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The sky is a brilliant, perfect blue, the kind that inspires poets, the kind that makes the fleeting beauty of the cherry blossom season reach its peak. As a boy Oriya used to fly kites on days like this, when the gentle breeze on the ground meant a stiff wind above the treetops, enough to tug at the string in his hands and make the bright painted shape of his kite dance across the sky.
Now he passes the time instead in the shade of one of the trees, half-heartedly reading a book that will be the subject of his next essay, leaning into the solidity of Muraki's shoulder against his. He turns a page, barely glances at the dance of the characters down it, turns another.
"You can't be absorbing much, reading that fast," Muraki chides gently.
"No," Oriya says, closing the book. "I suppose not." He sets it aside, leaning back on his hands, looking up through the canopy of blossoms to find the bright shapes of the sky beyond. "It's hard to think of desperate battles on a day like this."
He waits for Muraki to say that memorizing anatomy is no easier, but Muraki only laughs. "You have the soul of a poet," he accuses, "swayed by the beauty of your surroundings."
Oriya laughs, though he forces it. "Flatterer," he says. Poetry might serve him well in maintaining Kokakuro's reputation as it deserves, but to say he is a poet -- well, it overstates the case.
"On such a glorious spring day, under the cherry blossoms, my friend thinks not of warfare but of -- what? Love?" Muraki sets his textbook aside, his hand finding the opening in the folds of Oriya's robe with unerring ease.
"Not here," Oriya says, reaching for Muraki's wrist. "Someone will see." They are at the far end of the campus, and the blossoms provide a more vibrant display elsewhere, but still, it's hardly private.
"Nobody will see us unless I choose to allow it," Muraki says. He leans close, presses his lips to the hollow of Oriya's throat. "And I would not choose to share this with anyone." His hand is cool against Oriya's thigh, under the heavy folds of silk.
It should not be possible, in these modern, rational times, for Muraki to wield magic; but he does, and Oriya has seen it enough times not to doubt it any longer. And this is the distraction he was looking for, he supposes. He reaches back to pull loose the knot that holds his sash around his waist, and when he strips it away his robe gaps open at his throat. Muraki leans back to admire him, regal and proud -- not a hint of spring there, always winter's white and silver for Muraki, cool hands and calm voice.
"You look so lovely," he says. "The crimson suits you well." He settles between Oriya's thighs, leans down above him.
Oriya never sees the sleight of hand that wets Muraki's fingers before he presses inward, confident and smooth. "You know," he says, draping his hands over Muraki's shoulders, "once we've graduated, we won't be able to do this anymore." He looks away, toward the center of campus, where students pass without any idea they're here, where the bright flutter of carp banners draws the eye upward. He has two more years until then, Muraki only one, and while he might be able to indulge this interest in school, it would do no good for the reputation of the business or the family if he let it continue after.
"There will be other cherry trees," Muraki says, lifting Oriya's knees, pushing, steady, certain. From someone else it would seem a misunderstanding of his meaning; from Muraki it is instead an argument against it.
"You're impossible," Oriya says, carding his fingers through Muraki's hair and pulling his head down, to bring his mouth to the pulse beating in Oriya's throat. Perhaps for Muraki, who denies season and circumstance, who makes his own way by magic when study alone is not enough, it seems a simple matter to deny tradition and role.
Oriya closes his eyes. He can still see the gold of the banners, the bright blue of the sky, in his mind's eye. He clutches Muraki's hair in his fingers like the strings of a kite, and imagines he can guide his future with that much ease.