Chapter Text
In the morning, even before school started, a courier delivered the formal documents of disinheritance to Hiyoko's cave. She had slept less soundly than usual, since Sakuya had taken at least half of her sleeping furs and bundled up in them by the fireside. Every time she woke up and peeked out of her sleeping alcove, there he was, sitting perfectly upright and staring into the flames.
So there were the papers, a thick sheaf with occasional clumps of notary stamps and wax seals. Still sitting by the fire, Sakuya took them without a word, read the cover letter, and passed it to Hiyoko so she could read it too. She winced.
"Do you wish me to convey any response?" the courier asked.
Sakuya shook his head and continued reading the next sheet. The courier nodded slowly and left.
"Um. Sakuya, do you want any meat for breakfast? It's good."
He lifted his head and just looked at her, expressionless. When she handed the cover letter back to him, he fed it into the fire. As she chewed on the roast meat, he continued reading and burning the papers, one by one. He was less than halfway through by the time she tidied up, packed her school bag, and put her shoes on.
"Aren't you coming to school? ...or, I guess you'd rather stay in today, huh?"
Disinherited or not, Sakuya still performed a magnificently Gallic shrug. Another page flared and burned.
"Ooookay then. There's some cold meat and extra firewood over there if you need it."
---
When Hiyoko got back from school, there was no sign that Sakuya had moved at all, other than to finish burning the papers. His hair and the furs bundled around him all had a fine, powdery layer of ash, and his eyes were red and dry.
She sighed, filled a pitcher from the spring outside the cave, and sat down at his side. She expected him to resist or at least glare at her when she pulled away some of the furs, but he didn't. "Look, you can't go on like this," she said softly, dabbing a handkerchief into the pitcher to wipe his face. "At least drink some water, or even take your boots off. Say something. Anything."
His red eyelids dipped downward, and his taut shoulders trembled for a moment. One hand lifted to cradle hers against his cheek, and she had to lean closer to hear the whisper from his parched lips. "Hiyoko. You were right. This is the right thing to do. I want-- I need to play music, and that's more important than anything else. But it still hurts. My father-- he's angry that I won't obey him. I tried, but I can't. I didn't want to disappoint him...."
"You tried," she murmured into his hair. "It's not your fault. You can't change what you love just by trying."
"No." He took the damp handkerchief from her, shook it out, and neatly draped it over a dry log. "I-- " His glance flickered at her and away again, like the brush of a moth's wing. "I'm thirsty. And cold. C-- could you make some tea?"
--
Sakuya watched her move away to fetch and fill a teakettle. He realized he was being rude, but he didn't really know how to make polite requests. He'd never had to be polite to anyone. The heir to the house of Le Bel only had to give commands, and they would be obeyed. But now he no longer held that position. He was no longer the heir. He was only... himself.
At frist, he'd scorned Hiyoko as a mere barbarian girl, and it was true that she lacked the willowy elegance of his mother and the other women in society. But she had her own beauty-- a strong, feral grace like the predators whose pelts she wore. And she was practical, and capable, and he needed her strength to shore up his crumbling world.
He waited for her to balance the teakettle over the fire before he spoke again. "I may require assistance to remove my boots. If-- if you please."
Thankfully, she looked amused, not offended. "Really? I guess they are pretty serious boots-- those tight laces go all the way up to your knees, like little leg corsets."
"They do. Also," he reluctantly admitted, "my legs are asleep. I cannot move them."
She actually giggled, which intensified as he twitched and yelped his way through the pins and needles while she worked on his bootlaces. By the time the first boot was off, he had different reasons for agitation: disturbingly primal, barbarian-like thoughts about the way she was kneeling at his feet as he lay propped up on his elbows.
He pulled an extra sleeping fur over his lap and cursed his tight breeches, as well as the fact that he wasn't even sure what he wanted her to do. He had some vague notions, due to some unwanted glimpses of Yuuya's porn stash, but Father had always been very stern about warning Sakuya against imprudent liaisons. Sakuya had expected to wait for some arranged alliance that would be worthy of the house of Le Bel. But all of that was gone now.
The second boot finally came off, along with one sock stuck inside it. She wrinkled her nose. "Your noble feet are stinky, monsieur."
"Nonsense," he said with a perfectly straight face. "They have the bouquet of a fine, well-aged Roquefort."
She snorted. "A fine, well-aged Roquefort with sock lint stuck between the toes. You are not putting these feet back into my sleeping furs. Hold still," she added, pouring some warm water onto her hankerchief.
"Wha--?" His question cut off as she started to wipe his bare foot.
"Hold still," she repeated, curling one of her legs over his ankle. "I'll try not to tickle you."
Tickling was the last thing on his mind. He thumped entirely onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think of England. Or Wales. Or Ireland. Any green, pleasant, utterly generic landscape that would distract him from her firm grip on his flesh, the warm moist pressure attentively sweeping across his skin, the softness of her inner thigh behind his heel....
He flung one arm over his eyes (which were starting to cross) and resigned himself to the exquisite torments of hell.
She pulled off his remaining sock. "Time for the next one," she said cheerfully.