Of Regal Honor and Noble Misgivings - Eight: Future
Title: Of Regal Honor and Noble Misgivings
Pairing: TezukaFuji
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Fantasy/Angst
Warnings: sort of regency AU, shounen ai
Wordcount: ~2,300
Disclaimer: Tezuka owns Fuji and Fuji owns Tezuka.
50episodes prompt: future
Parts: I: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 || II: 8
A/N: Last update before school starts again. Once again, I feel the general sense of doom that is associated with the reopening of school. Oh, well. Please enjoy!
Part Two
Chapter Eight
--Keep thy heart with all diligence for out of it are the issues of life.--
Metal clashed against metal, clanging, twanging with each strike. Tezuka maneuvered to the right, narrowly escaping a deathly blow to the shoulder, and he brandished his own sword in a huge arc, hitting the hilt of his opponent’s sword, sending it clattering on the ground.
Drenched in sweat and flushed red from the sheer physical effort of their exercise, Fuji clapped his hands, smiling genially. “My complete loss,” he proclaimed cheerfully.
“You let your guard down,” the Prince remarked. To make his dissatisfaction clearer, he used a sharp tone in addition to the frown he wore. He dropped his sword to the dewy grass beneath him and followed suit. He thanked the servant who came rushing in to offer a glass of water and a fresh towel on a tray and drained the drink, looking through the glass bottom as Fuji sat beside him.
Patting sweat off his neck with his own towel, the Marquis shook his head. “There was nothing I could do. You’ve always been much better at it.”
Tezuka let out an exasperated sigh. Although it was true that at sixteen he was taller and broader than Fuji, he didn’t think that the Marquis was any hopeless against him. In fact, Fuji was more agile, being lighter than he was, thus having the advantage of speed and flexibility. If he really wanted to, he could have actually defeated the Prince. However, he had the knack of detaching himself from any activity. While he did not deliberately lose, he only exerted enough effort to prove a challenge to his opponent and to amuse himself but never enough to win. “You should practice more often,” Tezuka said though they both knew Fuji trained just as rigorously as he did.
Raising a thin brow, the Marquis chuckled, unconvinced. “Swordfights aren’t for me. I’m a peace-loving person.” He laughed so that his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Give me a brush and some paint. I’ll crush you anytime.” He slammed his right fist against his left palm to make his point. His blue eyes gleamed with fierce but humorous determination.
At this, even the normally stoic Prince had to flash a feeble smile; he was nearly as proud of Fuji’s art as the Marquis was. He did not pretend to be a connoisseur, but he appreciated Fuji’s art in the same way a person did not have to be an expert jeweler to be dazzled by a perfectly cut piece of diamond. He heard a plop so he turned and saw Fuji sprawled on the lawn.
Fuji turned his eyes skyward and shielded them with his right arm to avoid the glare of the sun. The maids would probably fuss about the grass stains, the Prince thought, shaking his head as he watched Fuji heave slow, rhythmic breaths. He remained seated and they stayed that way for a few minutes, not speaking, just bathing in the prickling heat of the sun. The Prince even shut his eyes to welcome the familiar silence that settled on them increasingly often over the past few months.
This reprieve, however, got disrupted when a maid came bounding across the courtyard, calling for Fuji. The Marquis, his smile slightly dislodged, sat up quickly. “What is it, Reika?”
The maid bobbed to a self-conscious curtsy at the sight of the Prince before addressing her master. “His Grace wants to see you, my lord.”
The Prince, knowing how seldom the Duke called for his son, shot an alarmed glance at the Marquis.
“Did he mention why?” Fuji inquired. He was already on his feet, brushing grass off his trousers and shirt. If he were troubled, he did not show it.
“No, my lord. But he looked displeased.”
This time, Fuji let a frown overshadow his smile. He turned to Tezuka with a look of resignation. “Will you stay for lunch? We can ride to the picnic together.”
The Prince nodded without hesitation.
The Marquis smiled gratefully and let Reika lead them back to the mansion. Upon reaching the great staircase, they split ways as another maid came and beckoned the Prince to the right wing, to Fuji’s room.
“May I get you something, Your Highness? Should tea be fine?” she asked fretfully as Tezuka crossed the room toward the bookshelf near Fuji’s bed.
“No. I’ll just wait for Syusuke here.”
The maid curtseyed, reminded him to ring the bell in case he needed anything and finally left. The Prince chose one unfamiliar title from Fuji’s collection and lounged on a nearby armchair, sifting through the pages with full attention. He had developed this habit from time immemorial. Although the Fujis had provided him a room in their mansion, he hardly occupied it. He always preferred to stay in the Marquis’ bedchamber, somewhat favoring the sight of crumpled sheets and balls of paper and the clutter that he would not have allowed in his own room. But, unlike Fuji whose habit was to poke and pry about the Prince’s room for something interesting (which he never really found), he merely occupied one quiet corner poring over some book.
Thus, when the Marquis arrived twenty minutes later, the Prince was still engrossed in a book, but not quite enough to miss the creak of the door and the murmur of shoes against carpet. Tezuka looked up and was not surprised to see the light frown over Fuji’s otherwise friendly face. However, he chose not to say or ask anything. He just let Fuji tell him.
“You haven’t changed into clean clothes,” the Marquis said by way of an offhand greeting. After taking slow steps, he slid down the edge of his bed and down to the floor.
“Neither have you,” the Prince stated. He closed his book and laid it on his lap, his eyes following Fuji’s every motion.
The Marquis forced a smile. “Otousan found out about the competition. He saw the letter of congratulations and he’s not happy with it,” he explained briefly.
Not happy, Tezuka thought, was an understatement. The Duke, although normally good-natured, hated the mere thought of his son’s art - or, perhaps, the mere thought of his son’s alternative future.
“I wonder what his reaction will be when I tell him I’ve decided to study art.” Fuji laughed. But not in mirth.
As much as the Prince stuck to rules, even he knew that rules could be bent for the right reasons. In his opinion, his best friend should be given consideration. After all, as far as the Prince knew, art was among the few things that Fuji ever felt passionate about. Meaning to give comfort, he said, “He’ll have to accept your decision. You’re not the only child. Chrysalium won’t be in any trouble.”
Fuji’s eyes twinkled. “Unlike you. If you decided you don’t want to be Prince anymore, we’ll all go down.”
When Fuji offered a wide smile, telling that he’d recovered, Tezuka nodded. Oddly, he felt his chest swell pleasantly. “Probably not all of us. There are ones who’d rise to the opportunity,” he reminded, but only half-seriously.
oOo
The picnic suited both Fuji’s and Tezuka’s likings. The venue was a cool spot beneath a thicket of trees beside the narrow stream in the Fenestran Forest; the food - some fruits, some cakes, some pastries and several cups of tea - was exquisite, no doubt thanks to the Marquise of Hestrium’s great cooks; even the weather seemed to want to join them, blowing gentle breezes their way, offering warm but not painful sunshine; the small group the Marquise invited, a circle of nobilities in the northern part of Fenestrium, was pleasant company, joking around, sharing stories. But the Marquis had a source of uneasiness: Toyama Hiro, Chio’s cousin, heir to the earldom of Lancelium.
Older than both the Prince and the Marquis by more or less than a year, Toyama had been remarkably outspoken about his thoughts of the current monarchs. The King and Queen were being too restrictive on foreign trade. The taxes, he said, probably only went straight to the royal family’s pockets.
Fuji saw the thinning line that replaced Tezuka’s lips. He let his eyes go around him and saw the general sense of wariness from the other guests.
“The taxes, rest assured,” said the Prince after fifteen minutes of listening to Toyama’s speech, “are being allotted to the right projects. The quota and the taxes on the foreign trade provide our local merchants and artisans more benefits, more facilities, more capital.” He said all this calmly, with restrained emotions but also with dark amber eyes.
“But we don’t feel the effects,” Toyama countered. “We don’t see where the taxes are allotted. Aren’t you merely spending the money to buy your coats and silk shirts and carriages?”
Alarmed, Chio patted her cousin’s arm. “Hiro,” she said in mild reproof.
But, as Fuji expected, Toyama did not listen. “I can only imagine that by the time you’re King, you’ll be in riches and we’ll all be in rags.”
At that, Fuji’s smile completely left his face.
“I don’t fancy having to bow to such an incompetent King.”
“Toyama Hiro,” the Marquis said in a smooth but cool voice, “please apologize to the Prince.”
Toyama only laughed bitterly. “I think not. I wouldn’t stoop so low.”
Sensing his friend’s defiance, Tezuka turned to Fuji, touching his arm. He shook his head in disapproval. “Don’t.”
Fuji, however, chose to ignore the Prince. Reining in his surmounting anger, he said, “Please apologize.”
“Aren’t you his accomplice?” Toyama asked, drawing nearer. His voice became taunting, challenging.
“An apology would be the first wise thing you’ll utter today.”
A loud thud and a moment of panic followed. Toyama had boxed Fuji’s cheek and a cut resulted near the Marquis’ lips. It bled, but Fuji did not seem to be aware because he regained his composure and said briskly, “Look at you.” His words trembled as much as his lips. “You’re wearing the same silk shirts, the same fancy coats, riding the same elegant carriage. But do you know the difference between you and the Prince? He cares for the people who put him in this position. You’re only concerned about the freedom of foreign trade because -“
“Syusuke!” Prince called, pulling Fuji away in time to prevent another strike from Toyama. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, holding the Marquis’ hand. He excused himself from the rest of the flabbergasted nobility and led Fuji to the Castle, telling a servant on the way to bring some first aid kit.
When they reached his room, he wordlessly dragged Fuji to the windowsill and said, “You didn’t have to do that.” He looked annoyed and worried at the same time. His forehead was filled with deep lines.
“I did,” the Marquis said, stubborn to the death. “He went overboard.”
Just then, he stopped when a maid knocked and brought in a wooden box. She asked if there was anything else needed but the Prince shook his head and bade her to leave.
Kneeling in front of the Marquis, Tezuka opened the box and brought out a brown bottle. He took a piece of cotton and poured some of the almost black liquid on it. He swabbed it on the cut on Fuji’s cheek as gently as his shaking fingers allowed. “Even so, you can’t lose your temper like that.”
“He had no right to say the things he did.”
“He had a right to say what was on his mind,” Tezuka said impatiently. Absently, he let the pad of his thumb caress the bruising skin around the Marquis’ wound. “Besides, you of all people should know that there will always be the ones who will not trust the royals.”
“What kind of friend am I if I allowed anyone to insult you like that?” Fuji retorted resolutely.
The Prince understood that. He would have done that too, protect Fuji from slander. He sighed. He tilted Fuji’s face and touched the wound carefully. “Does it hurt?”
“It stings a little.” Fuji grinned.
Tezuka felt the irony when he saw Fuji twitch with the effort of that grin. Bruised and insulted, the Marquis still managed to smile. He felt touched but irritated at the same time that Fuji should do that for him so he did not say a word more. He knew Fuji wouldn’t heed anyway. Instead, he cupped Fuji’s cheeks with both hands and drew closer, unable to remember what he intended to do.
His face was only a couple of inches away from Fuji’s when another knock came to the door. “Come in,” he said, pulling away from a wide-eyed Fuji. He closed the box and turned to face the person who just entered his room.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” Chio said quite sincerely. She bowed low and looked quite remorseful. “I shouldn’t have invited him, but he’s my cousin and -” She looked over Tezuka’s shoulder. “Is my lord all right?”
“I’m fine,” the Marquis replied in reassurance. Tezuka was sure his voice cracked a little. “The two of you should go back to the picnic. I’ll just ride back home.”
“No. I’ll send for Yumiko-neesan to get you,” Tezuka said firmly.
Fuji laughed. “But I’m not hurt. It’s just a cut -“
“No,” Tezuka said even more curtly. “Just wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”
Seeing Tezuka’s decisiveness, Fuji murmured, “Fine.” He watched as the two leave the room and close the door. He was relieved that his sister arrived before Tezuka came back.
“What happened?” Yumiko asked worriedly, sailing past the footman who held the door to the Prince’s chamber open for her.
The Marquis shrugged. “It’s just a small cut. I had a squabble with Chio’s cousin.”
“About His Highness?” the elder of the siblings asked. The Marquis didn’t even have to nod. His sister knew him very well. Yumiko shook her head tragically, knowing that her brother would only lend himself to trouble for few other reasons. “Who treated your wound?”
“Kunimitsu,” the Marquis replied.
“Where is he, then?”
“He’s with Chio.”
Yumiko’s eyes softened. “Does it hurt?”
“It does. A bit,” the Marquis replied honestly. He was sure his sister wasn’t referring to the wound.
-tbc-
A/N: Part Two because of the time-skip, the change in mood, the more frequent presence of Chio, the change in style and the general change of things. Huh. I forgot how hard it is to make Fuji angry. Reviews will be loved!
Pairing: TezukaFuji
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Fantasy/Angst
Warnings: sort of regency AU, shounen ai
Wordcount: ~2,300
Disclaimer: Tezuka owns Fuji and Fuji owns Tezuka.
50episodes prompt: future
Parts: I: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 || II: 8
A/N: Last update before school starts again. Once again, I feel the general sense of doom that is associated with the reopening of school. Oh, well. Please enjoy!
Part Two
Chapter Eight
--Keep thy heart with all diligence for out of it are the issues of life.--
Metal clashed against metal, clanging, twanging with each strike. Tezuka maneuvered to the right, narrowly escaping a deathly blow to the shoulder, and he brandished his own sword in a huge arc, hitting the hilt of his opponent’s sword, sending it clattering on the ground.
Drenched in sweat and flushed red from the sheer physical effort of their exercise, Fuji clapped his hands, smiling genially. “My complete loss,” he proclaimed cheerfully.
“You let your guard down,” the Prince remarked. To make his dissatisfaction clearer, he used a sharp tone in addition to the frown he wore. He dropped his sword to the dewy grass beneath him and followed suit. He thanked the servant who came rushing in to offer a glass of water and a fresh towel on a tray and drained the drink, looking through the glass bottom as Fuji sat beside him.
Patting sweat off his neck with his own towel, the Marquis shook his head. “There was nothing I could do. You’ve always been much better at it.”
Tezuka let out an exasperated sigh. Although it was true that at sixteen he was taller and broader than Fuji, he didn’t think that the Marquis was any hopeless against him. In fact, Fuji was more agile, being lighter than he was, thus having the advantage of speed and flexibility. If he really wanted to, he could have actually defeated the Prince. However, he had the knack of detaching himself from any activity. While he did not deliberately lose, he only exerted enough effort to prove a challenge to his opponent and to amuse himself but never enough to win. “You should practice more often,” Tezuka said though they both knew Fuji trained just as rigorously as he did.
Raising a thin brow, the Marquis chuckled, unconvinced. “Swordfights aren’t for me. I’m a peace-loving person.” He laughed so that his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Give me a brush and some paint. I’ll crush you anytime.” He slammed his right fist against his left palm to make his point. His blue eyes gleamed with fierce but humorous determination.
At this, even the normally stoic Prince had to flash a feeble smile; he was nearly as proud of Fuji’s art as the Marquis was. He did not pretend to be a connoisseur, but he appreciated Fuji’s art in the same way a person did not have to be an expert jeweler to be dazzled by a perfectly cut piece of diamond. He heard a plop so he turned and saw Fuji sprawled on the lawn.
Fuji turned his eyes skyward and shielded them with his right arm to avoid the glare of the sun. The maids would probably fuss about the grass stains, the Prince thought, shaking his head as he watched Fuji heave slow, rhythmic breaths. He remained seated and they stayed that way for a few minutes, not speaking, just bathing in the prickling heat of the sun. The Prince even shut his eyes to welcome the familiar silence that settled on them increasingly often over the past few months.
This reprieve, however, got disrupted when a maid came bounding across the courtyard, calling for Fuji. The Marquis, his smile slightly dislodged, sat up quickly. “What is it, Reika?”
The maid bobbed to a self-conscious curtsy at the sight of the Prince before addressing her master. “His Grace wants to see you, my lord.”
The Prince, knowing how seldom the Duke called for his son, shot an alarmed glance at the Marquis.
“Did he mention why?” Fuji inquired. He was already on his feet, brushing grass off his trousers and shirt. If he were troubled, he did not show it.
“No, my lord. But he looked displeased.”
This time, Fuji let a frown overshadow his smile. He turned to Tezuka with a look of resignation. “Will you stay for lunch? We can ride to the picnic together.”
The Prince nodded without hesitation.
The Marquis smiled gratefully and let Reika lead them back to the mansion. Upon reaching the great staircase, they split ways as another maid came and beckoned the Prince to the right wing, to Fuji’s room.
“May I get you something, Your Highness? Should tea be fine?” she asked fretfully as Tezuka crossed the room toward the bookshelf near Fuji’s bed.
“No. I’ll just wait for Syusuke here.”
The maid curtseyed, reminded him to ring the bell in case he needed anything and finally left. The Prince chose one unfamiliar title from Fuji’s collection and lounged on a nearby armchair, sifting through the pages with full attention. He had developed this habit from time immemorial. Although the Fujis had provided him a room in their mansion, he hardly occupied it. He always preferred to stay in the Marquis’ bedchamber, somewhat favoring the sight of crumpled sheets and balls of paper and the clutter that he would not have allowed in his own room. But, unlike Fuji whose habit was to poke and pry about the Prince’s room for something interesting (which he never really found), he merely occupied one quiet corner poring over some book.
Thus, when the Marquis arrived twenty minutes later, the Prince was still engrossed in a book, but not quite enough to miss the creak of the door and the murmur of shoes against carpet. Tezuka looked up and was not surprised to see the light frown over Fuji’s otherwise friendly face. However, he chose not to say or ask anything. He just let Fuji tell him.
“You haven’t changed into clean clothes,” the Marquis said by way of an offhand greeting. After taking slow steps, he slid down the edge of his bed and down to the floor.
“Neither have you,” the Prince stated. He closed his book and laid it on his lap, his eyes following Fuji’s every motion.
The Marquis forced a smile. “Otousan found out about the competition. He saw the letter of congratulations and he’s not happy with it,” he explained briefly.
Not happy, Tezuka thought, was an understatement. The Duke, although normally good-natured, hated the mere thought of his son’s art - or, perhaps, the mere thought of his son’s alternative future.
“I wonder what his reaction will be when I tell him I’ve decided to study art.” Fuji laughed. But not in mirth.
As much as the Prince stuck to rules, even he knew that rules could be bent for the right reasons. In his opinion, his best friend should be given consideration. After all, as far as the Prince knew, art was among the few things that Fuji ever felt passionate about. Meaning to give comfort, he said, “He’ll have to accept your decision. You’re not the only child. Chrysalium won’t be in any trouble.”
Fuji’s eyes twinkled. “Unlike you. If you decided you don’t want to be Prince anymore, we’ll all go down.”
When Fuji offered a wide smile, telling that he’d recovered, Tezuka nodded. Oddly, he felt his chest swell pleasantly. “Probably not all of us. There are ones who’d rise to the opportunity,” he reminded, but only half-seriously.
oOo
The picnic suited both Fuji’s and Tezuka’s likings. The venue was a cool spot beneath a thicket of trees beside the narrow stream in the Fenestran Forest; the food - some fruits, some cakes, some pastries and several cups of tea - was exquisite, no doubt thanks to the Marquise of Hestrium’s great cooks; even the weather seemed to want to join them, blowing gentle breezes their way, offering warm but not painful sunshine; the small group the Marquise invited, a circle of nobilities in the northern part of Fenestrium, was pleasant company, joking around, sharing stories. But the Marquis had a source of uneasiness: Toyama Hiro, Chio’s cousin, heir to the earldom of Lancelium.
Older than both the Prince and the Marquis by more or less than a year, Toyama had been remarkably outspoken about his thoughts of the current monarchs. The King and Queen were being too restrictive on foreign trade. The taxes, he said, probably only went straight to the royal family’s pockets.
Fuji saw the thinning line that replaced Tezuka’s lips. He let his eyes go around him and saw the general sense of wariness from the other guests.
“The taxes, rest assured,” said the Prince after fifteen minutes of listening to Toyama’s speech, “are being allotted to the right projects. The quota and the taxes on the foreign trade provide our local merchants and artisans more benefits, more facilities, more capital.” He said all this calmly, with restrained emotions but also with dark amber eyes.
“But we don’t feel the effects,” Toyama countered. “We don’t see where the taxes are allotted. Aren’t you merely spending the money to buy your coats and silk shirts and carriages?”
Alarmed, Chio patted her cousin’s arm. “Hiro,” she said in mild reproof.
But, as Fuji expected, Toyama did not listen. “I can only imagine that by the time you’re King, you’ll be in riches and we’ll all be in rags.”
At that, Fuji’s smile completely left his face.
“I don’t fancy having to bow to such an incompetent King.”
“Toyama Hiro,” the Marquis said in a smooth but cool voice, “please apologize to the Prince.”
Toyama only laughed bitterly. “I think not. I wouldn’t stoop so low.”
Sensing his friend’s defiance, Tezuka turned to Fuji, touching his arm. He shook his head in disapproval. “Don’t.”
Fuji, however, chose to ignore the Prince. Reining in his surmounting anger, he said, “Please apologize.”
“Aren’t you his accomplice?” Toyama asked, drawing nearer. His voice became taunting, challenging.
“An apology would be the first wise thing you’ll utter today.”
A loud thud and a moment of panic followed. Toyama had boxed Fuji’s cheek and a cut resulted near the Marquis’ lips. It bled, but Fuji did not seem to be aware because he regained his composure and said briskly, “Look at you.” His words trembled as much as his lips. “You’re wearing the same silk shirts, the same fancy coats, riding the same elegant carriage. But do you know the difference between you and the Prince? He cares for the people who put him in this position. You’re only concerned about the freedom of foreign trade because -“
“Syusuke!” Prince called, pulling Fuji away in time to prevent another strike from Toyama. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, holding the Marquis’ hand. He excused himself from the rest of the flabbergasted nobility and led Fuji to the Castle, telling a servant on the way to bring some first aid kit.
When they reached his room, he wordlessly dragged Fuji to the windowsill and said, “You didn’t have to do that.” He looked annoyed and worried at the same time. His forehead was filled with deep lines.
“I did,” the Marquis said, stubborn to the death. “He went overboard.”
Just then, he stopped when a maid knocked and brought in a wooden box. She asked if there was anything else needed but the Prince shook his head and bade her to leave.
Kneeling in front of the Marquis, Tezuka opened the box and brought out a brown bottle. He took a piece of cotton and poured some of the almost black liquid on it. He swabbed it on the cut on Fuji’s cheek as gently as his shaking fingers allowed. “Even so, you can’t lose your temper like that.”
“He had no right to say the things he did.”
“He had a right to say what was on his mind,” Tezuka said impatiently. Absently, he let the pad of his thumb caress the bruising skin around the Marquis’ wound. “Besides, you of all people should know that there will always be the ones who will not trust the royals.”
“What kind of friend am I if I allowed anyone to insult you like that?” Fuji retorted resolutely.
The Prince understood that. He would have done that too, protect Fuji from slander. He sighed. He tilted Fuji’s face and touched the wound carefully. “Does it hurt?”
“It stings a little.” Fuji grinned.
Tezuka felt the irony when he saw Fuji twitch with the effort of that grin. Bruised and insulted, the Marquis still managed to smile. He felt touched but irritated at the same time that Fuji should do that for him so he did not say a word more. He knew Fuji wouldn’t heed anyway. Instead, he cupped Fuji’s cheeks with both hands and drew closer, unable to remember what he intended to do.
His face was only a couple of inches away from Fuji’s when another knock came to the door. “Come in,” he said, pulling away from a wide-eyed Fuji. He closed the box and turned to face the person who just entered his room.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” Chio said quite sincerely. She bowed low and looked quite remorseful. “I shouldn’t have invited him, but he’s my cousin and -” She looked over Tezuka’s shoulder. “Is my lord all right?”
“I’m fine,” the Marquis replied in reassurance. Tezuka was sure his voice cracked a little. “The two of you should go back to the picnic. I’ll just ride back home.”
“No. I’ll send for Yumiko-neesan to get you,” Tezuka said firmly.
Fuji laughed. “But I’m not hurt. It’s just a cut -“
“No,” Tezuka said even more curtly. “Just wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”
Seeing Tezuka’s decisiveness, Fuji murmured, “Fine.” He watched as the two leave the room and close the door. He was relieved that his sister arrived before Tezuka came back.
“What happened?” Yumiko asked worriedly, sailing past the footman who held the door to the Prince’s chamber open for her.
The Marquis shrugged. “It’s just a small cut. I had a squabble with Chio’s cousin.”
“About His Highness?” the elder of the siblings asked. The Marquis didn’t even have to nod. His sister knew him very well. Yumiko shook her head tragically, knowing that her brother would only lend himself to trouble for few other reasons. “Who treated your wound?”
“Kunimitsu,” the Marquis replied.
“Where is he, then?”
“He’s with Chio.”
Yumiko’s eyes softened. “Does it hurt?”
“It does. A bit,” the Marquis replied honestly. He was sure his sister wasn’t referring to the wound.
-tbc-
A/N: Part Two because of the time-skip, the change in mood, the more frequent presence of Chio, the change in style and the general change of things. Huh. I forgot how hard it is to make Fuji angry. Reviews will be loved!