[oneshot] The Situation on the Ground
Title: The Situation on the Ground
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou!
Characters/Pairings: Yuuri/Murata, Shinou (in flashback), mentions of others
Genre: Drama, Introspective
Words: 2,187
Notes: I might be just slightly obsessed with this pair. Maybe. poisonangel7 and I were talking yesterday about the pair and I wanted to play with something a little darker and more introspective, as what I've done lately has been much more action- or interaction-oriented and either light or straight out sex. Set during Season 3, but no real spoilers to speak of. Lemon-lime toward the end.
How easy would it be?
Far away from Tokyo, from the place where their positions were more or less equal -- high school students were high school students, no matter how prestigious the school or how athletic the student, they were all the same, comrades in arms fighting toward the same goal -- far from the humdrum, laughably easy life where irresponsibility was not only expected, but dumped on them in spades. Here in this world, where something as ridiculous as picking up fallen cutlery could lead to spilled blood, where a glance was interpreted in a million different ways and almost all of them were negative. Where even though he had his arm slung over Shibuya's waist while they slept in the Maou's bed, they were not equal; closer in position and title than some, but one of them held the rank -- and the heart -- and the other held the brains and everyone was watching.
How easy...?
Hiding it would have been -- to put it nicely -- unwise, not to mention dangerous. Besides on a scale of one to ten in ability to be discreet, Yuuri scored an abysmally low number, somewhere around negative twenty billion if Murata cared to calculate. For all his bluster and the denials his pride and embarrassment forced out of him, everyone close to them had realized it within days of their return. Sir Weller being one of the first, his younger brother being one of the last. Once the blond prince had discovered -- or was told, as was more likely the case, by one of his brothers -- Yuuri and Murata might as well have walked around with neon signs above their heads. Or been tied together with red string, or something equally romantic and gaudy. Eyes on them, all the time.
But that was what it meant to stand in Yuuri's light, to stand beside it instead of behind, where he was used to being.
Yuuri turned over in his sleep, muttering something about Itoh Tsutomu before throwing an arm around Murata and pulling close; he was still getting used to this part. The part where Shibuya showed open, unconscious affection and was content to treat him like an oversized teddy bear. Murata tucked some hair behind the king's ear and wondered if things had ever been this way between Shibuya and his fiancé.
Despite the increasingly obvious direction of Yuuri's interest, the engagement remained in place; though Murata and possibly Sir von Voltaire seemed to be the only people in the Maou's circle not overly surprised with Sir von Bielefeld's decision. Sir von Voltaire because he knew his brother, and Murata because he knew Shibuya. The blond had met with the king, a meeting Murata had opted out of going to, though he had been invited. Yozak had attended in his place, ensconced up in the rafters. Yuuri had offered, reluctantly, to end the engagement, apologizing but also telling von Bielefeld he didn't want to end it. Murata had shaken his head during Yozak's report; anyone else would have tried to make things simple, set them both free and watch the Court devour them both. Not Shibuya, of course. He wanted everyone to be happy.
And, surprisingly, everyone seemed to be, more or less. For all that Murata had doubted the blond's ability to take a hit to his pride -- since that was all it was; Yuuri had never claimed to be in love, though a kind of love was there in spades -- and recover, Sir von Bielefeld did both, with more grace than anyone in the castle, his brothers included, gave him credit for. Greta had to be considered. The prince himself did as well. Not to mention everything else.
The Court had still tried to punish them for it, spreading rumors in every corridor and at every back door. The king had made a killing, some said; reining in the Shrine and the unruliest of the Ten Families while getting something personal out of the bargain, each thumb in a pie. A crude, but not an unastute observation, though Murata would have been the first to point out that the Shrine was hardly anything to worry about. Especially not with the Shinou's shade lingering, threatening to set fire to anyone who stood in Yuuri's way. Rumors were brewing about a young noble in the von Rochefort contingent being besieged by nightmares to the point of nervous collapse, so it seemed as though it was time for Murata and the spirit to have another talk.
Other assessments of the situation were far less flattering, though it was hard to say which of the three caught the worst of the Court's disdain. The more common interpretation spoke of a cuckolded son of a good family getting what he deserved for becoming engaged to a half-human half-wit who let the Sage seduce him in an attempt to secure his own power behind the scenes. Murata remembered why he preferred to live in the Shrine, away from and above all the vitriol. Of course, he hadn't exactly been smart enough to keep Shibuya from getting so deep under his skin. Perhaps it was a sort of twisted compliment the Court blamed the situation on his manipulative skills rather than the simple fact that Shibuya had him completely wrapped around his finger.
But it would be so easy, too easy, to turn the tables.
"Can you really keep your hands still?" The Shinou's shade asked, passing behind him, close enough and solid enough to make him shiver. "Even with such an advantageous position?"
Murata rested his hands on his bent knee, then settled his chin upon them. "I'm not you," he replied, though the tone lacked the strength his lectures usually contained. "I have a measure of self control left in me."
The spirit's laugh made him close his eyes. "Think of the good you could do," Shinou insisted. "Nudging him in the right direction."
"I prefer to let him make his own decisions."
"How would he ever know they weren't his own?" Murata wasn't sure if he imagined the brush against the back of his neck or if it actually happened, but nevertheless, goosebumps raised on his skin in a wave. "You had no difficulty doing so with me."
Murata sat up straight, instantly defensive. "I never--"
"You did, more than a few times." Shinou chuckled. "Ah, my Sage, you have truly changed." Murata looked up as the spirit came to stand in front of him. "What happened to the man who would stop at nothing to do what needed to be done?"
"He died," Murata replied softly, hedging, as he looked off to one side. He felt his eyes slide closed at a touch to his jaw.
"And yet, less than a year ago, he stood before this dais, righteous in his purpose."
Murata swallowed. "I remember him yelling at you, more often than not."
"Ah, he did that, too," the Shinou said fondly. "He still does, doesn't he."
"I..."
Another ghost-touch, this time to his forehead. "One word from you is all it would take," Shinou whispered. "Just one. Yuuri is a good king in his own right. But a little push or two, here and there, can never hurt."
Murata sat up in the bed, resting his head in his hands as the night air settled chill over his back. The Shinou knew him better than he wanted to admit. He, like the spirit, had meddled all his life. And in all the lives before. Manipulation moved through him like a second breath, connecting him to the past and letting him leave his subtle mark on the present and future. He was an addict, pure and simple.
"Mrraaaada?"
He looked up, then glanced over at Yuuri's still-sleepy face. "Ah, Shibuya... sorry to wake you."
"You okay?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. "What's wrong?"
Murata allowed a slight, hungry and pained expression to steal over his face before the other fully woke. There were so many answers available to him; so many things that could possibly keep him up at night. Gyllenhaal wanted to renegotiate its textile trade agreement with Wincott, but Wincott had rejected the terms and Gyllenhaal appealed to the throne, setting the king up for a battle with the Ten Families and all the traditional alliances that implied. Cabalcade's king was due for a state visit in a month, and Shin Makoku could benefit from greater access to his nation's seaport. Lesser Cimarron was growing restive, poking at its neighbors and searching for a point where it could start trouble and Caloria was getting nervous. Some of the council had started warmongering, while others, Murata included, favored dispatching special forces for more reconnaissance and possible destabilization along the Greater-Lesser Cimarron border to draw attention away from Shin Makoku's ally, but Shibuya had yet to make up his mind, insisting he'd rather talk to Belar and Saraluegi and Flynn instead.
One word from him...
"Nothing, Shibuya," he replied softly. "The moon's too bright, or something. I couldn't sleep."
Yuuri tilted his head to the side. "Want to switch places? You can put your back to the window."
If past experience was anything to go by, Shibuya would forgive an attempt to influence him, for using what they had as one more tool to accomplish his goals. Of course, that depended on Yuuri realizing what had happened, which seemed more or less unlikely. And even then, what did that matter? Murata was a master of political alchemy, of strategy; he could spin a straw man into gold and blind everyone with it.
"I..."
But where did it stop?
"Hey, it's okay." More awake now, Shibuya sat up beside him, rubbing his back in slow circles. Murata almost -- almost -- pulled away from the attention, mind still lost in the ebb and flow of action and consequence and contingency. He caught himself first, and leaned sideways to rest his forehead on Yuuri's shoulder. "Murata?" The king's voice sounded slightly more panicked now. Murata closed his eyes and clasped his arms around the other's waist, settling his hands against Yuuri's side.
"Distract me?"
"Wha--?" Yuuri looked around. "Now? It's, like... three o'clock in the morning--"
"Please, Yuuri."
It didn't matter if Shibuya forgave him. Shibuya had more power than any of them, both in magic and in his heart. But none of that could quiet a guilty conscience.
Shibuya's fingers started their slow progression down his back, tracing all the way down to the base of his spine. "You and Conrad," the other murmured. "Would it kill you to let someone else carry the weight for a while, geez..."
Murata laughed softly, his breathing becoming a little shallower with every complete trip the fingers made. "It might, you know."
"Feh," Yuuri snorted, bending his head to press a kiss against his neck. Murata shivered and allowed a soft sigh. "Better to be standing up straight, then." Before Murata could react to, let alone counter, that statement, Yuuri pushed him back against the pillows and covered his mouth with his own. He froze for a moment, stunned as he realized what the other had done, then nearly laughed himself sick before Shibuya parted his lips with his tongue, and Murata kissed back, the desire to laugh pushed aside in favor of what the other wanted; what Murata had asked him to do.
He let Shibuya manipulate him, arching where the careful touches directed, making sounds the other could hear. His friend still hesitated, still questioned his own judgment about the pacing, length, force and quality of his performance, but he had learned quickly to trust that Murata would stop him if he went too fast or hard, and guide him when his initiative stalled. And that none of his efforts would ever be met with anything less than Murata's whole heart. He deserved nothing less.
Somewhere between the first kiss and Murata's soft moan as fingernails bit into his bare hip, Shibuya seemed to forget any reservations about why they'd begun at all and his hands, hips and mouth began to move with more urgency. Murata encouraged him, putting more volume into the little gasps and sighs, feeling Yuuri shiver and listening to him echo them as their erections rubbed hard and slick against each other. He teetered on the edge and all but pulled Yuuri up to kiss him hard before he came, reminding himself why this was the reason he didn't want to wield what power he could over the other. If he did, he would forever wonder how much of Yuuri remained amid the passion, he'd lose that eagerness to please them both, not just one.
Murata shuddered hard and met Yuuri's eyes, pressing their foreheads together as the orgasms hit and passed, leaving them dazed and gasping.
"You... okay... now?" Shibuya panted, flopping down on top of him with a dramatic gust of breath that earned him an "oof" and a gentle whack upside the head.
Just one word.
"Yeah."
(Oh, and Itoh Tsutomu is a star catcher for the Seibu Lions, a baseball team in Japan. He retired in 2003.)
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou!
Characters/Pairings: Yuuri/Murata, Shinou (in flashback), mentions of others
Genre: Drama, Introspective
Words: 2,187
Notes: I might be just slightly obsessed with this pair. Maybe. poisonangel7 and I were talking yesterday about the pair and I wanted to play with something a little darker and more introspective, as what I've done lately has been much more action- or interaction-oriented and either light or straight out sex. Set during Season 3, but no real spoilers to speak of. Lemon-lime toward the end.
How easy would it be?
Far away from Tokyo, from the place where their positions were more or less equal -- high school students were high school students, no matter how prestigious the school or how athletic the student, they were all the same, comrades in arms fighting toward the same goal -- far from the humdrum, laughably easy life where irresponsibility was not only expected, but dumped on them in spades. Here in this world, where something as ridiculous as picking up fallen cutlery could lead to spilled blood, where a glance was interpreted in a million different ways and almost all of them were negative. Where even though he had his arm slung over Shibuya's waist while they slept in the Maou's bed, they were not equal; closer in position and title than some, but one of them held the rank -- and the heart -- and the other held the brains and everyone was watching.
How easy...?
Hiding it would have been -- to put it nicely -- unwise, not to mention dangerous. Besides on a scale of one to ten in ability to be discreet, Yuuri scored an abysmally low number, somewhere around negative twenty billion if Murata cared to calculate. For all his bluster and the denials his pride and embarrassment forced out of him, everyone close to them had realized it within days of their return. Sir Weller being one of the first, his younger brother being one of the last. Once the blond prince had discovered -- or was told, as was more likely the case, by one of his brothers -- Yuuri and Murata might as well have walked around with neon signs above their heads. Or been tied together with red string, or something equally romantic and gaudy. Eyes on them, all the time.
But that was what it meant to stand in Yuuri's light, to stand beside it instead of behind, where he was used to being.
Yuuri turned over in his sleep, muttering something about Itoh Tsutomu before throwing an arm around Murata and pulling close; he was still getting used to this part. The part where Shibuya showed open, unconscious affection and was content to treat him like an oversized teddy bear. Murata tucked some hair behind the king's ear and wondered if things had ever been this way between Shibuya and his fiancé.
Despite the increasingly obvious direction of Yuuri's interest, the engagement remained in place; though Murata and possibly Sir von Voltaire seemed to be the only people in the Maou's circle not overly surprised with Sir von Bielefeld's decision. Sir von Voltaire because he knew his brother, and Murata because he knew Shibuya. The blond had met with the king, a meeting Murata had opted out of going to, though he had been invited. Yozak had attended in his place, ensconced up in the rafters. Yuuri had offered, reluctantly, to end the engagement, apologizing but also telling von Bielefeld he didn't want to end it. Murata had shaken his head during Yozak's report; anyone else would have tried to make things simple, set them both free and watch the Court devour them both. Not Shibuya, of course. He wanted everyone to be happy.
And, surprisingly, everyone seemed to be, more or less. For all that Murata had doubted the blond's ability to take a hit to his pride -- since that was all it was; Yuuri had never claimed to be in love, though a kind of love was there in spades -- and recover, Sir von Bielefeld did both, with more grace than anyone in the castle, his brothers included, gave him credit for. Greta had to be considered. The prince himself did as well. Not to mention everything else.
The Court had still tried to punish them for it, spreading rumors in every corridor and at every back door. The king had made a killing, some said; reining in the Shrine and the unruliest of the Ten Families while getting something personal out of the bargain, each thumb in a pie. A crude, but not an unastute observation, though Murata would have been the first to point out that the Shrine was hardly anything to worry about. Especially not with the Shinou's shade lingering, threatening to set fire to anyone who stood in Yuuri's way. Rumors were brewing about a young noble in the von Rochefort contingent being besieged by nightmares to the point of nervous collapse, so it seemed as though it was time for Murata and the spirit to have another talk.
Other assessments of the situation were far less flattering, though it was hard to say which of the three caught the worst of the Court's disdain. The more common interpretation spoke of a cuckolded son of a good family getting what he deserved for becoming engaged to a half-human half-wit who let the Sage seduce him in an attempt to secure his own power behind the scenes. Murata remembered why he preferred to live in the Shrine, away from and above all the vitriol. Of course, he hadn't exactly been smart enough to keep Shibuya from getting so deep under his skin. Perhaps it was a sort of twisted compliment the Court blamed the situation on his manipulative skills rather than the simple fact that Shibuya had him completely wrapped around his finger.
But it would be so easy, too easy, to turn the tables.
"Can you really keep your hands still?" The Shinou's shade asked, passing behind him, close enough and solid enough to make him shiver. "Even with such an advantageous position?"
Murata rested his hands on his bent knee, then settled his chin upon them. "I'm not you," he replied, though the tone lacked the strength his lectures usually contained. "I have a measure of self control left in me."
The spirit's laugh made him close his eyes. "Think of the good you could do," Shinou insisted. "Nudging him in the right direction."
"I prefer to let him make his own decisions."
"How would he ever know they weren't his own?" Murata wasn't sure if he imagined the brush against the back of his neck or if it actually happened, but nevertheless, goosebumps raised on his skin in a wave. "You had no difficulty doing so with me."
Murata sat up straight, instantly defensive. "I never--"
"You did, more than a few times." Shinou chuckled. "Ah, my Sage, you have truly changed." Murata looked up as the spirit came to stand in front of him. "What happened to the man who would stop at nothing to do what needed to be done?"
"He died," Murata replied softly, hedging, as he looked off to one side. He felt his eyes slide closed at a touch to his jaw.
"And yet, less than a year ago, he stood before this dais, righteous in his purpose."
Murata swallowed. "I remember him yelling at you, more often than not."
"Ah, he did that, too," the Shinou said fondly. "He still does, doesn't he."
"I..."
Another ghost-touch, this time to his forehead. "One word from you is all it would take," Shinou whispered. "Just one. Yuuri is a good king in his own right. But a little push or two, here and there, can never hurt."
Murata sat up in the bed, resting his head in his hands as the night air settled chill over his back. The Shinou knew him better than he wanted to admit. He, like the spirit, had meddled all his life. And in all the lives before. Manipulation moved through him like a second breath, connecting him to the past and letting him leave his subtle mark on the present and future. He was an addict, pure and simple.
"Mrraaaada?"
He looked up, then glanced over at Yuuri's still-sleepy face. "Ah, Shibuya... sorry to wake you."
"You okay?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. "What's wrong?"
Murata allowed a slight, hungry and pained expression to steal over his face before the other fully woke. There were so many answers available to him; so many things that could possibly keep him up at night. Gyllenhaal wanted to renegotiate its textile trade agreement with Wincott, but Wincott had rejected the terms and Gyllenhaal appealed to the throne, setting the king up for a battle with the Ten Families and all the traditional alliances that implied. Cabalcade's king was due for a state visit in a month, and Shin Makoku could benefit from greater access to his nation's seaport. Lesser Cimarron was growing restive, poking at its neighbors and searching for a point where it could start trouble and Caloria was getting nervous. Some of the council had started warmongering, while others, Murata included, favored dispatching special forces for more reconnaissance and possible destabilization along the Greater-Lesser Cimarron border to draw attention away from Shin Makoku's ally, but Shibuya had yet to make up his mind, insisting he'd rather talk to Belar and Saraluegi and Flynn instead.
One word from him...
"Nothing, Shibuya," he replied softly. "The moon's too bright, or something. I couldn't sleep."
Yuuri tilted his head to the side. "Want to switch places? You can put your back to the window."
If past experience was anything to go by, Shibuya would forgive an attempt to influence him, for using what they had as one more tool to accomplish his goals. Of course, that depended on Yuuri realizing what had happened, which seemed more or less unlikely. And even then, what did that matter? Murata was a master of political alchemy, of strategy; he could spin a straw man into gold and blind everyone with it.
"I..."
But where did it stop?
"Hey, it's okay." More awake now, Shibuya sat up beside him, rubbing his back in slow circles. Murata almost -- almost -- pulled away from the attention, mind still lost in the ebb and flow of action and consequence and contingency. He caught himself first, and leaned sideways to rest his forehead on Yuuri's shoulder. "Murata?" The king's voice sounded slightly more panicked now. Murata closed his eyes and clasped his arms around the other's waist, settling his hands against Yuuri's side.
"Distract me?"
"Wha--?" Yuuri looked around. "Now? It's, like... three o'clock in the morning--"
"Please, Yuuri."
It didn't matter if Shibuya forgave him. Shibuya had more power than any of them, both in magic and in his heart. But none of that could quiet a guilty conscience.
Shibuya's fingers started their slow progression down his back, tracing all the way down to the base of his spine. "You and Conrad," the other murmured. "Would it kill you to let someone else carry the weight for a while, geez..."
Murata laughed softly, his breathing becoming a little shallower with every complete trip the fingers made. "It might, you know."
"Feh," Yuuri snorted, bending his head to press a kiss against his neck. Murata shivered and allowed a soft sigh. "Better to be standing up straight, then." Before Murata could react to, let alone counter, that statement, Yuuri pushed him back against the pillows and covered his mouth with his own. He froze for a moment, stunned as he realized what the other had done, then nearly laughed himself sick before Shibuya parted his lips with his tongue, and Murata kissed back, the desire to laugh pushed aside in favor of what the other wanted; what Murata had asked him to do.
He let Shibuya manipulate him, arching where the careful touches directed, making sounds the other could hear. His friend still hesitated, still questioned his own judgment about the pacing, length, force and quality of his performance, but he had learned quickly to trust that Murata would stop him if he went too fast or hard, and guide him when his initiative stalled. And that none of his efforts would ever be met with anything less than Murata's whole heart. He deserved nothing less.
Somewhere between the first kiss and Murata's soft moan as fingernails bit into his bare hip, Shibuya seemed to forget any reservations about why they'd begun at all and his hands, hips and mouth began to move with more urgency. Murata encouraged him, putting more volume into the little gasps and sighs, feeling Yuuri shiver and listening to him echo them as their erections rubbed hard and slick against each other. He teetered on the edge and all but pulled Yuuri up to kiss him hard before he came, reminding himself why this was the reason he didn't want to wield what power he could over the other. If he did, he would forever wonder how much of Yuuri remained amid the passion, he'd lose that eagerness to please them both, not just one.
Murata shuddered hard and met Yuuri's eyes, pressing their foreheads together as the orgasms hit and passed, leaving them dazed and gasping.
"You... okay... now?" Shibuya panted, flopping down on top of him with a dramatic gust of breath that earned him an "oof" and a gentle whack upside the head.
Just one word.
"Yeah."
(Oh, and Itoh Tsutomu is a star catcher for the Seibu Lions, a baseball team in Japan. He retired in 2003.)