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Though their schedules match up pretty well these days, Crow usually makes it home before Rean. Something or other always seems to hold Rean up at the academy. Occasionally, Crow finds some extra work, too, and denies what’s obvious with a smirk on his face: that he procrastinates just to make sure that, once or twice a week, he gets to walk Rean home.
But most days, Crow goes home first. He does some cleaning or gets started on dinner and, without fail, he’s on the couch waiting to be the first thing Rean sees when he walks in. Every time, it makes Rean smile.
He smiles again today, to himself as he takes his shoes off inside the door.
“I’m home!” he calls, smile widening when Crow responds, welcoming him home. They only saw each other an hour ago when Crow left the academy, but it doesn’t matter, and no amount of being told by his students and friends and Crow himself that he’s a huge sap is going to change that.
Before he heads deeper inside to check on dinner, something catches Rean’s eye:
“What’s this?”
He plucks a thick, gilded envelope from the sideboard and turns it over. Crow tips his head back over the couch to look at him.
“Courier brought it by earlier this afternoon. I figured I’d leave it to you.”
“You could have opened it. It’s addressed to us both.” Rean runs his thumbnail over the S in Schwarzer & Armbrust and totally fails to not get all sappy again. Alfin knows just what she’s doing.
“Royal summons are firmly in your jurisdiction.”
“It doesn’t have to be a summons. It could be anything.”
A thought so true it ruins a bit of Rean’s good mood. After Crow had resurfaced somewhat in society, a few old Noble Faction loyalists reached out to try and ingratiate themselves—to both of them. The creamy cardstock and gold leaf in Rean’s hand suddenly feels ten torim heavier, and he is tempted to toss out a Fire Bolt and be done with it.
“Hey. You with the face,” Crow interrupts his increasingly grim thoughts. “Quit psyching yourself out and just open it. If it’s something bad, we can deal with it then. Oopsie, clumsy ol’ Crow must have misplaced the letter…oh well…”
Rean rolls his eyes at him, and Crow blows him a kiss. Tension broken, Rean slits the envelope open and pulls out the card inside.
Her Imperial Highness Princess Alfin Reise Arnor invites Messrs. Rean Schwarzer and Crow Armbrust to, on the anniversary of her birth, celebrate as honored guests at the Karel Imperial Villa, where will be held a most bewitching masquerade ball…
He reads the invitation three times, an odd tingling stealing over his body, starting from his scalp and trickling down to his toes; he holds the card so tightly the tips of his fingers go cold.
“Rean?”
Any trace of teasing is gone from Crow’s voice. He slides from the couch and crosses the room in a few rangy steps. In the same motion, he slips the invitation from Rean’s numb grip and cups his elbow, the most innocuous touch, but so vital, tethering Rean in his own body.
“Oh.”
Carefully, Crow folds the invitation and envelope back together and sets it aside so he can devote his other hand to touching Rean, too. He takes his hand, thumb running over his knuckles.
“Hey, could be fun,” Crow says, though it lacks conviction. Rean’s face must do something truly awful, because Crow changes tack. Swiftly, he says, “We don’t have to go.”
“To Alfin’s birthday? I’m sure she’d love to hear you explain how that’s the case.”
“I’d love to. She should know better. From anyone else, this would be one hell of a sick joke.”
Crow’s voice is too snappish, too sharp, and all in defense of Rean, who shakes his head, though even he doesn’t know what he’s denying.
Rean takes a deep, steadying breath. “But it’s not from anyone else, and we both know Alfin doesn’t mean anything by it.” He squeezes Crow’s hand. “Anyway, if you’ll be okay with it, I’ll be okay with it. You’re the one it actually happened to, after all.”
Crow doesn’t answer right away, just watches him with a too-serious face. His hand leaves Rean’s elbow to take his chin with thumb and forefinger; he tilts Rean’s face one way, then another, examining each and every inch, every facet of him. Rean’s stomach clenches with guilt, that his face can be trusted more than his mouth. He doesn’t want to have their usual argument, the one that goes both ways, about how much they hate it when the other downplays the pain they share.
In the end, Crow just cups the back of his neck and draws him into a kiss, deep and all-consuming, his tongue stroking against Rean’s, his mouth hot and soft taking up every one of Rean’s senses. By the time Crow lets him go, his knees have gone a little wobbly and his mind blissfully blank, Crow’s distraction gambit a total success.
Crow tucks a bit of hair behind Rean’s ear. Then he says, “Do you think the kids got an invitation too?”
“Hm?”
“Oh, nothing. Just picturing Carbide and Egret at a royal ball.”
And he throws his head back and laughs at Rean’s look of utter dismay.
If not for the history, Crow just might think that Alfin did this for him. He can certainly respect the drama of it all, the intrigue and the mystery and the romance. It’d just be more romantic if his own personal man of mystery could look at his masked face without his heart breaking.
For Crow’s part, the thought of ballroom dancing is worse, somehow, than the thought of putting on another mask. He has virtually no memory of being Azure Siegfried beyond the occasional nightmare. His memories of the balls Cayenne would host, of being forced to play puppet and charm potential Noble Alliance allies, however, are vivid and less than pleasant.
This is different. This time, he’ll be dancing with Rean, and that changes everything.
As the days and weeks pass leading up to Alfin’s masque, Rean seems intent on ignoring it, and Crow can already picture how the night will go: Rean will white-knuckle his way through the party, politeness in his mouth and nothing behind his eyes, avoiding Crow as much as he can and hating himself for it, spending the entire journey home pretending he doesn’t need to break down, until he can’t take it anymore.
Thus, Crow spends his time preoccupied with coming up with a way to make it better. He doodles in the margins of all his scrap paper and on the backs of forms and receipts, concepts for a mask that looks absolutely nothing like Azure Siegfried’s—but even more than that, a mask that he can wear with no reservations, one that Rean can look at and know it’s him, no matter what he’s hiding.
He draws and he draws, but nothing feels quite right until he’s down to the wire, barely a month before the masque—a tight turnaround if he wants to commission one of the Garnier District artisans who must already be slammed with requests for the hottest event of the season.
The idea he comes up with will either be perfect or disastrous. Either way, Crow will pick up the pieces.
He goes to the shop in person, armed with his sketches and a dream. The artist nods along to his pitch and helps him choose fabric and materials and gives him a quote—fancy as hell, but the academy pays well enough Crow lets it go with just a bit of moaning. All that sorted, there’s just one step left to complete his order: sizing.
The artist measures his head with brisk flicks of his tape measure and pencil, then pulls out a few blank mask forms for him to try on. Crow pauses for a second with one in his hand, lightweight and unadorned, a plain paper base, utterly unlike the metal shell that imprisoned him as Azure Siegfried.
Apart from a few seconds after reading the invitation, Crow has felt surprisingly little about this whole thing. His anxiety about what it will do to Rean has been taking up way more space in his mind. But he takes a second to assess it now, as the casual warmth of his living body soaks into the mask: a simple exercise of thermodynamics.
It’s already warm when he puts in on his face. He blinks a couple times. The mask does nothing to obstruct his vision. It weighs almost nothing, the faintest pressure on his nose and cheeks. He takes a deep breath and smiles.
“Feels great,” he says.
The artist beams. “Excellent, sir! Your mask should be ready in two weeks. Thank you for your patronage!”
Crow leaves the shop with his head buzzing, feelings everywhere, not knowing where to start untangling everything inside him. But by the time he has his leg over the bike, the wind on his face and in his hair, the engine rumbling inside him, it all smoothes out like the road, and he laughs out loud, leans over the handlebars, and aims the throttle home.
Alfin offered them rooms to stay at the villa; but, overly cognizant of the potential he’ll need to whisk Rean away to let him break down in peace, Crow declines on their behalf. They rent a suite at a hotel nearby instead, and Alfin says nothing about the choice. Maybe she realizes the position she’s put Rean in over this. Crow hopes she does, at least; it’s gotta be bad luck to lecture a princess on her birthday. Plus, Rean typically has a line for how far he’ll let Crow go on his behalf, and confronting Alfin is definitely past it, for better or for worse.
They pack their suits and a suitcase and take the short train ride to Heimdallr early in the morning the day of the masque, giving themselves enough time to spend in the city together, as well as for a more private lunch with their friends. Crow tries to steal a peek at Rean’s outfit while they pack, but Rean is sadly far too quick and alert for him; so Crow pouts the whole way from Leeves, really hamming it up to make Rean laugh.
Rean shoves at him when he pretends to collapse on him in his grief, and he leaves his hand on Crow’s thigh when he sits up straight again. It’s not much, but it’s still handsier than Rean would normally be on the train. Crow takes that hand and squeezes it, giving him a smile and a wink. It’s going to be okay.
But Rean gets quiet as lunch winds down, enough that Elliot and Jusis definitely notice, if not the rest of the group too. Crow doesn’t bother to acknowledge Jusis’s demanding looks; he just stretches and makes noise about needing extra time to perfect his look and pulls them both out of the restaurant.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Rean says.
Crow shrugs, puts his hands behind his head, and shoots Rean his cheesiest grin. “Maybe I did. You don’t even know what I’m wearing. You can’t rush art, baby.”
Rean just hums, and they make their way back to their room in silence.
Once there, Rean takes his garment bag and disappears into the bathroom to dress. Crow stares at the closed door for about thirty seconds, unsure if he should read into it or not. It’s been a long time since either of them was modest with each other—but then again, maybe he just wants to draw out the big reveal. It’s not like Rean never gives in to a bit of dramatic flair himself.
Crow takes it in stride and lays out his own outfit. His suit is simple, silver and darker gray with subtle gold accents; the mask speaks for itself, and he didn’t want to go over the top with the rest of the costume. If only Rean knows his inspiration, so much the better. He dresses quickly, leaving the mask to the side, still in its wrappings, his look finished off with a flash of red silk in his pocket.
Nothing left to do but wait, Crow crosses the room to the window and looks down on the street below, arms behind his back. The sun is setting, washing the Vermillion City redder still. People run back and forth: tourists, workers heading home for the day, couples and families flocking to the restaurants lining the street, and, here and there, VIPs in masks and fancy dress, turning heads as they go.
It’s fun, isn’t it? Hiding your identity for a night, tailoring a costume precisely to the effect you want, be it allure, entertainment, or intimidation.
Rean’s been so preoccupied with the mask Crow had forced upon him that he’s forgotten all about the mask he chose. It isn’t fair, but that’s Rean for you.
“Crow?”
With a click, the bathroom door opens, and, heart leaping just at the sound of his voice, Crow spins around.
Only to have his breath completely snatched away.
Crow’s eyes start at Rean’s shoes and trail slowly from his excellently tailored trousers, jet-black, to his slim tailcoat, black as well, over an ash-gray shirt done up in tiny sapphirl buttons all the way to the elegant stem of his neck. A spray of sapphirl chips adorn the high collar. Matching gems edge the eyeholes of his mask, and glossy black feathers curl from the mask as well, framing his face in perfect symmetry with the sweep of his hair. The last detail of the mask, a delicately curved beak, azure-tipped, pulls the whole look together.
Crow blinks fast, tongue heavy in his mouth, lungs stuttering, totally bowled over by the vision in front of him.
Rean scratches his cheek below the mask and forces out a laugh. “Too much?”
“No fucking way. You look…” Crow still has no words; he just has to reach for him, hands fitting perfectly against his waist. His gentle fingertips pick out the subtle feathering pattern on that inky fabric, and he shakes his head; he has to push the crow mask up so he can kiss Rean properly without the beak getting in the way. Rean sways into the kiss, easy in his arms. When Crow pulls away, Rean’s eyes flutter back open, a light flush on his cheeks.
“So it’s okay, then?”
With a laugh, Crow kisses him again and says, “Baby, it’s stunning. You’re stunning. I don’t know what to say.”
Rean reaches up and touches his feathers self-consciously. “I wasn’t sure. I know it’s pretty blatant, and maybe I should have asked you first, but…”
“Hey. How about you let me show you mine before you get too much further?”
“O-okay.”
Heart pounding, Crow turns his back and slowly unwraps the parcel still sitting on the bed. The artist truly did outdo themselves. Lightweight, delicate in craftsmanship but in form every bit as powerful and striking as the man himself, it’s a near-perfect replica of what Crow described and drew. He puts it on, and he turns around.
The dramatic, angular form, the pointed crest, the shape of the eyeholes, the overlapping plates of ivory, silver, and gold—Rean must know it right away, so Crow holds his breath waiting for him to react.
Valimar. Rean’s friend, his protector, his champion—the valiant being who gave his life to restore Crow’s, and everything Crow could aspire to do with the gift he’s been given. Yeah, Crow wants to honor him in his own little way, but even more than that, he wants to remind Rean every time he looks at him—be his friend, his protector, and his champion.
Maybe that’s all too much. Crow clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, then flinches when tears well up in Rean’s eyes.
He rips off the mask as Rean blinks furiously to dispel those tears.
“Fuck, Rean, I’m sorry. Look, if I go out now I might be able to find a replacement off the rack—”
But Crow’s fretting is completely silenced as Rean slides his hands up his lapels and pulls him in for a long, sweet kiss. When they finally part, Rean nuzzles his cheek, then rests his forehead against his temple, pulling him even closer, somehow.
“Thank you, Crow,” he whispers, then steps away, wiping away one final tear. “Now let’s get out of here before I end up wrinkling your suit.”
Crow clears his throat again, more choked up this time, then manages, “Yeah, of course, we’ll save that part for later.”
Rean just laughs and pulls his mask back down over his eyes, heading for the door with more spring in his step than Crow has seen for weeks.
The Karel Imperial Villa, known to be one of the loveliest buildings in Erebonia, glows golden in the evening, spills over with fountains of red poppies and roses, and sings with the melody of her finest musicians. The splendor barely registers to Rean, who walks too fast along the garden path, arm in arm with Crow. He holds on too tightly, as if a second’s separation might mean Crow disappears and is lost forever in the masked crowd.
It would be paranoia if it hadn’t happened before.
Tonight, Rean tries to breathe through it. Even if they were separated, Rean would be able to find him anywhere. He thinks—his heart squeezes—of how Valimar always came when called.
Somehow, this new grief makes it sweeter—wraps gauze around that rotten old wound that never heals, of Crow’s death and all that came after.
How did Crow know what not even Rean did? He’s not exactly a stranger to other people knowing him better than he knows himself, but this…
Rean could have stayed in that hotel room for the rest of the night, completely played hooky. Lost himself to Crow’s beautiful heart and his beautiful body. Damn his sense of duty (and his sense of shame).
They pass through the entrance hall and into the ballroom, where they both stop short. Crow whistles low and shakes his head, and Rean has to agree: it’s a sight to behold. Banquet tables line the walls, laden with a feast of sweets and canapes, attended by an army of liveried servants. An orchestra plays from golden risers before the royal dais, where the maiden of the hour herself holds an animated conversation with her well-wishers. Unmistakable with her golden mane, Alfin is dressed all in crimson, a gown that shimmers with her every movement, as if the fabric is made of thousands of tiny, jeweled scales, extending in a long, tapered train fastened to one of the bracelets that adorn her wrists. Her hair is held back by an impressively-spiked headdress that fits seamlessly with her mask.
And between the door where Crow and Rean stand and the dragon heiress are several hundred courtiers and war heroes, faces hidden and spirits high, the dancing already begun.
Rean wants to go home.
As if sensing his thoughts, Crow gives him a little nudge. “We should find Machias first,” he says. “Imagine the look on his face.”
Despite himself, Rean laughs. “Maybe we should just get a drink first. And maybe one for Machias, too. I’m sure he needs it.”
But before they can reach the refreshments, they’re intercepted by a familiar voice:
“May I have this dance, Sir Crow?”
Both Rean and Crow look up. A young woman all done in glittering gold dips a graceful curtsy, and before either man can say anything, Elise takes her brother’s arm and leads him to the dance floor.
As the next song starts, Rean takes a closer look at Elise’s outfit. Even her hair is braided with gold cord. Her dress is structured, stiff but expertly crafted for her, split over pale gold leggings and elegant heeled boots. It gives an armored effect, the perfect match to Alfin’s scarlet dragon.
“To what do I owe the honor, Lady Knight?” he asks. They turn in time with the other dancers. Elise smiles and taps the back of his hand.
“I just wanted to say hello, and I assumed your dance card would be full, so I had to take my opportunity.”
“I’m not sure how much I plan to dance, actually.”
“Well. Thank you for indulging me, then.”
Rean cranes his neck—tries not to be too obvious and probably fails—to see where Crow has gone. Two twirls later, he finally spots him talking to a blonde woman in a heart-shaped pale pink mask (who is almost certainly Alisa). A deep breath in and out, and Rean forces himself to relax and focus on Elise, who is watching him with a furrow to her brow and a small smile on her lips.
So softly it’s barely audible over the music and the murmur of other voices, she says, “I did wonder, when Alfin had the idea, if it was appropriate given the circumstances.”
Is he really that bad? Something guilty squirms in Rean’s stomach that he’s ruining everyone else’s night with the anxiety he can’t quite shake.
“Crow had a good time planning his outfit, at least.” Rean shrugs. “He seems okay. And no one can say Alfin doesn’t know how to throw a party.”
Elise shoots him a strange look, lips pursed, but she just replies, “Well…that’s good. I’m glad to hear it. He’s lucky he has you looking out for him.”
Before Rean can say anything about how it’s the other way around, how Crow has done everything possible to ensure everything stayed normal since that invitation rocked Rean’s foundations, how gentle he’s been in the days leading up to this party, all despite the fact that Rean should be the one supporting him—the song comes to an end, Elise curtsies again, and she bids him farewell.
“I truly hope you have a good rest of your night, Rean,” she says. She smiles at him again when he bows to her, but she walks away with worry on her face and leaves Rean standing alone, berating himself.
But he’s only alone for a few moments. A tall man in a white suit and silver mask sidles up to him, a smile on his handsome face.
“Some say crows are an ill omen. I, however, must wholeheartedly condemn such superstition, for seeing the striking black-winged beauty before me, I know it can only be a sign of good things to come.”
Rean does a double-take at the familiar costume: the violet silk cravat, the winged cane, the pale blue ruffle on his coat. The replica is perfect down to the tiniest stitch, yet the identity of this particular Phantom Thief is made obvious by both the addition of a red rose in his buttonhole and, of course, the sheer audacity.
Rean starts, “Prince—”
But Olivier silences him with a silk-gloved finger to his lips. “Ah, ah, ah. Would you rob this night of all its mystery, its intrigue? Nay, let us be two strangers, our meeting made all the more magical for its ephemera.”
“Right,” Rean says, amused despite himself. “What can I do for you, then, mysterious stranger?”
Olivier bows with a flourish and, from his bent position, takes Rean’s hand. “Do me the honor of seeing you in flight. May I have this dance?”
Rean looks around for Crow before saying yes or no.
Gently, Olivier says, “I believe your beau is spoken for this round.” He points to Crow several feet away, with Alfin in his arms. “Though I may be a poor substitute, I swear to be an enjoyable diversion nonetheless.”
Oh, why not? Whatever Olivier is actually after, declining so he can stand on the sidelines and wait for Crow sounds even more pathetic than he already is.
Olivier is, after all, a very good dancer. Even Rean, being not much of one himself, has a good time with him leading, simple revelry obvious in every movement of his body to the music. Rean lets himself get caught up in it too, forgetting his worries for the length of the song.
At the height of the song, whirling past the other dancers, Rean feels a hand run across the small of his back. Breath light in his lungs, he spins to catch a glance of Crow, and even behind the mask, he can see Crow wink. That spot burns beneath his jacket for the rest of the dance, and until he’s face to face with Crow again, still catching his breath.
“Hey,” Crow says.
“Hey,” Rean replies.
“Need a break?”
“No. I need you.”
His words fall out more blunt than he intended, and Rean’s face goes hot—but he can’t help himself. The length of two songs is an eternity he’s had without Crow. In the low, golden light, he can imagine Crow might be blushing, too. Crow kisses his hand. Rean feels him smile against his skin.
“You have me,” Crow says.
Over Crow’s shoulder, Rean sees Olivier speaking to the band; he produces his lute seemingly from nowhere and strums the opening chords to a slow love song. Before he gets much farther, Schera, dressed as a white falcon, drags him away—but the band, perhaps in support of the nation’s favorite couple, picks up the song where Olivier left it, and he and Schera begin to sway together.
Rean turns his attention back to Crow and steps closer, close enough they’re chest to chest. Close enough that when he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can feel Crow’s heart against his own. Crow wraps his arm around Rean’s back and leans in too.
Held, partnered and led, Rean loses any sense of time, of the music or the steps. With his eyes closed, it doesn’t matter who’s watching, and it’s not like he needs to impress Crow. Every breath Crow takes moves his chest up and down, and Rean can feel more than he can hear Crow humming along to the song. Rean doesn’t know it, but Crow must. Where did he pick that up? What other music does he have up there in his head that Rean might get to hear him sing along to someday?
“What did the prince want?” Crow asks softly. It’s not strange—other couples around them are speaking too, little murmurs meant only for lovers, and in this crowd it’s not only Rean and Crow whose sweet nothings sometimes have geopolitical implications. But still, it takes Rean a second or two to re-orient himself. A light touch on the back of Rean’s neck is apology enough for disturbing him, but Rean answers with a sweep of his thumbs along Crow’s shoulderblades. It’s okay.
“I’m not sure he wanted anything, exactly. He’ll probably try to dance at least once with everyone. Did Alfin want anything?”
“I think she was just checking in. I get the sense a couple people might have pointed out that her theme might ruffle feathers. But I didn’t catch everything she said, ‘cause I was lookin’ at you.”
He chuckles, low and warm, vibrating through Rean’s own ribs and lungs and throat and warming him all the way up.
Then he looks up, and it all turns to ice.
Eyes closed, head tucked against his body, every other sense awash in Crow’s presence—the sight of his face, what he can see of it, hits him like a slap, seizes in his veins. He stumbles, steps on Crow’s foot. In that moment, he doesn’t see Crow, his silver hair and his expressive mouth; he doesn’t see Valimar, lovingly recreated to comfort him. He just sees Azure, black where his eyes should be, body armor on every inch of him, blank and empty and vanishing and gone—
A warm hand grabs his face. He gasps, coming up for air.
“Rean.” Crow is shaking him lightly. The song trails to an end, the last note hanging in the air like perfume. They’re the only couple in the ballroom standing still.
The song ends. Any second now, someone, anyone, friend or family, someone having fun, will appear beside them and ask the question Rean will be too polite to answer. They’ll separate, one or both of them will spend the entire time looking for the other, and they’ll repeat, until the night is over, and in between blinks, at any point, Rean could forget—
“Sorry,” he blurts.
“For what?”
For taking his eyes off him. For letting down his guard. For looking at him for even a second and seeing someone else. Because Crow put so much thought into this and it didn’t work. Because no matter how good he plays it, he’s nothing but a big, raw, depthless well of need, and he doesn’t know how to be anything else.
“Is it okay if we—I know we just got here. But. I—”
Crow throws an arm around his shoulders and is steering him toward the wide entryway before he even gets the words out.
“You don’t have to ask me twice. Let’s get some air, yeah? Just you and me.”
Luckily, no one stops them. A few people occupy the entrance hall, but Rean barely even notices them. He picks up speed as they walk, until he’s leading the way; he misses the heat and weight of Crow’s arm on him, but he knows Crow will follow where he goes. He bursts through the door to the guest wing, Crow close on his heels and calling his name, then climbs two sweeping sets of stairs to the upper landing.
Every time Rean has been a guest here, he’s been put in the same room. He doesn’t know now if it will be unoccupied, since they declined lodging, but he needs to get Crow alone, so he’ll take the chance.
The room at the end of the hall is unlocked and empty, no luggage, no sign anyone has been here but staff preparing for the party. Rean hits the switch for the orbal lights and spins to face Crow.
“Rean,” he says, slightly breathless. “Are you okay? What happened back there?”
Instead of answering, Rean lunges at him, pushing him against the door and kissing him hard. With a muffled sound of surprise, Crow opens his mouth under Rean’s and, grabbing his hips, shoves his thigh in between Rean’s, letting him rock against it.
Then, pulling back before he can get carried away, Rean runs his hands up Crow’s chest to his neck and to his face and says:
“Take this off, take it off.”
But he doesn’t wait for Crow to do as he’s told. Pushing Crow further into the room, he snatches the mask from his face with frantic fingers and tosses it aside, not caring where it falls. For all the artistry that went into it, maybe he should feel bad, but he just can’t.
Crow goes where Rean puts him, hands lightly on his sides, pulling Rean in closer, trying to press their bodies together even as Rean tries to get both of them out of their clothes. The backs of Crow’s knees hit the side of the bed, and he sits, tugging Rean to stand between his spread knees, arching his neck up to kiss him.
And kiss him Rean does, hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks—Crow’s eyelashes brush his cheek when his eyes close, and Rean twitches at the delicate sensation—that would have been impossible behind that old mask—an awful, full-body jerk that makes Crow pull back to check on him.
“It’s okay. Sweetheart, baby, I’m here,” Crow rasps, brow furrowed, worry and yearning all over his face. Rean knows he’s acting mad, but he can’t stop.
“I need you. Crow.”
“You’ve got me. I’m here. I’m here.”
He rubs his hand up Rean’s back, under his shirt, rough palm against skin. Rean lets out a wet gasp, goosebumps rushing over his skin, nipples tightening, every inch of him too sensitive, too needy for Crow’s touch.
Crow’s. No gloves, no masks between them. Crow’s hands, which know just how to touch him—Crow’s eyes, always watching him—Crow’s mouth, which knows the shape of his name—
His Crow. No one else. Free, and real, and warm, and here—
Nimble fingers unbutton his shirt, and as Crow kisses down his sternum to his stomach, Rean lets out a whining cry, animal-rough, a ripped up noise that could have come from his other form. Like the reminder of Crow, lost, had left Rean at risk of losing himself again too.
“Oh, Rean,” Crow says. Then he wraps his arm tightly around Rean’s waist and turns them both so Rean lands on the mattress, Crow half curled around him, half hovering over him. If anyone opened the door right now, Rean would be completely hidden from view, shielded, coveted, safe.
Crow whispers, “I’ve got you. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Rean surges up to kiss him again, locking his arms around his neck, pushing him over so Rean can straddle him, rocking back against his clothed cock. Panting, he fights with the fastenings of Crow’s pants. He needs skin on skin—no barriers between them—needs Crow inside him.
Crow half-sits, arm braced around Rean’s back to keep him seated, and rests their foreheads together, their breaths mingling. Rean has to rise up on his knees to shove down his pants and underwear, cursing himself all the while for wearing something so tailored, but it rapidly ceases to matter when he settles down again, the fine fabric of Crow’s pants against his bare skin making him shiver and whine with pure sensation, knees digging into Crow’s thighs, spine arching, pushing his chest forward.
Groaning again, Crow runs his hands down Rean’s chest and stomach and then up his back again, and with sudden pressure yanks him forward so he can mouth at Rean’s shoulder, his neck, his jaw, his ear, burning, biting kisses that make Rean roll his head to the side, made his mouth fall open and his cock pulse, hard and hot and naked in the cool air.
One hand braced on Crow’s shoulder, Rean takes his other hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth. Efficient, crude in his movements, he swallows them all the way down, gets them slick, and reaches back to push inside himself, burying his face in Crow’s neck.
“Are you sure?” Crow asks, still rubbing his back.
Part of Rean appreciates the check-in. It is, after all, not very like him to barge into random royal rooms, strip naked, and start fucking himself, utterly wanton. But he’s also never cared less about those things than he does in this moment. Nothing matters except Crow, except seeing and hearing and tasting and feeling him.
“I’m sure,” he says. He pulls back to look Crow in the face so there’s no misunderstanding at all. “Crow. Fuck me.”
Crow’s pupils dilate, and suddenly Rean is weightless—he yelps as Crow stands up with him in his arms, held up one-handed as Crow finally finishes what Rean started and gets them both as undressed as they can be, frantic as they are, shirts unbuttoned, chests bare, pants barely hanging on around their ankles. Then he tumbles back down to the bed, laughing as Rean yelps again and scrambles to straddle Crow again, blood burning, a hollow itch inside him only getting worse every second Crow denies him.
Rean wraps a hand around Crow’s dick to hold him steady and sink down—but Crow grabs his wrist. Crow’s eyes are huge and dark, and he wears a serious, calculating frown that makes goosebumps shiver up and down Rean’s spine, makes his lower muscles clench.
“Pretty sure you were telling me to fuck you, and here you are trying to do it all yourself,” Crow rasps.
“I—”
“Shh.”
Then it’s Crow’s turn to push his fingers past Rean’s lips, not hesitating, sliding all the way in, over his tongue, until he hits the back of Rean’s throat. Rean coughs, swallows, uses his hand to steady Crow’s wrist instead, holding him in place. He drags his tongue between Crow’s two fingers and hollows his cheeks, swallowing again. When Rean pulls his head back and dips down again, fucking his own mouth, Crow finally yanks his hand away. Rean gasps when his mouth is empty, and again when those fingers fill him up instead.
Crow thrusts his two fingers deep inside Rean’s ass, just the right side of rough, but not nearly enough. Rean squirms back against him, begging with his body for more, though the words won’t come.
Rising up higher on his knees for a better angle, Rean rakes his fingers through Crow’s hair. When it falls back into place across Crow’s eyes, Rean growls and runs his fingers through again, grabbing on with both hands, baring Crow’s face entirely.
Their eyes catch.
None of this should be. It’s all a hopeless mess of miracles and stubbornness and sheer dumb luck. Rean’s body is too small and human to contain it all. But how much can he push and push and push into Crow before it’s too much?
Something in Crow’s expression changes.
Roughly, he says, “C’mere,” and he pulls Rean down into his lap again.
His cock, so stiff and hot, ruts up between Rean’s cheeks, making him clench and gasp and angle his hips back, hoping—
Finally, finally, Crow gives him what he’s gagging for.
The thick, broad head of Crow’s dick breaches his hole, and Rean throws his head back, whining in the back of his throat. Fuck, it’s so good, splitting him open, stretching and burning, still, even though his body knows the shape and knows how to take it. Rean writhes down on it, not letting Crow give it to him slow, both of them groaning when Rean clenches hard around him.
Crow bucks up at the same time Rean rolls his hips down, and he gasps, fully seated, so grateful when Crow doesn’t give him any time to adjust, giving him instead these short, sharp thrusts, barely lifting him up before snapping him down again. Shocky little shivers light up all over his body, from his rabbiting heart to his fingertips, limp and useless on Crow’s thighs, down to his curling toes.
On the next downthrust, Crow lets him go, and Rean picks up the rhythm seamlessly, bouncing on his dick, his own dick slapping against his stomach each time he moves. He’s leaking like a faucet but doesn’t touch himself, all his focus on Crow inside him, lighting up every nerve ending in his body.
When his thighs start to burn, Rean slows down, grinding Crow’s cock deep inside. He bends back, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, the other resting lightly low on his belly, right over where Crow is seated.
“Fuck.”
It’s a punched-out sound more than a word. Crow growls and takes over again. Rean’s too far gone to do anything but hold on, utterly open for Crow to take, whatever he wants, anything.
“Please, please,” Rean begs for nothing in particular, because Crow is already giving him everything.
“You are so fucking sweet. Look at me.”
Rean’s eyes flutter back open. Sweat sticks little threads of Crow’s hair to his face, slicks up his chest, makes him glow in the soft orbal light. Another pulse of lust leaps through Rean’s body, and he has to grab the base of his dick, just in case.
Crow says, “Yeah. Love seeing those pretty eyes. Goddess, Rean, you feel so good. Ah!”
Rean clenches down again, involuntary this time, muscles twitching the closer he gets. He whimpers, too, while Crow circles his hips, his composure slipping.
“Fuck me, Crow, just—come on—please, I want to feel…”
There are a couple things he still has trouble saying no matter how dirty Crow makes him feel. Which, of course, only makes Crow delight harder in drawing them out of him. But tonight, Crow takes mercy and picks up the thread himself.
All rhythm lost, just pounding into him, chasing completion, Crow pants, “Yeah, that’s what you need? I already knew, princess, you just wanna feel me come inside, filling you up. You wanna walk back to the hotel later with me dripping down your thigh, huh? C’mon, then, Rean. You want it, you gotta let go.”
“Nnn!” Little, helpless noises all he can make, Rean grabs his dick and barely has to touch it at all before he does just as he’s told, come streaking both their bellies. He slumps bonelessly in Crow’s hands, mouth open and soundless as Crow cradles him, rolls them sideways, lays him out, and takes the last of what he needs to come, too, just as he said he would.
“Fuck, Rean!”
Pulsing, hot, Rean uses the last of his strength and wraps his legs around Crow’s waist. Even when the aftershocks are over and Crow goes to pull out, Rean doesn’t let go.
“Wait. Just a little bit,” he whispers, and no matter how embarrassed he is over how he’s just acted, he doesn’t hide his face.
And Crow doesn’t tease. He props himself up on one elbow and strokes a finger down Rean’s cheek and smiles, a look of such adoration that Rean can hardly stand it.
“Feel better?” he asks.
Rean turns his head to kiss Crow’s thumb and lets his eyes fall shut. “Yes. Thank you.”
Crow shakes his head with a soft laugh, then lays down beside him, kisses his forehead, and rests there, face buried in Rean’s hair. “I love you so much,” he whispers. “You saved me.”
“We saved each other.”
Rean kisses the round scar on Crow’s chest and sinks deeper into his arms, the past just a distant memory.