drabbles; that au they created themselves

[beech]

→ drabbles from that au they p much created for themselves
→ naoki + yang

Naoki came from a long line of royalty who often said ‘damn it’ to political customs and marriages. Sometimes it ended poorly, with his poor uncle who ended up robbed blind and left to later marry into an unhappy political union. Sometimes, it went all right, with one of his aunts who married her stable-hand, who later went on to inherit an amazing fortune and a great deal of lands from a deceased uncle whom he had cared for for a long time.

Naoki didn’t expect that he’d be the same.

He never thought that, as a young man of thirteen, he’d meet the girl who’d be his bodyguard from then on (an apprentice of his father’s own bodyguard) and the first thought to cross his mind was how striking she was, her eyes, her confident smile despite being the same age as him. Also her punch, because he made the mistake of spluttering to his father about a girl being his bodyguard in front of her and Yang had flattened him with a single punch.

From then on… they’d spent every day with each other.

Yang was far from proper, too brazen and teasing and confident. The first time she called him ‘prince’, they’d both grimaced and decided mutually that that just wouldn’t do. Between them, there weren’t any titles or roles, they were themselves.

Naoki liked it best that way. In the world of politics, of being the only heir to a small kingdom in a strategically important position, there were a lot of reasons to not be himself outside of his home. Trade, peace, economy, there was so much to worry about and so many people who he shouldn’t trust, should be cautious of.

His first assassin had come after him a year after Yang had been his bodyguard and he’d woken to her enraged scream and her furious eyes as she slammed a dark figure at least twice her size against the wall.

They’d shared a room since then.

—of course, that such room was at least separated into two parts by a wall and a door that they shared the key to. It wouldn’t do to be indecent about it.

Even if, as they grew older, his awareness of her developed by the day.

When he was sixteen, he’d gone into her half of the room, needing to ask her something (he couldn’t remember what) and only remembered her wide-eyed look and the way she’d clutched her shirt to her chest, her back bare. He’d stammered out something, scrambled out of there so quickly he’d bashed face-first into the doorframe before managing to close the door shut behind him.

Yang had laughed at him about it, calling something teasing like “if you wanted a peek, let me know next time” and Naoki had groaned pitifully and collapsed into a sitting position. She’d found him still there with his head buried in his knees a half hour later, had rolled her eyes, and dragged him off to force him into sparring.

It was a little while after that that he realised he liked her—and then that he loved her and that had spelled the end for him.

But, if politics had taught him anything, it was how to keep something to himself. And so he did. And time had passed, year by year, the love settling into an ever-present warmth whenever Yang was with him, and he wasn’t unhappy even if sometimes he thought… what would it be like? If they bridged that one last thing between them, went from prince and bodyguard, went from close friends, went from practically family and truly became a them?

Those were thoughts he kept to himself. And he did his very best to keep his thoughts from straying into more risqué territory, which became more and more difficult. He just knew once he really settled into thinking about her like that, it’d show. Whenever his mind went that way, he’d think about his grandmother, about clams or scallops or other food or just things he didn’t like and he managed to push it back.

He wouldn’t linger on the shape of her legs, how her body would twist so smoothly into her punches during sparring practice, when she’d smile at him and cock her head confidently and the muscles of her neck would draw taut.

Okay. So the keeping his mind away from how beautiful and how horribly attracted he was to her was the most difficult part. But Yang, well. She’d tease him, joke with him, in such a way he felt faint, but she had since they were younger—

What they had wasn’t something he was willing to lose.

He thought so, at least.



“A boyfriend?”

Naoki felt sick.

But Yang was bright-eyed and nodding, a grin on her lips and she looked so happy. “Yeah! I’ll introduce you next time, Naoki, though we should probably keep your prince thing on the down-low.” He could only nod his assent even if the last thing he wanted to do was meet any boyfriend.

Blessedly, his father heaped work on him. He thought Keisuke knew all too well what was going on, because he’d often get sympathetic looks, or ruffles to his hair, and sometimes a special hot chocolate made with rum that helped him pass out into wonderfully dreamless sleep. He grew quieter and Yang become more and more worried about him, telling him not to work so hard, he needed to rest more, but he’d just shake it off, smile at her and promise again to meet her boyfriend when he wasn’t so busy.

One day before that chance came, Yang came back to the castle with blood on her knuckles, stormed into Naoki’s room where he was poring over highway reports, and sat in a furious huff right next to him.

It hadn’t worked out.

He was both relieved (guiltily) and upset for her.

“I’ll hire some assassins to take care of him,” he’d told her seriously (meaning it) and Yang had blinked, looked at him, and managed to laugh.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have assassins.”

“Well, what a good time to get some, right?”

In a surge of boldness, he’d lifted his hand to her cheek and thumbed gently, passing the pad of his thumb over her red cheek, flushed from anger and upset. They were always touchy, always had been, but this was new ground. But he told himself not to make it weird. “You deserve the world, Yang. And you’ll definitely find a better guy than that.”

She’d seemed so surprised, her eyes wide as she looked at him, and Naoki had smiled awkwardly, wondering aloud if he’d said too much.

“No, that’s… thank you, Naoki.”

From that day on, though, Yang’s attention shifted to trying to figure out something about him. Something she couldn’t quite place, something she thought might be imagined.



The tattoos were a tradition of his family; each family member got something different, something they chose themselves. When Naoki showed Yang what he’d decided to go with, she’d frowned in concern, taking the diagram from him.

“These are going to go all over you, aren’t they? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Naoki’s eyes were bright and resolved, determined in the way that she found herself drawn to appreciating more and more. “What… do you think? Do you like them?”

His shy way of asking had her lips twitching, but she thought about it seriously, tracing her fingers over the diagram, trying to imagine them on his skin. She looked to him, still watching her with furtive glances, and eventually smiled.

“I like them. And, don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold your hand the whole way through.”

Naoki laughed. “It’ll be fine.”

—he’d said, but despite his claims, he’d clutch her hand as the artist of the royal family went to work. She’d become more worried over the days as his touch would slacken, as more and more of his body was covered up with dark ink. He had breaks in-between the tattoo work, in which Yang would watch him moving his limbs tentatively, or be the one to soak cool cloths to lay on his flush and sore skin as he lay sleepless at night.

But, when they were finished, they were striking, and Yang’s imagination couldn’t have prepared her completely for them. His expressions—for her—had always been soft, easy, but with the lines on his face, they shifted. She wondered how long it’d take her to get used to them.

She found out soon enough.

When the ones on his face didn’t hurt him anymore, when he woke up to a wonderful absence of pain, he turned a bright, sunny grin on her, the kind that’d crinkle the corner of his eyes and she realised how the marks that he’d chosen, made, just added to everything she already knew.



“Paaaaass,” Naoki groaned, batting aside another sheaf of paper.

Yang clucked her tongue, propping her hand on her hip where she stood in front of his desk. “Honestly, Naoki, you’re turning twenty in a few days, and you’ve never so much as had more than a five-minute conversation with any girl.”

“I’ve had plenty of conversations with you.” His head thunked down on his desk and she shook her head fondly at him, patting the top of his head to his grumbles of discontent.

“You’ve got to get out there, you know. What happens when you want to get married?”

His arms followed next, slinging over his desk, and the weight of his whole upper-body was on it. Yang moved a burning candle out of the way of one of his arms, blowing it out so he wouldn’t somehow light up his whole desk.

“I don’t want to.”

He was in such a mood today. She had an inkling why (a suspicion, that she’d never gotten to confirm, but one that had developed over time and careful watching)… but wasn’t going to let up, still stroking her hand over his head, smoothing the tufty parts of his hair.

“You don’t know that if you don’t ever give anyone a chance,” Yang sighed.

“I have you, I don’t need anyone else.”

Silence.

Yang peered at him and could see the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“Is that a proposal?” she wondered, tugging a piece of his hair. Naoki lifted up his head hesitantly and he was blushing, staring at her.

“No, I mean—not—it’s… I’m—”

“Naoki, I’ve been being patient for ages. Won’t you hurry up and say it?”

He shut his mouth and she wondered if she’d made a mistake with her wording. But his eyes were averting shyly as opposed to anything upset, one of his hands sliding underneath himself to push his upper body up from the desk. “I… let me… court you, Yang?”

“Finally!”

She cleared his desk in a second and he yelped to have her in his arms and he was pretty sure that he hit his head as his chair overbalanced, sending them back in a messy sprawl on the floor. Or the stars behind his eyelids could’ve been because Yang kissed him full on the mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair.



“Get us out of here—”

After practically lunging into the carriage, Naoki panted that as he yanked the door shut behind him with a clatter. He heard laughter, warm and amused, from the front before the crack of reigns and then he slumped back in his seat gratefully as the carriage began to move.

Glancing up, he saw her eyes peering in through the slat open at the front of the carriage, the grin on her lips.

“It wasn’t funny,” he protested gamely, though she hadn’t said anything.

Yang grinned wider. “You didn’t see your face, Naoki,” she said cheerfully. “Now I finally know what kind of expression you make when you want to disappear.”

Moaning, he put his hands over his face.

“What was she, again? Marquis something of such-and-such?”

“Duchess of Livren,” Naoki mumbled feebly.

“Right, that! Give her a chance, Naoki, she’s only, what—86?” Yang was practically cackling, and he didn’t know how she could steer the carriage when she was probably laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes. Pouting into his hands and sinking lower into his seat, he resolved never, ever to go to one of the duchess’s parties ever again, politics be damned.

It gave Yang far too much to laugh at him about afterward.



Naoki could be surprisingly jealous, Yang learned. She usually kept close to his side at political gatherings, big parties like this where he was wound as tight as a spring—only to her eyes, though. To anyone else, he was the polite and exotic young prince with the easy smile. It was at one of these parties, where she was standing with Naoki and listening to some old bore drone on and on (Naoki was excellent at feigning interest) that a man had sidled his way up to her.

He’d started talking, the charm layered thick onto his voice, syrupy and cloying as honey. She’d absently wondered if he was important enough or not that she could get away with punching him when the man stopped talking.

Yang raised her eyebrow, but he was looking slightly behind her, gone pale. “—sorry, miss, I just remembered I had an errand to attend to,” and he’d bustled off, nearly tripping over himself.

Peeking over her shoulder, Naoki was still listening to that old bore.

But, one of his hands was balled into a tight-knuckled fist and she wondered at the kind of expression he must have been wearing as he looked at the man to send him scurrying off like that.



When they were leaving the party, after he’d stepped into the carriage, she’d slipped in with him to a surprised look from Naoki. She plunked down on the seat opposite him and reached for one of his hands that he passed over, her fingers tracing along the tattoos with gentle drags of her thumb.

“You know,” Yang began casually, “you didn’t need to get all jealous. You’re the only one for me.”

Naoki’s fingers twitched tellingly. She looked up to see him reddening, looking away. “You noticed?”

“Naoki, that guy looked like he thought he was about to be killed.” She shook her head at him. “Of course I noticed.” He coughed, mustered an abashed grin, his fingers curling in her grasp to hold at her hand.

“Sorry. I just… it’s probably a bad thing, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” She flipped her hair cheerfully back over her shoulders, rising from her seat and moving to his, helping herself to his lap and getting comfortable. Naoki’s head jerked back and she caught it just before it could strike the paneling behind him, cradling it as she leaned in close to him. She had his full, complete attention, his eyes riveted, focused in a way that had heat tingling up her spine. “But maybe I should remind you how much I love you.”

“…we’re in the carriage, Yang.”

Yang glanced around… and nodded with a smile. “Yep. We’re in the carriage.”