchen.

It’s Keiji who pokes his head in first, grinning victoriously when he sees it's empty. Once the two boys are in the kitchen, Keiji walks over to one of the walls, pushes aside a flimsy bookcase with just two cookbooks on it, and pulls on a loose wooden board until it gives. Once removed, Osamu is staring directly at what looks to be a secret passageway, all lit up by candles running along the walls. Keiji steps inside, and Osamu is shocked when the blue-eyed boy glances over his shoulder at him.

Osamu is undoubtedly certain that he has never seen this passage before. Keiji had definitely never led him here, and it’s now when his memory fogs, the eden scenario he’s been placed in suddenly dulling as his brain slowly wakes up, disturbing the perfect mirage he’s been running around in in his mind.

He’s struck with the thought that he doesn't want to wake up yet; he wants to stay with Keiji. He wants to find out where the passage leads. He wants to see Keiji laugh again — smile again at Osamu with unabashed joy. He wants to make Keiji’s ears flush again, and, this time, he wants to reach out and touch them, just to feel the heat.

Feeling frantic, Osamu steps towards Keiji, whose image flickers into somebody taller, and dressed much more regally than seconds before — a royal mantle of deep purple with golden stitching at the edges covering a well-embellished navy tunic and black leather trousers. There’s black boots coming up to his knees, and Osamu recognises the Akaashi family crest of twin owls hanging around his neck on thick wire. He’s wearing coronation gear, which is something Osamu has only ever seen in paintings of Keiji’s father, the King, that run along the corridors of the Castle interior.

When Osamu looks down at himself, he sees the clothes he was wearing before he went to bed and landed in this dreamscape — his white, billowy shirt, long, tan breeches and dark suspenders holding them up. A commoner, in comparison to the royal heir before him.

As kids, they’d always been equal. Now, as adults (and with Keiji’s coronation coming the moment he turns twenty), they couldn’t be further apart. Two different astronomical rotations that had briefly crossed paths for a few, fleeting years and have now begun to spin away from one another once again.

There’s calluses on his hands that definitely didn’t exist when he was nine years old. No, he’s older now, and, when he looks at Keiji, he can look directly into those piercing, analytical eyes without lifting his chin. He sees Keiji’s knife-sharp jaw, and the stubble that embellishes it. He sees long, slender fingers, and the bejeweled rings that wrap around them. Surely, they’re weighing his hands down, but Keiji doesn’t seem like he notices. Or, perhaps he’s learned to ignore the heavy weight he’s been born to carry.

Osamu feels dozens of shards of glass twist into his heart.

He gapes at Keiji, who cocks his head to the side inquisitively. “Well?” Keiji — older, nineteen year old, current Keiji — prompts. “Are you coming, Osamu?”

(When Osamu wakes, he feels his cheeks streaked with tears. His chest heaves as he attempts to get more air into his lungs, and his eyes take longer than usual to adjust to the darkness of his bedroom. It must be very early morning, considering how the summer sun usually peeks through their blinds at just before six am.

Hugging his knees to his chest, Osamu breathes into his knees, attempting to push down the sickly feeling taking over his senses.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, waiting for the feeling to pass, but it feels like hours. Judging by the fact the sun has still not risen in the sky, he decides that it must’ve only been a few minutes.

Raising his head from its perch on his knees, Osamu sees Aran and Atsumu squished onto a mattress together on the floor. Aran’s makeshift bed of straw pillows covered by a bedsheet has been discarded. He glances over at Atsumu’s bed, and finds the wooden frame stripped. He supposes that they wouldn’t have fit together in the actual bed, seeing as they’re both over six foot and muscular due to their long training hours.

Osamu finds himself too antsy to sleep alone, and so, he pulls his own mattress off of his bed, and lays it beside Atsumu’s. He takes his own blanket to cover himself, and pushes his face into Atsumu’s shoulder. He feels Atsumu shuffle, before an arm wraps around his shoulders, and squeezes Osamu closer. “Nightmare?” Atsumu mumbles into his brothers’ hair.

“No,” Osamu breathes out, comforted by the steady beating of Atsumu’s heart. It wasn't a nightmare, but it feels too little, too negligible to call it a dream or a memory. It was more, in a way that feels simultaneously like a dire warning and benign assistance. For what, Osamu isn’t sure, but his heavy eyelids tell him that whatever it was can wait until morning.

That is, if he remembers in the morning.

Osamu doesn’t know if he wants to forget just yet, but one thing he does know is that he wants to hold onto the warmth he felt when he and Keiji were running through the grass together, shirts stained green and yellow for as long as possible.

Atsumu hums in a way that Osamu knows from years of experience is disbelieving, but he doesn’t push it, only presses a light kiss to Osamu’s forehead and mumbles a ”goodnight”.

So, before Osamu falls deeply back into sleep, he conjures up images of a bright sun, a soft hand in his, blister-inducing wooden fences, and a brilliant smile in his mind.)

Just as the sun begins to rise, Osamu finds himself already working, tugging gently on the reins of a horse as he takes her out for exercise. She’s one of the older ones, not suitable for any of the guard to ride or the royal family. Still, she needs to be kept active, so Osamu takes on the role of her keeper. It’s mostly because he enjoys working with the horses most of all, but also because it gets him away from castle grounds, and the quiet of the woods clears his head.

Unfortunately, today he’s being flanked by two men who won’t do him the favour of leaving him be.

“What’s yer opinion on the new colour scheme down at the market?” Atsumu asks loudly, ripping a roll of bread aggressively between his teeth.

Osamu clenches his jaw.

“It’s not really a colour scheme,” Aran says contemplating. “More like we just got a ton of purple dye from a trade deal and it’s going for incredibly cheap. Why spend half a dozen gold coins on reds and yellows when you can get a kingdom colour for a quarter of the price?”

“‘Cause everyone’s stall looks the same,” Atsumu complains. “I used ta recognise the stalls based on their signs, but now I actually have to, like, read what they say.”

The two have been chattering incessantly all morning, not leaving Osamu to a moment of peace. He blames himself, really, having accidentally jostled his brother when getting up. He should’ve known to be more careful.

Sighing, Osamu wills God to strike him through the heart and end him immediately.

For a while, he zones out, staring at his worn out boots and counting his steps to make the time pass. He’s at two-hundred and seventy-one when Atsumu addresses him directly. “—so, ‘Samu, why don’t ya just join the royal guard?”

“What?” Osamu blinks, confused. Atsumu hasn't mentioned Osamu joining the guard since he joined himself, and didn’t understand why Osamu wouldn’t trade in a life of labour for a life of valour and honour. Honestly, Osamu isn’t the same type as his brother and Aran. Sure, he’s physically fit enough from all the heavy lifting he does around the palace to be a strong combatant, and he’s watched his friends train enough to have some semblance of the motions, but he’s not got the stomach for it. It’s all fun and games sparring with someone for fun, but then, to actually go into battle? Potentially taking a life? He’s just not sure he can handle it, always having been squeamish.

“Since ya wanna see Keiji-kun,” he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets with a shrug. “And ya know, he’s on the guard and all. Since I’ve joined the guard, I’ve seen Shouyou-kun, like, everyday.”

“Atsumu, ya and Hinata met in guard,” Aran points out.

“Semantics!” Atsumu waves a hand before him. “What I mean is that ya can talk to him. I don’t actually end up speakin’ to him much ‘cause we’re in different circuits, but ya could have yer chance when we all train together once a month, if ya don’t end up in his group.”

Osamu shifts uncomfortably, shuffling closer to the horse for some sense of support. “I don’t know that it would make a difference, if it’s on the Queen’s orders that he can’t talk to us, ‘Tsumu.”

“Ya could try. I hate to admit it, but it is a good idea.”

Rolling his eyes, Osamu huffs. “Aran—“

“I just think, since ya love him and all, ya should try—“

“Love?” Osamu wheezes, abruptly stopping in his tracks as his cheeks redden. “No one — hah — uh, no one said anything about love.”

Surprised, Aran turns to him. “But, last night, ya said—“

“Care! I said I cared about him!” He feels the heat of embarrassment prickle throughout his body as Atsumu laughs at him.

“Ya so do love him, ‘Samu,” Atsumu teases. “Don’t be dumb, ya and Keiji-kun have always had some weird, overly passionate, homoerotic friendship. Ya never wondered why I always left the two of ya alone when it was just the three of us? It was painful watchin’ the pair of ya.”

Osamu feels faint.

Sure, he and Keiji have always been close — best friends since childhood. And, maybe he was always secretly a little glad whenever Atsumu went away to bother somebody else and left them alone. But...that’s just regular best friend possessiveness, not...

“Don’t tell me yer just now realisin’ it,” Aran says, tone disbelieving and a little pitying.

“Oh my God,” Osamu laments, dropping down into a squat as he pushes his furiously hot face into his palms. He’s never felt so mortified, on the edge of a mental breakdown in front of his two best friends over his newly discovered feelings. It’s like he’s remembering every single time he’s looked at Keiji and wondered how soft his skin was all at once (it’s occurred a terrifying amount of times), and the sheer embarrassment of being so unaware of his own emotions feels like millions of fire ants nipping at him. “Oh my God. Kill me. ‘Tsumu, just pull out yer stupid sword and just shove it inbetween my ribs, I’m beggin’ ya.”

“This is so sad, I can’t even laugh at him.” He hears his brother mutter, the words sounding muffled due to the ringing in his ears.

There’s a nauseating twist in Osamu’s stomach when he reflects on his situation with a fresh mind, ‘love’ echoing around the walls of his brain and sending his nervous system into overdrive. “This is the worst,” he groans, tugging at his hair aggressively.

“Calm down, Romeo,” Atsumu says. “Yer actin’ as if I haven’t just suggested a brilliant solution to yer whole thing.”

Still crouched into the fetal position, Osamu can't decide what’s worse, the fact that he’s genuinely considering Atsumu’s suggestion, or the fact that he’s suddenly shockingly aware of how truly stupid he is. “This is the worst,” he repeats.

A heavy hand rests on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Aran’s concerned gaze directed at him. “As much as I want to let ya wallow and process this all properly, do ya not think that it’s better to do somethin’ about it as soon as ya can? Atsumu has a point, and it’s not like ya have a lot of time.”

“What do ya mean?”

Atsumu and Aran share a glance, and Osamu feels the twisting in his stomach become something much more solid and heavy: dread.

“He turns twenty at the end of the year,” Aran explains slowly, cautiously holding Osamu’s eyes as if he’s afraid of his reaction.

Osamu nods, wishing Aran would just hurry it up so that the anxiety of the build-up dissipates soon. He’s unsure of the implications — he knows when Keiji’s birthday is, but it’s a good nine months away. Besides, if Osamu’s banned from seeing him, then it’s not like he should bother with a gift or anything, he wouldn’t be able to give it to him anyway. “So?” He asks.

“‘Samu, he turns twenty,” Atsumu urges, his nose scrunched up impatiently. Osamu’s eyes drift down to his brother’s hands, and he notices the man holding the horse’s neglected reins. Osamu hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hold on them.

“I don’t get what yer try—“

Like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head, Osamu jolts, a sickly feeling making its way up his throat when he comes to the same conclusion that his friends clearly already had ahead of him.

“Oh,” he whispers, detaching his palms from his hair and dragging them down his face.

The realisation is like being shaken back into the present, Osamu’s head clears considerably and he no longer feels like dying — he feels strangely determined instead.

Clearing his throat, he stands up, and dusts off imaginary dirt from his knees. Gently, he takes the reins from Atsumu, and continues walking the sandy mammal. Beside him, Atsumu and Aran watch him vigilantly. They don’t need to worry, he thinks. He’s had an epiphany, and he believes that he knows what course of action he must take to ensure his own jagged path is straightened out. He thinks of a blistering sun, a dusty bookshelf, and a burdened friend, and he knows what to do.

Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s completely insane, but he has to try, otherwise, what good is his clearly hyperactive temporal lobe?

“Osamu?” Aran prompts, earning a hum in return from Osamu. “What are ya thinkin’?”

Osamu exhales deeply, and squints up at the early morning sun.

“I’m thinkin’ that I gotta see Keiji-kun.”

Thankfully for Osamu, nobody is around when he sneaks into the kitchen. It’s just after breakfast, which means that the kitchen staff still have a few hours of peace before preparing lunch for both the royals and those who work in the palace. Relieved, he sighs. He isn’t sure how he was ever going to explain why he had climbed in through the kitchen window to any stragglers.

Due to the empty room, Osamu wastes no time pushing away the bookcase — which is considerably heavier than it had been for Keiji in his dream, with many more cookbooks stacked in colour order across the shelves. Once the (exceptionally creaky) bookcase has been pushed aside, Osamu takes a brief look outside the window to make sure that nobody is on their way to the kitchen through the back door. He can’t really make sure that nobody will use the indoor entrance from the corridor, so he just silently prays as his hands smooth over the wooden board in front of him.

It’s true that it holds a different colour from the rest of the room, and it does look a little loose…

Still, that doesn’t mean anything yet. His fingers twitch when they find loose screws in the top corners of the board, and he makes quick work of unscrewing them by hand. It almost seems to Osamu that these screws have been loiteried with plenty of times before, as the holes they’ve been pushed into are much too loose. Though, Osamu can't be too critical of terrible handiwork, as it may just be his saving grace, seeing as he hadn’t thought to bring any tools with him.

Once the screws are removed, Osamu tugs at the board. It takes one, two, three, four tries before it gives way, and Osamu almost cries out in victory when the lit tunnel of his dreams is revealed to him. He wants nothing more than to immediately rush into it and search for Keiji’s bedroom so that he can finally see him, but he knows it's dangerous to leave the passage uncovered behind him during the day.

So, he twists the screws back into the board after he's snuggly pressed the wood into the wall, and pulls the bookcase towards himself with a grunt.

By night, he promises to return.

There’s an itch beneath his skin that makes it impossible for him to calm down as he walks over to the crop farm, where he's planning to burn off all of the nervous energy bundled up inside of him. By tonight, he could see Keiji — ask him all of the questions that have been piling up one by one since the current ruling monarchs told his father that he couldn’t see Keiji anymore.

He wants to know whose decision it was. He wants to know why that decision was even made in the first place. He wants to know who the fuck looked at Osamu and Atsumu and thought that they were any sort of threat to Keiji, yet had no qualms about them still living on castle grounds and existing in the same area as the young prince.

Most of all, he wants to know how Keiji feels about it all. He wants to know if Keiji…

He doesn’t want to think about Keiji’s feelings — not now, when they’ll distract him from his work and flood his mind with dozens of thousands of terrible, apocalyptic scenarios that he won't be able to prevent once the carefully crafted dam that prevents his thoughts from congesting has cracked and ruptured. If there’s anything that distracts his mind enough to even dent the dam: it's Keiji.

And so, Osamu throws himself into digging up carrots with his bare hands, separating them into two piles that he’ll sort into baskets later, before washing them off in the river and taking them off to the kitchen. It’s mind numbing work, so his best bet to not let his mind wander to Keiji is to hum a jaunty work tune his father taught him when he was a child.

As he’s humming, he doesn’t notice the eyes on him at the bottom of the carrot patch: brilliant blue colouring and mournful longing swirled into two circular shaped packages and surrounded by thick, inky eyelashes.

They’re gone by the time Osamu gets off of his hands as knees, swiping the back of his hand against his forehead as he sighs out a breath of exhaustion. All he can think of now is how desperately he needs to dunk himself into the river with the carrots at his feet, but he'll wait until he’s at home for that. He hopes he’ll get back earlier than Atsumu, so that he can heat his water for a bath — their father doesn’t let them use the coals more than once a day, since they’re a non-renewable source of thermal energy and they’re farmers, not coal-miners. They don’t exactly have an endless supply, just what the state gives them monthly for all their hard work.

He’s proud of himself, when he manages to get back before the sun even begins to dip in the sky. It’s empty in his house, meaning that his father is still out working and that Atsumu’s still training. The itch still hasn’t disappeared throughout the day, but it has significantly shrunk. Unfortunately, it intensifies again when Osamu’s stomach grumbles, reminding the man that he accidentally skipped lunch earlier.

That was probably the reason he got home so early, he belatedly realises.

Quickly, he formulates a little plan in his head for what to do this evening to further distract himself. He's being reasonable now, knowing full well that the itch won't completely disappear until he actually sees Keiji, so, he has to make the time go faster with chores before he loses his mind.

First, he takes that bath, because heaven knows how necessary it is for his sore muscles and cracked skin. He even washes his hair today, even though he usually waits until Mondays, since that’s the designated in-depth wash day, for both laundry and his family members. However, he wants to be a little more presentable if he’s going to talk to Keiji tonight.

Next, after he's all dry and bundled into his nicest (see: cleanest) threads, he plods into his kitchen. There’s not much in the kitchen, but he does find a few nice cuts of beef that’ll definitely take up a lot of time. He gets to work lighting a fire in their stone furnace, where he then tosses three whole potatoes in. As the potatoes are cooking, and the beef is sizzling over a metal slab (also in the furnace), Osamu cuts up tomatoes and some kale into a little salad.

He sets the dining table, humming the same tune as before as he dances around with ceramic plates in his hands. The kitchen smells divine, and Osamu smiles to himself proudly when he doesn’t overcook the meat.

(The potato skins are a little charred, but once he scrapes that off, no one will notice his error. It’s the insides of the potato that matter anyway, and they’re wonderfully soft and warm.)

With a glance to the clock, he sees that it's just barely past eight, and then hears the familiar footsteps of his father stepping into the house and hanging up his jacket. “Osamu?” He calls out. “Is that ya cookin’, or has Goldilocks infiltrated my kitchen?” Osamu’s father walks into the dining room, ruffling Osamu’s hair thankfully as he notices the set plates.

It’s not long after that Atsumu returns, and shows his gratitude to Osamu’s efforts by chewing with his mouth open.

Lovely.

Due to his labour, his father and brother take on the laborious task of washing the dishes as he heads up to their bedroom. He pretends to be asleep when Atsumu comes in, only because he knows he’ll crack and tell him of his plan tonight, and he knows that if Atsumu knows about it, then he’ll want to come too.

As much as Osamu loves his brother, he selfishly wants to hold this information to his chest and shield it from outsider use. Not that Atsumu is an outsider, he’s just...it was Osamu’s dream, okay? If Atsumu wants to know the locations of secret passages, he’ll just have to have a good night’s sleep and see if his brain will conjure one up.

Plus, Osamu didn’t even know if this passage actually led to Keiji’s bedroom or not. For all he knew, it could be an elaborate trap that actually took him straight into a prison cell for being a creepy pervert who tried to get into the prince’s bedroom, so, really, why drag Atsumu into that?

Anyhow, prison trap or not, Osamu has to try.

It’s well past midnight when he slips out of bed, the ticking of the clock in their bedroom loud and mingling with Atsumu’s light snores as Osamu sneaks out of the house and makes his way across the fields that separate the main palace from all the on-site workers’ houses.

He had left the kitchen window open earlier, and as he walks he hopes that nobody had thought to close it as the thick warmth outside shouldn’t have alerted anybody of a breeze. It appears that luck is on his side, as the window is open far enough for him to slip his hand under it and push upwards.

Like this morning, he wastes no time jumping into the kitchen, and then making work of moving the bookcase and then the wooden board.

There’s only one tunnel through the kitchen, and Osamu is privately relieved that he didn’t have to try and spend all night figuring out what direction he was supposed to take (he imagines accidentally stumbling into the King and Queen’s bedroom, and shivers at the thought of being beheaded for such an act).

The tunnel is long and winding, up a narrow staircase and down many corridors until he finally sees a light that isn't from any candle on the wall. There’s a square in front of him, the corners of it glowing with light from whatever is on the other side of it. Unlike the board in the kitchen, this one has no screws, and is just lightly propped up against the wall, the bottom of the board more rectangular than the square attached to it in order to hold the board upright from the bottom.

Carefully, Osamu slowly moves the board towards himself, holding his breath as he pulls it away. He places it against the wall of the corridor he's in, and turns back to the newly opened hole.

There’s a woven basket in front of him, but it doesn’t fully cover the hole, and Osamu can see around it into what actually is Keiji’s bedroom. Osamu has only been inside a handful of times before — in winter, when it was too cold for them to play outside and Osamu’s father actually let him make the trek to the castle through the snow — but it hasn’t changed one bit.

The walls are navy, with thick, white vertical lines. There’s decorative mouldings along the edges of the walls, white, like the ceiling. When Osamu pushes the (notably empty) basket to the side, he sees an oil lamp burning on Keiji’s mahogany desk just opposite him, underneath the window that looks over the flower fields.

Bravely, he steps into the room, and finds that he’s beside a matching mahogany wardrobe that stands tall and looming. He knows that when he peeks around the wardrobe, he’ll see Keiji’s bed. Is he reading? Is he even awake? If he is, surely he must’ve heard Osamu moving around the board and then the basket?

Well, not if he’s incredibly deep in thought. Keiji gets that way sometimes. Osamu smiles at the memory.

Taking a deep breath, he steps into the room properly, and is met with the sight of Keiji under the satin covers, limbs sprawled across the mattress. Osamu sighs. He can't wake Keiji up, not when the circles under his eyes are so dark and deep that a rabbit would mistake them for a burrow.

He edges closer, his eyes flicking to the door where the shadow of two guards is by the door. They’re outside, mumbling to one another. Osamu knows he has to be very, very quiet.

The knowledge doesn’t make him walk away from Keiji though. Now that he’s here, he wants to look at him a little more. He gets to the side of the bed, and rests on his knees on the carpet. “Ah, Keiji,” Osamu breathes, his words scarcely above a whisper.

Gently, he places a large, warm hand on Keiji’s forehead, delicately smoothing back stray curls. His hair has always been a complete enigma to Osamu, because it always felt thinner than it looked, and it was much longer than Osamu could have ever imagined. Soft black curls slot through Osamu’s fingers, feeling like the silk of the heavens, and he exhales slowly, releasing all of the bundled up emotions that have been bouncing around in his body since his dream.

“I wish ya weren’t so perfect,” he admits into the silence of the night, his only audience being Keiji’s steady breaths and the shadows around them that seemed to lean in, hanging on to Osamu’s words with curiosity. A blanket of darkness coats the two men, keeping them safe and sound from all outer forces. Like this, just the two of them, Keiji is his, and Osamu feels oh, so bitterly about how soon their little bubble of serenity will end. “It makes it so hard to stay away from ya.”

Keiji’s sheets are a deep navy, and, on a night like this, where his back shields Keiji from the only light source in the room, his hair almost blends into them, surrounding Keiji in an ocean devoid of any storms or disturbances. On a night like this, Osamu wonders how drowning feels, and whether it will be Keiji pulling him into the water, or whether he will be the one to take the plunge.

Truthfully, he believes he already has one foot off of the dock.

Letting his hand fall away, waves of navy-black slide through his fingers, and Osamu steps back — away from the ocean, and away from the temptation of staying by Keiji’s side all night. “I’ll come back tomorrow night, Keiji-kun,” he promises. “I hope you’ll be awake then.”

He returns each night for two weeks, and falls short on luck each time.

By the fifteenth night, he almost gives into his urge to just wake Keiji up, but he manages to refrain. Still, it’s difficult holding back when there’s so much that he needs to say. It’s just...he misses Keiji so much. Seeing him isn’t enough to fill the cavity in his chest that’s been growing with each passing second, gnawing down at his organs and rib cage surrounding.

He’s close to giving up completely on the sixteenth night. In the kitchen, he’d almost been caught climbing through the window, and had to squash all of his limbs into the narrow pantry until whoever was plodding around had left. As if that experience hadn’t already given him a heart attack, a few candles burned out in the passage as he made his way swiftly through, the rapid movements of his body blowing out the light and surrounding him in almost total darkness.

By the time he’s gotten to Keiji’s room, his heart is beating at twice the speed it really should’ve been, and he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. He doesn’t really expect anything when he pulls aside the wooden board and pushes the still empty basket out of his way; he just wants to see Keiji.

As he crawls out of the hole, he hears a sharp gasp directly in front of him, and his head snaps up. What he sees is Keiji, donned in a cream nightgown and sat at his desk. There’s a single candle lit beside him, illuminating his strikingly beautiful face. His expression is one of shock, and maybe Osamu would find it amusing, had it not been for the red rimming his cerulean eyes, and the dampness of his cheeks reflected in the candlelight.

Before Osamu can say a word, Keiji is hastily scrambling out of his chair, attempting to make his way towards the door. Belatedly, he realises that it must be a little terrifying to find a man breaking into your room in the middle of the night, especially since the light behind Osamu had dissipated, leaving him likely unrecognisable in the dimness. “Crap,” he mutters under his breath, before quickly chasing after Keiji.

Luckily for Osamu, Keiji trips over his own feet, and Osamu’s able to tackle him onto the bed, silencing him with a hand pressed tightly against his mouth. Underneath him, Keiji squirms, speech muffled by Osamu’s palm.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he whispers urgently into Keiji’s ear, eyes flickering towards the door where he knows the guards stand. “It’s me. Keiji-kun, it’s Osamu.”

The prince stops struggling, his chest heaving from either exertion or the fear felt. Osamu cautiously removes his palm from Keiji’s mouth, and gets off of him, hovering close to him beside the bed. Keiji turns around and sits up, facing Osamu. Brows furrowed in confusion, the man curls and uncurls his fists, as if he’s unsure of whether he should reach out and pull Osamu into his chest or push him away. “Osamu?” His voice is hesitant, a little disbelieving and a whole lot relieved.

Osamu’s heart aches.

“I’m sorry I scared ya,” he says, honestly. “I didn’t mean...I guess I hadn’t thought of how ya might react to someone just sneakin’ into yer room.”

Keiji doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, his eyes searching Osamu’s face vehemently as he perches on the edge of the bed. Osamu doesn’t blame him for being startled, and mentally curses himself for not thinking it through properly. “Why...are you here?” He asks, forcing his gaze away from Osamu and down to his lap.

Kneeling before him, Osamu places his hands on top of Keiji’s, looking up at the man from his place on the floor. “I had to see ya, Keiji-kun. I just...had to.” Reaching a hand up, Osamu’s fingertips brush away at the tears tracked down Keiji’s cheeks, and he hears the man’s breath hitch. “Why are ya cryin’?”

“It’s past midnight, Osamu,” Keiji says instead, deflecting the question. “How did you know I would be awake?”

With an awkward chuckle, Osamu smiles up at Keiji sheepishly. “I’ve been comin’ every night for the past couple of weeks,” he confesses, and feels Keiji’s fingers thread themselves through his. It’s like instinct, the way their hands bind together as if no time has passed. As if they’re children once again, grabbing one another close and holding on.

“You have?” His voice is so soft that Osamu is convinced he’s dreaming. “Osamu, you’re,” Keiji swallows, and shakes his head, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

Osamu’s hand is squeezed, and a wicked, horrifying thought finds its way to the front of his mind. “Keiji-kun,” he starts, melancholy crawling into his tone. “Ya didn’t…ask not to see me, did ya?” He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and an awful wave of despondency washes over him. He’s not sure he'll be able to handle it if Keiji’s the one who doesn't want to see him.

“What? No, Osamu.” Adamantly, Keiji shakes his head, and exhales shakily. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he confesses, leaning down to rest his forehead against Osamu’s as his eyes slide shut.

Relieved, Osamu whispers, “me too,” his breath warm over Keiji’s lips. They’re so close, Osamu almost thinks that if he moves, the mirage before him will dissolve into nothingness, and he’ll be alone again. Keiji opens his eyes, and Osamu feels something achingly similar to adoration bloom in his stomach when the man smiles. It’s a small smile, the corners of his lips just barely twitching upwards, but to Osamu, that one smile means the world.

His eyes are drawn to Keiji’s lips, and he knows Keiji can tell. “Osamu?”

There’s so much to talk about — Osamu knows better than to waste this opportunity, he needs answers, clarity, and, most importantly, he needs a resolution.

But, then, Keiji sighs so heavily that Osamu breathes in his air, and he can’t help it when he detangles one hand from between Keiji’s, and cups the curve of his cheek with it. He knows it’s stupid — he could be ruining everything right now if he’s reading things wrong, but things are already so fractured and messy and disorienting that he’s not sure it even really matters. “Can I?”

“Please.”

Then, they’re kissing. It’s a tentative, timid thing, an inexperienced press of lips together that makes Osamu wonder if the world is simultaneously ending and beginning. Keiji’s lips are rough from the anxious chewing at them, a habit that he’s never been able to give up, but the uneven texture against his sensitive skin makes veins buzz and his head light. He thinks that he would want to stay here forever, with Keiji so close, so intimate. He needs—

Keiji jerks away, eyes dangerously bright and shiny as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand. Osamu feels his hope, his soul seeping out of the atmosphere. “Keiji-kun?”

“You need to go, Osamu,” he says, his voice shaky despite the imperative tone he attempts to employ.

“What?”

“Go,” he repeats, the dynamics raising ever so slightly, just enough to warn Osamu that he can expose him to the guards just outside at any given moment.

Swallowing, Osamu retreats, away from Keiji, back into the passageway and into the kitchen. He leaves no trace of himself behind, except, perhaps, his entire bleeding heart on Keiji’s carpeted bedroom floor.

For the entire week afterwards, Osamu is distracted.

Why wouldn’t he be? He had experienced true ecstasy, real idyll for one perfect moment, and it had been snatched away from him faster than light, disillusionment flooding his senses immediately afterwards. Had it even been worth it? He had Keiji return his affection, hold him for a few seconds and kiss him back and Osamu knows that there can’t be a feeling greater, but the aftermath — the nausea rolling around in his stomach and the bile climbing up his throat — is much worse than he ever could’ve expected.

He sees the truth in Aran’s pitying glances, the concern in Atsumu’s hesitant jibing, and he knows that he’s obvious in his melancholy.

“I don’t know what happened,” Atsumu says when the brothers are alone for lunch, sitting side by side atop the small hill overlooking the flower fields. The sight is enough to remind him of Keiji, and he wonders if the man is looking outside his bedroom window right now, seeing the same view Osamu is. “But ya gotta stop moping.”

Maybe he's even seeing Osamu too.

“If ya join the guard, like I keep tellin’ ya too, ya won’t feel so completely hopeless. Ya gotta grab life by the balls and carve out yer own path, ya know?”

Keiji looks so good in the guard’s traditional dyed leather armour. Wistfully, Osamu sighs at the mental image.

“Are ya even listening to me?”

There’s a bee perched on magenta foxglove, its striped coat reminding Osamu of Keiji’s bedroom walls. He sighs again.

“Never mind, yer totally hopeless. Can’t grab life by the balls if ya don’t have any yerself.” Atsumu shrugs, focusing his attention on his food when he realises Osamu is too distracted.

He knows he’s maybe being a little (see: a lot) dramatic, but he thinks he’s earned the right to be as upset as he likes. He’s just so confused; it’s messing with his head. Because of his astounding lack of self-control, Osamu hadn’t gotten any of the answers that he’d wanted or needed from Keiji. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten to talk to him properly at all, ruining his only chance of reconciliation.

Besides, he can’t get the image of Keiji crying out of his head, and he wonders just what the hell happened before he got there. He hates how detached he finds himself from Keiji, how easily the ties between them were severed.

Shaking his head, Osamu turns to his brother, ready to offer him an actual conversation in lieu of an apology for being so out of it, but, when he turns to the left, he freezes, the words dying on his tongue.

“Good afternoon, boys,” the Queen greets, her hands clasped together in front of her burgundy frock.

Osamu watches his brother’s eyes widen in recognition before his head whips around towards the voice. “Yer Majesty,” he croaks out, his fingers twitching as he panics, contemplating whether he should stand up and greet her properly.

Osamu finds himself in a similar predicament, but he’s saved from making any sort of decision when she lowers herself on the ground beside them. Shocked, the twins stare at her silently, unable to comprehend how the Queen is willingly sitting on the floor with them. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” The question seems posed to both of them, but the Queen makes direct eye contact with Osamu, her cobalt blue eyes so strikingly similar to Keiji’s that Osamu feels his chest tighten.

“Sure,” Atsumu says, his voice wobbly with tentativeness as he wonders what to make of the situation. “Pretty warm for spring.”

Humming, the Queen smiles slightly, the corners of her lips just barely twitching upwards.

Osamu yearns.

“Atsumu-kun,” she begins, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Would you mind giving your brother and I a moment alone?”

Dozens of scenarios play out in Osamu’s mind at lightning speed. Has Keiji told her about Osamu sneaking into his room? Has she found out that he’s been actively disobeying her orders to stay away from her son? God, she’s not here to threaten him with prison, or a public execution or something, is she?

Judging by the furrow of his brows, Atsumu seems to be asking himself similar questions, and he licks his lips nervously as he glances back at Osamu. “We won’t be long,” she reassures, squeezing his shoulder.

Atsumu nods, collecting his things quickly and making his way down the hill. Osamu glares at the back of his head, hoping that his brother can feel the rage he’s emitting towards him for leaving him alone. Clearing his throat, he focuses on wiping crumbs off of his lap in order to avoid her perceptive gaze. He’s worried that with one look, she’ll know all his secrets. “Is everythin’ alright, Yer Majesty?” He asks, pretending he isn’t aware of whatever she’s going to say to him. He's certain he’s just considered every possible scenario and every possible outcome of this conversation.

She nods, looking out at the sea of pinks and purples spread out below them. “Yes, Osamu-kun. I just realised that I never apologised to you for my decision regarding your relationship with our Keiji.”

Pause.

Osamu hadn’t anticipated this scenario.

Blinking, he stares at her side profile, hoping to find answers in her passive expression. “Uh,” he says, eloquently.

Looking down at her lap, the Queen sighs, twisting her golden wedding band around her finger. “I’m sure you’re upset,” she says, “but I have to do what’s best for my son. It was...easier to do this now, rather than later on.”

“Do what now?” Osamu asks, his voice scarcely above a whisper. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head, unable to make sense of the bits and pieces he’s being presented. It’s as if he‘s been told to figure out a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, but he’s missing the majority of the box. “I’m not...we’ve been friends forever. What makes ya think I’m a bad influence now?”

“Oh, honey, you know I don’t think that.” Her hand finds his shoulder, squeezing it gently just as she’d done to Atsumu a few moments prior. In his peripheral vision, he sees her pinched expression, and entertains the thought that she actually does care.

Yeah, right.

He bites back what was about to be an impolite scoff, but it seems that the Queen is aware of his hesitancy to believe her despite it. “You’re aware that Keiji is to be crowned when he turns twenty,” she says, and Osamu’s heart pounds furiously in his chest. Of course he’s aware of that — it’s only been haunting him for weeks. “And he’ll have to be married before his coronation.”

“Why are ya tellin’ me this?” He asks wearily. He doesn’t want to hear about Keiji getting married to some perfect, rich noblewoman just so he can be King, and he certainly does not want to hear about how the Queen doesn’t want Osamu around Keiji because he's decidedly not perfect, rich or a woman.

“I’ve always been...aware that you and Keiji have a special relationship,” she explains, meeting his eyes. He tries not to shy away from her words, even though they feel like a poisoned blade cutting through his flesh. “And, as you’re surely aware from our Kingdom’s legends, Keiji cannot marry somebody without a title.”

Scowling, Osamu’s fist clenches around a clump of grass. He feels defensive and raw, trying to protect himself from being shaved down more and more until he’s nothing. How fitting that it would be another Akaashi that causes Osamu’s emotional spiral to plummet significantly more. “Ya don’t choose what yer born into,” Osamu refutes, not bothering to deny any implications that he wants to be with Keiji romantically.

The Queen watches him carefully, her lips pressed together into a thin line, as if she’s unsure of whether to reveal more information. “No, you don’t,” she agrees, and stands up, brushing off her dress as she straightens up. “But you can choose what to do with the life you’re given.”

With that, she begins to walk away. Scrambling to his feet, Osamu moves to follow, if only just to ask, “why are ya tellin’ me this?”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder and appraising him. “You could wield a sword, Osamu-kun. Many don’t have the strength to do so, but you could.”

Confused into silence by her cryptic words, Osamu stands motionless as she walks away, leaving him alone with an aching head to match his aching heart.

The Akaashi clan, he thinks, holds too much power over me.

That evening as Osamu lies in bed, he is freezing cold, despite the late spring heat. It’s well past nine pm now, and the sun is still out. However, Osamu wants to sleep so badly. After Keiji’s episode in his bedroom and Osamu’s conversation with the Queen, Osamu feels like three dozen years of his lifespan have been taken from him.

He’s still not sure what the Queen was trying to tell him, but he knows better than to try and ask either her or her son, half due to the fact he has the feeling she wants him to figure it out on his own, and half because he was unceremoniously kicked out of Keiji’s room after a particularly tender moment between the two, and he hasn't seen Keiji since. Osamu thought he might actually be able to have Keiji, at least emotionally, but after that kiss…

Osamu tries not to blame himself — after all, it was Keiji who leaned in first, and Osamu did ask if he could kiss him, and he waited after affirmation from Keiji before he did.

Even with that knowledge, there’s a looming exhaustion that lies burdensome aside the rest of his internal conflict on his shoulders. He closes his eyes and prays for sleep to find him easily, even though that’s a difficult request these days, with insomnia incessantly knocking on his skull more often than not.

Atsumu isn’t home yet, but Osamu doesn’t have the energy to wait for him, just to lament over his failures and issues when his brother is making genuine progress with the pursuit of his relationship with Shouyou.

Osamu knows it isn't fair to be irritated with Atsumu for having what he doesn’t, but he can't help the bubbling envy in the pit of his stomach when he realises how much easier a relationship with somebody who isn't royalty would be. In spite of this, Osamu wouldn’t trade Keiji for the world. He wishes he deserved to be by his side though, and it stings to think that status is what separates their universes.

Does title outweigh love? Perhaps, in a world like theirs.

Again, Osamu is restless, tossing and turning under a thin strip of fabric he calls a summer blanket. He’s not even sure where the winter ones are, and despite his cold limbs, he can’t be bothered to get up and look for them. Besides, even if he did find the thicker blankets, all that would happen would be that he would sweat through the entire night and subsequently catch a cold.

If Osamu catches a cold, then he can’t help out with the farm work for the next week or so, which means that he’s either forced to increase his father’s workload, or his own when he eventually gets back to working. So, Osamu absolutely cannot get ill. He refuses to for self-preservation — his mental health is already at an all time low. And—

“You’re so in your head today, Osamu,” Keiji says, flicking Osamu in the middle of the forehead. Osamu whines, bringing his hands up to his head and pouting at Keiji.

“Says ya! Ya think way too much for a tween,” he teases. Osamu remembers this. It’s a week after his thirteenth birthday, Keiji is still twelve, and huffs at Osamu’s reminder of this.

It’s October, one of those rare days between autumn and winter where the weather is way too summery, and usually followed with a day of biting cold air and heavy showers. Today though...today is one of those brilliant, too summery October days, and Keiji finally has a day off from his princely duties. He recalls how all morning the two were running around with Atsumu and Kita, the royal baker’s son. Kita was already fourteen, and he even let Osamu knead the bread dough earlier (after he had thoroughly washed his hands, of course).

In their eyes, Kita was just about the coolest person in the world, and spending the morning with him was nothing short of a miracle to the Miyas and to Keiji, who Osamu had a sneaking suspicion looked up to Kita a great amount. He was just so mature! Plus, he was fourteen, so he was allowed to go into town to buy supplies all by himself!

Anyway, at around one in the afternoon, Kita was called away, and Atsumu skipped off to find somebody else to bother, giving Osamu and Keiji some time alone. Keiji had slipped his hand into Osamu’s with a warm smile, and given him the softest, “I missed you” that Osamu had heard in his entire life.

Now, they were standing by the fence that leads to the training fields. Osamu’s eyes are immediately drawn to the deep purple pansies that sit in a long rectangle behind where there’s currently two people sparring with real carbon steel swords. It’s amazing how adults are able to whirl around with killing objects and nobody even pays attention.

Osamu, on the other hand, gets scolded for running with scissors when he’s ten, and he feels a familiar bitterness when he notices the guards in training talking with large gestures, despite having their swords in hand. His little thirteen year old brain thinks that that is much more dangerous than running with scissors. Scissors can’t effortlessly slice somebody’s head off without intention.

“Let’s get closer,” Keiji suggests, and Osamu grips his hand tighter, tugging him backwards when he takes confident strides towards the fence.

“Are ya crazy?” Osamu asks, face contorted in unease. “We’re tiny! They won't even notice if they swing their blades in our direction!”

Keiji waves off Osamu’s concern. “My mother says that I’m supposed to watch them, since I’ll start training with them in spring.”

“Spring?” Osamu whispers, stomach turning at Keiji’s flippant attitude towards the idea of training with adults who actually know what they’re doing. Keiji’s going to be thirteen! It’s not fair to let him perform on the same stage as masters when he’s barely a beginner! “But...they’re so much bigger, Keiji-kun.” The additional ‘and more skilled’ remains unsaid, and tingles on the tip of his tongue.

Keiji is prideful, and Osamu doesn’t want to risk offending him, since they don’t see one another enough for him to seek Keiji out for an apology. “They’re giving me a wooden sword for now,” Keiji says. “And whoever I spar with will be given one too. Father wants me to be using a real sword by the time I’m sixteen.”

It’s difficult to have this conversation again. Osamu remembers how against it he was, and he can feel the same frustration boiling his blood as he watches Keiji’s side profile. His curls are longer than usual; he’s growing out his hair for the colder months. He sees the slant of Keiji’s nose, straighter now than it was at nine, well on its way to being fully formed and angular like Osamu now knows it.

Keiji’s eyes are on battle, his ears filled with goading shouts and celebratory cheers. If Osamu didn’t know any better, he would have thought that Keiji wanted to be out there, on the mock-battlefield. However, he can feel the slight tremble of the boy’s hand in his, and graciously decides not to mention it. Keiji is prideful, above all else.

Osamu’s never been sure whether that’s his nature, or whether it was taught to him from an early age. Osamu doesn’t want to speculate, but ‘pride’ is a significant message in the kingdom motto.

“Blood makes me squeamish,” Osamu says, voice ever so shaky. He’s nervous, but not over the battle before him. There’s a leaf in Keiji’s hair. His eyes are otherwise occupied. Thirteen year old Osamu thinks he’ll lose Keiji to the end of a real carbon steel sword at sixteen, and trepidation squeezes the column of his throat. The backs of his eyes sting from the lack of air, and he—

“Me too,” Keiji whispers, sighing at the sight before him. Judging by the chorus of ‘yeah!’s flooding the air, Osamu guesses that someone has won the fight. “But it’s expected of me.” Osamu misses the sight of beautiful purple pansies splattered with what must primarily be the blood of the loser, but Keiji doesn’t.

Keiji is watching the next pair getting ready to spar, and Osamu is watching Keiji.

(When Osamu wakes, Atsumu is asleep in his own bed, and the sun has long since descended.)