Chapter Text
Clarines boasts a countryside that Megumi observes with quiet awe. Can hills be this green? Can the air smell this sweet? He grips the sill of the carriage tightly, jostled by the movements of the horses clopping over cobblestones, wishing he had more eyes to take it all in.
The head pharmacist sitting opposite Megumi watches him curiously. “It’s a far cry from Tanbarun, isn’t it?”
“...It is.”
Megumi clenches a hand in his modest trousers, a wool cloak keeping him warm. His clothes are plain compared to the shimmering finery of the royal pharmacist’s garb.
“This apprenticeship will be fruitful,” Geto Suguru continues. “You are a promising student and I look forward to teaching you.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Megumi says again for the thousandth time.
At only eighteen years old, he’s been given a breathtaking chance for someone of his social standing. Very few from the school he attended in Tanbarun catch the eye of scouts from the castle, but Megumi’s apothecary work must have snagged their attention, because the invitation, heavy and laden with quality ink, invited the orphan to move up the ranks in the pharmacy world.
Wirant Castle stands proudly on the horizon, and a handful of its spires kiss the clouds.
With that sight comes the metallic bitterness on Meguim’s tongue, reminded of the silver spoons softening the mouths of those who haven’t seen the horrors beyond those terraces and gardens.
He’s wary of his own, cold hatred. It will do him no favors and offers limited protection from the world he must breach at all costs. In order to get your hands on the most recent inventions, the most coveted ingredients, the best education, you have to fight tooth and nail to the wealthy that hoard it.
Megumi wonders whether he should chat more with the man across from him, the official head pharmacist of Wirant Castle. Geto Suguru is a man who gives little away in his features, pleasant enough, but in a way so practiced that it borders on forced.
They pick up another apprentice on their route, and Megumi’s worry abates. The scholarly man with shrewd eyes and hair tied in bundles on either side of his head is much older than Megumi and provides Geto with conversation.
At the castle gates, Megumi receives an identification charm and a tour of the general grounds. Several other apprentices join their party as Geto introduces him and the other man, Kamo Noritoshi, to some of the castle staff.
The castle is ostentatious and proud. Two women, Miwa Kasumi and Nishimiya Momo, gush periodically throughout the tour, noting the historical significance of several displays. The group’s final stop is the sleeping quarters, and Megumi finds he’s the last to be assigned, his room the highest of two in a spire with the most fantastic view of the rolling countryside beyond the gates.
“It’s a little small,” Geto explains, “but I figured with your age, you’d be best equipped to handle the stairs.” Megumi keeps his lips tight as he surveys his room, complete with a plush, four poster bed and private bathing chamber.
This is supposed to be small?
“Everything all right?” Geto asks.
“Yes, thank you,” Megumi assures. He drifts to the window, glad that despite everything, he’ll be able to watch the sun rise and set over this emerald landscape.
“We’ll be throwing a small party tonight in the garden for you apprentices. Consider it a warm welcome to Wirant Castle.”
Megumi looks down at his clothes. He has with him a small bag with few other outfits—he’s never been to a party before, and knows his attire is not befitting of one.
Geto notes his apprehension. “No need to fret, Megumi.” The boy’s head snaps up, hearing his first name. Perhaps Geto is trying to make him feel more comfortable. “I’ll send a tailor here with some retired outfits that could stand to see the light of day.”
Megumi thinks the kindness strange, but nods. “Thank you,” he says, and Geto takes his leave, filling the room with heavy silence.
The reputation of Clarines’ honorary prince precedes him.
Megumi eyes the pink-haired teenager over his glass, watching an affable smile bloom on his lips as a group of noble ladies, some too old to be appropriately interested, flock to him.
The royal, making an appearance at the very soirée orchestrated by Geto and the pharmaceutical department, couldn’t possibly be missed—Prince Yuji’s entrance is punctuated by soft gasps and a shift in the event’s very air as he descends the stairs to the courtyard where the party is in full swing.
They are both eighteen, and Megumi has a lot to resent about the boy who laughs in his gaudy suit, a sword at his side glinting with the royal crest. (Not that Megumi can talk—he’s wearing an ash gray outfit that some duke outgrew ages ago, silken and ridiculous.) Word has it that the prince secured a name in the family by slaying a cursed dragon with ten talons at the ripe age of sixteen.
Megumi recalls his own sweet sixteen, fleeing from his orphanage with a split lip, his only acquaintance with softness being his own hand cradling bruised ribs. How can he forget his found family, the wild berries and nourishing roots that sated him until a teacher in a nearby village took him in? Learning medicine became a recurring salve, and Megumi continues to ward off pity with arrogance and intellect, even if it pushes people away.
These insipid royals couldn’t be more different from him, taking what they want from the world because they have the means, the muscle, the power. Prince Yuji’s presence at this party is likely an ego stroke that Megumi refuses to feed. Irritatingly, the prince stands tall and regal, with broad soldiers and powerful thighs made apparent by his tasteful suit.
Megumi has long since acknowledged his attraction to men, but he draws the line at insufferable royalty.
“How’s the party?” Geto asks, ambling to his side, cheeks noticeably tinted from alcohol. “Your suit looks nice.”
“Thanks.” How many times is he going to have to thank this man? “As for the party, it’s… different,” Megumi offers, knowing better than to show disdain. If he were moved by fanfare, then the fountains, the flowers, the lamplight—it would have put everything he’s seen in his life to shame. But nothing impresses Megumi like the plants and fungi and the other loamy beings of the earth.
“You should liven up! It’s a celebration.”
Megumi drinks instead of answering. Geto cranes his neck past women in frills and feathers, looking for someone.
If the path of a pharmacist didn’t curve through this world of prestige and deceit, Megumi would be better for it. But moving up in any royal field requires playing the part of a socialite.
As Geto continues to scan the crowd, Megumi chats with the other apprentices at the castle, learning their names, filing them away. Competition; potential allies. At times like this, he’s grateful for his steel-trap memory.
Members of the conversation excuse themselves, and Megumi spots a blood red bud blossoming at the edge of the garden. Wholly unfamiliar to his trained botanical eye, he floats toward it.
He inspects the leaves, and then the flower’s center. Curiosity overtaking him, he edges his nose to a dense cluster and sniffs.
“They’re poisonous, you know.”
Megumi startles, turning to the encroaching voice.
Prince Yuji stands casually behind him, his cream and blue suit completely dimming Megumi’s partywear. Even if it was a duke’s.
“An oil? Or in the roots?” he asks, glad he’s avoided the leaves.
“The roots,” Prince Yuji clarifies, though he eyes the plant warily. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he says, smiling. “I’m Prince Yuji of Clarines.”
Megumi nods, steeling himself in the presence of royalty, teenage or otherwise. “Pharmaceutical Apprentice Fushiguro Megumi,” he offers easily.
Prince Yuji whistles. “That’s impressive! You look young for the title, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I’m eighteen,” Megumi supplies, ignoring the compliment.
Yuji gives a conspiratorial glance, leaning in. “Me too.”
As if Megumi doesn’t know that, as if the whole countryside doesn’t know near-everything about this prince who became something from nothing with his valor and a sword.
“Do nobles of your rank typically attend these gatherings?” Megumi asks, noting that Prince Yuji is the closest thing to royal blood on the grounds.
“I enjoy the energy,” he admits, “and I’m hard-pressed to find people my age in the castle.” He gives Megumi a hopeful look. “How long will you be staying here, Fushiguro?”
Megumi doesn’t intend to make friends with a handsome prince, though this could be troublesome—the boy is far too eager.
“As long as my apprenticeship will take. A month or so.”
“The gardens here are some of the best. Or so I’ve heard.” Prince Yuji scratches his temple. “They’ve given me hell for falling into a rosebush or two, at the very least.”
Megumi snorts, decorum forgotten.
“So you do have a sense of humor,” Prince Yuji smiles.
“We just met. Why would you think that I didn’t?”
“You seem so… formal.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
Yuji’s cheeks flare. “I’m observant.”
“Tell that to the rose bushes.”
Prince Yuji laughs, and his face melts to boyish glee. Megumi has to concentrate to keep from looking away, refusing to let this royal charm stain him. He knows that a veneer as honest and open as this one can be more deadly than a noble who's deceitful from the start.
Megumi doesn’t have time to formulate a response because Prince Yuji spots a guard heading their way and pales. The large man holds a goblet studded with crystal.
“Your highness,” he greets, tall and dressed for combat, looking severe.
Prince Yuji takes the goblet without greeting and gulps down what’s inside. Megumi watches the movements of his neck as he drinks, watches the scars under his almond eyes crease as he flinches.
“You’re dismissed,” Yuji says, returning the goblet. It’s the closest thing to callousness that Megumi has seen in him.
It’s validating, in a way, to confirm that his façade can come and go on command.
“Fushiguro, it was a pleasure,” Prince Yuji nods before turning, his manner stiff. “I hope to see you around the castle.”
Megumi returns the gesture, but not the sentiment.
Twilight settles and Megumi makes his way from the party to his bedchamber. The spiral stairs are unforgiving, especially after a long day of talking to people he hardly knows, in a castle eager to swallow him whole.
There is something so cold and impersonal about castles. The barren, echoey halls make every living thing seem ghostly and out of place.
At the top of the stairs, he catches a glimpse of pink hair retreating through the door of the adjacent bedchamber.
Megumi shoots a look at the gilded wood, his stomach tightening. What a nuisance, to be assigned parallel to the prince’s quarters. He pulls at the ornate handle to his own room and closes himself inside.
Though the private chambers are made warmer by rich upholstery, rugs, and wall hangings, it’s still enormous and too plush for Megumi to feel comfortable. He misses the smell of straw and clay walls, the thatched roof of his mentor’s home close enough to touch with an outstretched hand.
Megumi slips into his nightgown and puts a knee to his four poster bed when he hears a muffled bang through the wall.
Great. Privy to his indiscretions as well.
He’s nearly under the covers when the unmistakable music of shattering glass falls over him.
He sits up, alert.
Maybe not… indiscretions? He lights an oil lamp and stands again, listening.
Megumi walks cautiously to their adjoined door, ears straining at the wood. This spire is a Russian nesting doll of isolation, and it's likely the guards roam several floors away, down the stairs.
Silence.
Megumi, too curious to turn back, lifts the latch to find the door unlocked, and steps through. The back of his neck prickles.
He wishes he had a weapon, not that it would do him any good.
Prince Yuji’s bed bathes in the moonlight, perfectly made, perfectly empty. The window has been thrown open wide, letting in a cool breeze.
A light flickers from the bathing chamber, door ajar. Megumi creeps forward.
Suddenly, Prince Yuji’s back is in view, bare in candlelight, a rough noise making Megumi cold with nerves.
Yuji is heaving over the basin.
Abandoning stealth, he rushes forward.
“Prince Yuji,” he calls, throwing the door wide.
A handheld mirror lays splintered in a corner and a small table is overturned, yet despite signs of a scuffle, the prince is alone.
Yuji whirls around, looking deathly pale and completely panicked by Megumi’s presence.
“What are you—”
He shudders into a convulsion, and Megumi watches in horror as the prince crashes to the floor.
“Yuji!” The name slips without honorific, and Megumi sets the lamp next to the basin, filled with bile and blood.
It’s such a shocking thing, to see that strong frame topple and collapse like a house of cards.
Kneeling, Megumi does what he knows—these symptoms are hauntingly familiar, but he has to be sure. Sweat beads at this boy’s temple. Megumi presses his fingers to his neck, feeling clinically for the pulse that’s hammering there. He grasps Yuji’s face to check his pupils.
“You’ve been poisoned,” Megumi confirms, starting to rise. “An antidote is the first priority. We need to call for—”
Yuji grabs his hand and yanks him back down with what little strength he has left.
“I don’t want an antidote,” he rasps, spittle coming away at his lips. There's a pail on the floor—he pulls it to him roughly and retches, keeping another hand at Megumi’s wrist.
“Now is not the time for stupid pride! You’ve been poisoned—”
“I know,” he interrupts, voice raised. Then, a little more miserably, “I know.”
Yuji’s labored breathing fills the small room as Megumi tries to understand what kind of person lets a poison run its course when he has all the help in the world at his fingertips, when he has everything to live for. A flash of the prince’s legacy illuminates Megumi’s mind:
“He’s the strongest in the land. A very useful fighter.”
“He got the training that some grown men can’t endure.”
“He’s an honorary royal, so they built him how they wanted him.”
His reputation, the rumors, they suddenly make sense.
Megumi relaxes on his ankles, placing a hand on Yuji’s bare shoulder.
“Tolerance,” he finally says. “You’re building a tolerance for it.”
Yuji grunts, trying to rise, but he slumps, face in Megumi’s knees as his body wracks with another convulsion.
Unable to get up, he curls on his side.
And Megumi realizes how cruel he’s been, to pass judgment based on smiles confined by upscale parties, based on finery.
This is a kid. Just like him. Caught in the folds of a world filled with callous adults who don’t care about anything but themselves.
“You should go,” Yuji whispers. “This… could take awhile.”
“Don’t they make someone watch you?” Megumi asks, appalled by how normal this seems to him.
“They used to,” he tries to laugh, and it’s the saddest, most broken thing Megumi’s ever heard. “I outgrew that years ago.”
Years ago… he’s eighteen.
Megumi sees red. His shoulders tense with rage.
Yuji chuckles weakly. “Hey now. You’re too pretty to frown like that.”
Megumi’s hand squeezes the skin under his palm.
Was that—is he… flirting with him?
Yuji coughs, starting to shake.
“Let me help you get to bed,” Megumi suggests. “I can get you some tea for your stomach.”
“Give me a second…” Yuji closes his eyes and steadies his breathing.
Megumi’s eyes flit over the prince’s sallow skin, helpless. All he knows is a world of herbs and poultices and journals and books. When it comes to comfort, he’s adrift, long since without those gestures himself.
Many have told him it’s a kind of medicine in its own way. He’s always scorned that silly notion, until now.
Uncertainly, he threads his fingers in Yuji’s hair, petting through the damp in his sakura crown, working what he hopes is a pleasant feeling across the scalp. Yuji sighs into the touch, though his body still trembles.
Megumi brings his other hand, released from Yuji’s grasp, to the boy’s shoulder, rubbing small circles there.
“I can be there,” Megumi finds himself saying, then starts at his own words.
“What?” Yuji asks.
Megumi clears his throat, continuing his ministrations on the prince in his lap. “You said that no one watches over you. And, uh. I’ll be here for the foreseeable future. So.”
He lets the proposition hang.
Yuji’s body tenses—he groans, and Megumi again checks his pulse, checks to make sure it’s steady (as steady as it can be in a person who’s poisoned).
Yuji’s blood thrums, and as Megumi withdraws his fingers, the prince’s eyes find his. “You’re very beautiful,” he says, near-wonder in his voice. He’s clearly hallucinating from the toxin in his body.
“Me,” Megumi repeats dumbly.
“Mmm.” The pink prince turns his cheek in Megumi’s thigh. “You.”
All the words in Megumi’s brain flee like a flock of startled birds. (Which is impressive. He knows a lot of words.)
“Please stay,” Prince Yuji sighs.
And against his better judgment, Megumi listens.