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“Who in their right mind actually chooses to live up north,” Zen grunted, trying not to slip against the ice that coated every surface bared to the encroaching night. Back home Zen could have gone outside in short sleeves and barefoot and been perfectly comfortable. Here, in Lyrias, his breath clouded the frigid air.
“Researchers,” he complained, carefully easing his weight against the slender slats of a trellis. “And idiots. That’s who.”
Dress trousers and fur-lined capes were not exactly ideal for scaling walls, but Zen had a lifetime of practice to aid him, at least. The only real challenge was the ice, and making certain none of the guards on watch saw him.
This wasn’t Wistal; if he was spotted they would assume intruder rather than errant prince.
The Pharmarcy Building’s single kitchen was on the second floor, mere feet above Zen’s head. The trellis began to give beneath his weight, and Zen quickly dug his gloved fingertips into a crack in the mortar, arms straining as he held himself aloft. It wouldn’t do to break anything. Izana would never let him hear the end of it if Zen had to report funds used to mend public property damaged by the Second Prince of Clarines.
(The last time it had happened had been the worst, because it had been private property. Izana had asked, in a delicate, viciously kind way, “Did you forget that stairs exist? Or were they all mysteriously absent? Destroyed? Under repair? Do tell, Zen, because I am having some small difficulty understanding how, exactly, you managed to destroy the Duchess Fon Milyir’s favorite tapestry.”
Zen’s ears burned with mortification just thinking about a repeat of that particular dressing down. A trellis at Lyrias University may not be as drastic an error, but it would be enough. Izana did not know the word mercy, after all.)
Finding another lip in the stonework, Zen tucked the edge of his boot into it, pushing upward for the window ledge with a grunt.
Blowing his hair back from where it had fallen into his face with a short, relieved huff, Zen checked that the window wasn’t locked, or iced over, half-expecting Obi to throw it open all of a sudden to find Zen with his arms folded over the stone ledge, dangling in the open air, finery flapping in the chill wind.
But he didn’t, and Zen could just make out the soft, muffled murmur of voices from within -- one low, like syrup, smooth and lilting; the other a mellow brightness, light and laughing. Zen’s heart clenched in his chest, and he fumbled against the glass, eager and hopeful and happy, and turned completely, utterly stupid with it.
It would have been nice to be able to check and make certain Obi and Shirayuki were the only ones in the kitchen. But the glass was clouded, impossible to see through clearly; it caught the warmth of the kitchen fires, twisting it molten within each thick square, and Zen simply did not have the patience to care if he poked his head through and startled a stranger.
Obi and Shirayuki were inside that warmth, and Zen was tired of being left out in the cold.
All evening he had remembered the quirk of Obi’s smile, that gentle tilt that gave away his disappointment, and Shirayuki’s hurried assurance that it was fine, perfectly fine that Zen missed out on the dinner they had planned, as if piling on enough words would make it easier to ignore how not fine it felt.
(“Such a high demand for princes, these days," Obi had joked, fingers laced and cradling the back of his head as if he hadn’t a care. Beside him Shirayuki had grinned, teasing, “Even Zen is getting dinner invitations, goodness! Whatever shall we do, Obi?”
Zen, trying not to crumple the thick, creamy parchment embossed with gold within his fist, had held onto his frustration, which only mounted ever higher with each word out of their mouths, each kind forgiveness they gave.
“Bide our time until they realize Master has terrible manners, I suppose -- ah! Master! It was a joke, you are the epitome of high society, you -- Miss, help! Help! Hide me in your skirts!”)
Zen managed to get the right angle, glass sliding open beneath his palm.
It might have been ridiculous, but the truth of it was: climbing through a second floor window hadn’t felt like such a triumph since he was a boy, just learning how to escape.
* * *
Despite the weather outside, Obi and Shirayuki didn’t so much as flinch at the opened window. Zen perched carefully on the icy ledge so his boots didn’t slip, and watched them for a moment, feeling incapable of disturbing such a domestic scene. This was what he had been yearning to be a part of when he asked Obi about his favorite Lyrias moments.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Shirayuki sighed, lifting her head toward the cool breeze. “Though the fire might not like it, Obi, should -- oh! Zen! You’re here!”
“Yo,” Zen said, trying not to smile as widely as he wanted. If he did, he had little doubt that Obi would make fun of him, claiming that princes weren’t meant to look like goofy, lovesick fools.
It was a difficult thing to manage, though.
Shirayuki was rosy-cheeked and beautiful, hair up in a messy bun. Her coat was hung at a hook by the door, along with Obi’s uniform jacket and cowl. The fires in the kitchen were more than enough to keep the two warm in the enclosed space. Both of their shirt sleeves were rolled up, past the elbow. Obi’s forearms were criss-crossed with scars and dusted with flour, muscles taut as he worked dough over with a rolling pin.
“Ohhh," Obi drawled. “What happened to your fancy dinner invite with Lord Makiri? Master, are you skipping?!”
Zen narrowed his eyes at Obi’s faux-proud expression, and then rolled them when his knight pretended to wipe away a tear of joy, streaking flour across the sharp curve of his cheekbone. “No, I’m not. Lady Haki was kind enough to, ah...”
How did he explain the way his brother’s intended had taken one look at Zen’s careful, practiced politeness, and seen instead how little Zen cared to be there? That all Zen could think of was that he was, finally, on vacation at Lyrias, and still his duty kept him from from the place he wished to be. It had been a sour burn all through his chest, quick and hateful.
(“Your Highness,” Lady Haki had curtseyed, elegant and perfect in execution, and with a knowing glint in her eye. “Perhaps this was not the best night to invite you after all? I did try and tell my brother that you were only newly arrived. Are you certain you are not too tired, my lord?”
“What! It is not so rough a journey that His Highness needs a quiet night in, surely. Please, my lord, do come in, it is --”
“Actually--” It had hardly been believable even as it had happened, Zen interrupting Lord Makiri in his own quarters and offering his excuses. And though the quarters were the ones Makiri retained at Lyrias rather than the ancestral estate, and the dinner technically informal, still, Zen knew he was being unforgiveably rude.
He knew, and had not been able to bring himself to care. Instead he took the excuse Lady Haki had given him, and run with it, all the way back to the Pharmacy Building.)
“...It’s been rescheduled,” Zen finished, feeling inadequate and awkward. Quickly, he slipped off the window ledge, shutting the window behind him. “Now, what are we making?”
“What aren’t we making,” Shirayuki muttered, peeking inside her pot once more. The steam that rose from it made her hair curl sweetly against her cheeks, and Obi laughed, rolling out the dough with easy, even strokes. “We’ve got soup, pudding, any number of pies --”
“Hey,” Obi cried. “You added the artichoke pie!”
“Who are you planning on feeding with all of this?” Zen interjected, eyeing the sturdy wooden tables all strewn about with onions and carrots, chestnuts, dates, sugar and butter, sacks of flour and herbs, jars and jugs, and the odd crockery waiting to be filled. “All of Lyrias? All of Fortissia?”
“Oh,” Shirayuki said, blinking at him. “Just -- us?”
Even with his ears still smarting from the cold night, Zen was beginning to sweat. Too much velvet and fur, he thought, reaching for the clasp of his cloak. The kitchen wasn’t a very large one -- most of the residents ate at the canteen. But Obi and Shirayuki often made dinner for the others; a habit, Obi had wryly explained, nurtured at Wistal and one Shirayuki had been loathe to break.
“Who all will be joining us? Ryuu, I assume.” Cloak slung across the back of a nearby chair, hem trailing across the floor, Zen got to work on the buttons of his overcoat. “Will I be meeting Suzu or Yuzuri?”
“Ah,” said Obi, setting aside the rolling pin and reaching for an empty pie dish.
Most of the light came from the oven fires set against the far wall. Zen could just make out a pie already slid within, and a small basket with a cloth laid over it on the corner of the table near him. Leaning closer, Zen flicked the edge of the covering, delighted to find fresh rolls glazed with honey. He snuck one, taking a big bite and realizing immediately after that he was going to make a mess of his vest and it’s pearl buttons.
Ah, well. The roll was delicious.
Shirayuki hummed, taking the wooden spoon and lifting it to her lips. “No, no,” she murmured, half into the soup, “it’s uh, just the three of us, tonight. No one else.”
Zen’s vest slipped down to his elbows, last half of the roll sticking out of his mouth when both Obi and Shirayuki slanted cautious glances his way. Shirayuki’s brows shot straight up, and she snorted trying not to laugh. Obi, of course, did not bother trying to stifle it.
He took his time rolling up his sleeves, keeping his mouth filled with the last of the roll. He needed a minute to process this, to calm the beating of his heart, and steady the shake in his hands.
(“I’m jealous,” Zen had admitted, the words pressed up against the cover of Obi’s pillow. “I’m so jealous, I miss --”
“Master,” Obi had murmured, half-asleep on the couch that night in Wistal, before Zen had gotten permission from Izana to leave, to follow them, to try and get a taste of what it was like to have them back in his life, day to day. “You’re the one who sent me --”
“I miss that pudding you used to make.” He had thought of Obi’s memory, the one where Ryuu and Shirayuki had waited up, lamb stew waiting to warm him, and curled tighter about his pillow. “I miss all of it, Obi. I miss both of you.”
For a moment the silence had held, and Zen had thought Obi asleep. Didn’t know whether to be grateful or miserable that his admission went unheard. Just knew that it was true, he missed them, all the more so now that they were back, ever so briefly, and Zen couldn’t pretend like his heart wasn’t breaking at all the distance between them.
“We miss you, too.”
Obi's soft, raw-voiced whisper had been a lifeline in the dark.)
With his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, Zen finished his last swallow of roll and looked up at them through his fringe, smile gone crooked and small and intimate in a way he was helpless to hide. “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Now, let me help, would you? I feel useless over here.”
* * *
Rare were the times Zen had been able to join any of them in the kitchen, even after they moved into his wing at Wistal. Duty kept him long at his desk, and when he wasn’t bogged down with reports and forms he was usually out, spending days or weeks at a time on horseback, checking in with the soldiers under his command, the nobility whenever it wished to bend his ear.
(“Lord Yuusuke? Again? What is that, the third time this season he’s begged for you to come and call?”
“The fourth,” Zen had admitted wryly, pressing his fingertips to his temples. The way Shirayuki pursed her mouth in agitation was adorable, but not exactly conducive to making Zen any less frustrated at his imminent journey. “He’s young. Izana likes him, but he’s still nervous, you know? He came into his inheritance quite suddenly, and --”
“He likes the way your ass looks in your riding breeches,” Obi had drawled, laid out on Zen’s bed without a care for the servant carefully packing Zen’s trunk.
“Obi,” Shirayuki snapped, but her startled gaze had been on Ryouta, concerned more for Zen’s reputation than for the ribald comment itself.
Ryouta, for his part, had merely said, “All finished, your highness. And, if I might be so bold --”
“When aren’t you,” Zen had muttered into his palms, dragging his hands wearily across his face to hide the flaming blush there.
“-- Sir Obi has the right of it. If that’s all, my Lord, I’ll see myself out.”
As soon as the door had shut behind him, Obi hummed. “See, miss? Even the servants talk about the Master’s ass. It’s a national treasure. No need to be shy. You can admit how much you like it.”
“Well,” Shirayuki’s tone had been enough to have Zen peeking through his fingers. A faint blush was on her cheeks, and she didn’t seem able to meet either of their gazes, but she did say: “I certainly will be sorry to see it leave. But I do enjoy watching it go.”
“Shirayuki,” Zen had choked, scandalized, and reminded all over again that she was the daughter of a bar. Obi laughed so hard he fell off the bed.)
There hadn’t been a lot of time for Zen to actually help with dinner, before, and, well --
“Master,” Obi gasped, face covered with both hands while his shoulders trembled with laughter. “Master. Has no one ever taught you how to chop onions before?”
Zen pursed his lips, looking at the onion he had half-smashed, and only haphazardly cut. “Not as such, no,” he admitted, before spinning the cooking knife in his hand in a showy twirl and adding, “But I can show you how good I am at chopping other things, if you like.”
“Oh, Master,” Obi purred, leaning over the table to hold Zen’s gaze. His eyes caught the flames, flickering like gold coins. Zen could hardly stand to look at him, he was so beautiful. “You shouldn’t tease me like that. Don’t you know I’m weak for blondes good with a blade?”
“Thank goodness Miss Kiki isn’t here,” Shirayuki said, reaching around Zen to pick up the sad, defeated onion. “Obi would be entirely overwhelmed. I’d have to cook all of this by myself. The whole kitchen would be in flames by the end of it.”
Zen scoffed at the blatant lie. Two of the pies were baking, the soup simmering quietly. Aromatic spices filled the air, and Zen was in a constant state of low-grade hunger, now. Chestnut soup was a dish Zen hadn’t had since he was a boy, and the smell of it was making his mouth water, and he had a sneaking suspicion Obi was working on an apple-raisin pudding, which was Zen’s favorite dessert Obi had ever made, and --
It had barely been ten minutes since Zen had first joined them, and already he had seen Shirayuki’s deft hand in the kitchen, Obi moving around her like a dance, only far better coordinated and competent than the affair they usually presented on the actual ballroom floor.
Zen felt like he had two left feet, in comparison.
Wistful, he wondered how long it would take before he could join them, moving about with the same silent communication and ease as the the two of them. Years, maybe? Decades? Zen hoped he’d have a chance to find out. Decades didn't sound so bad a wait, not if he could spend it at their sides.
Obi chortled, picking up a fresh onion and slicing it neatly down the center before peeling away the top layer. “Perish the thought, Miss. You know you could bake for the whole Pharmacy Building without breaking a sweat. You told me you used to work the lunch crowd on festival days, your secret is out.”
Shirayuki grinned, eyes crinkling with humor. “Drat.”
Zen sighed as she tossed the onion into the scrap heap. “Sorry,” he muttered, knife spinning and spinning over his knuckles, a silver arch of embarrassed discomfort. “I guess I’m not much help.”
“I could teach you,” Obi hummed. Zen glanced at him, at the way he watched the flicker of the knife in Zen’s hand, at the crooked, dangerous angle of his grin. A shiver worked itself up Zen’s spine, and he caught the knife’s handle firmly, fingers tight around the wood. Obi’s grin tilted wider.
Zen cleared his throat, and said, “I think not. I know trouble when I see it, and I don’t really want the food to burn. Shirayuki? Would you mind -- ah.”
Her hand sliding deliberately from the small of his back to his hip stole his breath. Zen stilled, except for his heart, which tripped into action. Across the table from him Obi watched from beneath his lashes, a little smirk quirked across his mouth as he reached for another onion.
“I don’t mind at all,” Shirayuki hummed, pressed close. Her other hand reached out and laid itself over Zen’s own, and he was desperately glad he wasn’t wearing his gloves. “Here, this is the motion you want to use -- yes, like that, a sort of rocking forward --”
Zen had no idea if she even knew how her body moved with the word, rocking into him, and -- his face was on fire. He never wanted her to stop. Obi made an interested little hum, just loud enough to hear over the crackling of the fires and the thunder of Zen’s racing pulse.
(The band had just started up a new set to loud cheers when Shirayuki leaned over, teetering on her stool, and pressed her lips to Zen’s cheek. Startled, he stared wide-eyed at the the scarves tied to a tambourine by one of the performers, trailing in the air every time she flicked it against the heel of her palm, until Shirayuki pulled back.
“What --”
“Obi’s been training me,” she had murmured, face pink, eyes shy beneath a flutter of lashes, a mysterious gleam of green deep enough to drown him.
For a moment, all Zen could think of was the two of them together: Obi, his thumb tracing the whorl of Shirayuki’s ear, the tilt of her jaw as she reached up to press a kiss to Obi’s mouth, how his lips might part for Shirayuki’s tongue. He had sucked in a sharp breath, flushed and dizzy with sudden arousal.
“Training?” he asked, unable to help the way his voice nearly cracked.
“Mm,” she had smiled, dimples showing. “In uh, being bolder.”
“Uh huh,” Zen breathed, “Right. That’s -- good. I like, uh, bold. Bold is excellent.”)
She was being bold again.
And he did like it, very much, in a way that made his knees feel suspiciously weak and unsteady. This wasn’t what he had expected when he’d dreamed of making his own memories with the two of them here at Lyrias. This was so much more, closer to the hopes that kept him up at night, sometimes, the twisted, yawning yearning he could never be sure was entirely reciprocated.
He couldn’t blame the heat of the cooking fires on the way his body felt molten, set alight both by her touch and the way Obi watched them, eyes dark.
“I, uh, think you’ve got it,” Shirayuki whispered, and when Zen’s eyes flicked to hers he saw her face sported a matching blush. Obi seemed to be the only one to escape the ordeal unscathed, damn him. Shirayuki’s fingers flexed against Zen’s hip once, nervous, before she moved back to give him space.
Obi grinned at them, teasing, “I dunno, Miss. I think he might have been distracted. Maybe another session --”
“You,” Zen said, pointing at Obi with the knife. He tried to ignore the way it trembled, his body still shivery. “I don’t see you chopping. Maybe Shirayuki needs to give you a refresher course.”
Ah, there it was. Obi’s rare and delightful blush.
“Oh? Do you need help handling your knife, Obi?”
Zen’s own knife dropped to the table with a clatter. The only saving grace was that Obi’s had, as well. Together, they stared at Shirayuki -- daughter of a bar, Zen reminded himself. -- but her back was to them, refusing to return their gazes. Zen could just make out the pink tips of her ears.
“Onions,” Obi managed, looking tempted but elbow deep, still, in cooking dinner. “We need -- onions. So many onions. Miss, why do all of these pies require onions.”