Chapter Text
Lilias’ representative to the king’s wedding is obligated to speak to the nobles of the nation gathered for the occasion, dropping hints of facility needs and spots open for sponsored students. She is not obligated to dance, although Prince Raj had begged her so kindly that she couldn’t avoid partnering him for the first set. If history repeats itself, she will end up on the floor with Obi once before the end of the night as well, and if she gets what she wants the two of them will be the sum total of her partners for the night.
In between, she takes a page from Mitsuhide’s old book and escapes to the balcony. The mountain breezes of Lilias have already made the humidity of Wistal hard enough to bear, without the addition of a hundred different perfumes and the smoke from the thousands of candles giving light to the royal reception. It is entirely secondary to the point that nobody can see her out here and ask her to dance or, worse, try to introduce her to their highly eligible friends and relatives.
If Garrack doesn’t have new orders for her after this, she’s going to march into Shidan’s office and demand a new project, royal decree or no. She needs to get back into the garden before she explodes or ends up engaged against her will.
“Have you tried the snacks yet? Nothing’s too good for the royal family, and it’s not too often we get to eat on their budget anymore.” She whirls, too hunted to be calm even for Obi.
“I tried,” she says. “Lord Whitsun needed to discuss irrigation, and then Lady Aoi has twin granddaughters who would be a very lucrative addition to any of the faculties willing to take them off the marriage market for long enough for their cousin to marry, and then the plates were removed and Lord Eisetsu implied that I owed him another dance…”
“Ah, now I see why you’re hiding.” He’s not laughing, but she knows he wants to.
“I knew what I was getting into.” His eyebrow twitches, skeptical. “There was a reason Shidan wouldn’t go, and Kazaha or Suzu wouldn’t know tact if it hit them in the face. Izuru doesn’t have the connections and she gets nightmares about crowds…”
“I don’t see any crowds out here on the balcony.” He leans against the balustrade beside her, comfortable in a way he probably doesn’t even notice. Obi of a few years ago would have perched on the railing, constantly alert for threats from every direction. Today his gaze is only for her. “Just us, really.”
It would take only the tiniest move for her to lean against Obi’s side, and maybe he’d wrap his arm around her. It took her so long to get him to accept physical closeness, and now that he’s okay with it she wants to be in contact all the time. She doesn’t want to have to do with the king’s cutting remarks or the queen’s knowing smiles if they should be caught, though. “Is that so terrible?”
He laughs. “No complaints on my part, but it’s kind of hard to beg for scholarship money from out here.”
“Just another minute,” she begs, and she lets herself have that last inch, leaning her forehead against his shoulder.
He’s still for a breath, but then there’s a gentle touch on her back, an uncertain sort of comforting. His breath stirs her hair, and a shiver runs through her. It’s not the first time she’s been this close to him and wondered what it would be like to kiss him, but every time the question gets harder to ignore. She turns her head just enough to look up at him, and he’s already watching her from so close- “I’m not the one who has to explain to Shidan,” he says.
She’s being silly. “He won’t say a word because he doesn’t want to have to do this himself,” she answers.
“Of course, he doesn’t look nearly as good in a dress,” he starts, and before she has the chance to argue he stills, attention caught by something out in the palace grounds. She turns to watch, but there’s nothing but twilight gardens to see.
“Obi?” He holds up a hand, poised as a hunting dog watching a bird and waiting for the command to run. There’s a shout in the distance, only barely audible over the waltz through the open doors, and finally a motion down in the garden.
A man breaks from cover, stumbling forward under the burden of a large crate on his back. In one hand he works the latch of a coal-holder, flipping the lid open just as three pursuing knights gain the open ground. He falls to his knees, touching the coal to a very short fuse just over his shoulder, and Shirayuki is yanked back away from the balustrade, Obi’s hands gripping her arms so tightly she’ll have bruises tomorrow.
There’s no time to get to safety, only further away- she almost falls, stumbling in Obi’s wake, and only a breath or two later he pulls her close, wrapping the two of them in his ceremonial cape and spreading his hand across the back of her head.
The concussion nearly drives them from their feet. There’s a smell of sulfur and stone hanging in the air as the screams from within the ballroom begin. They sound more frightened than hurt, at least for now, and debris rains from the side of the building. The balcony groans, shivering, then Obi clasps her tighter and leaps even as the stone falls out from beneath their feet.
They roll as they fall, coming to a stop in the grass pressed together from forehead to knee. Her hands are clenched in his coat, so tight the joints pale and ache. One of his arms is cushioning her head, the other trapped between her thighs and the ground. He pulls on that one for a second, and she tries to shift her weight to free it up, but he hisses and stops moving. “What happened?” she asks.
“Separatists, probably,” Obi says. She breathes shallowly, his weight pressing down on her chest. “The guards were expecting something… not this, I think.”
There’s a creak in the distance, followed by a thud that shakes the ground beneath them and another round of shouting. Obi chuckles quietly, just a quiver of his ribs against hers. “Here’s hoping the king wasn’t standing next to the window. Are you hurt?”
“I think I’m fine.” She’s shaking too, but that’s not unexpected. Nothing hurts so far as she can tell, but her gut is telling her something is wrong. “How about you?”
“There’s dirt in your hair,” he says. He’s drooped, his lips close enough to hers for her to taste how he’d toasted the bride and groom. But the narrow wineglasses of the toasts aren’t enough to account for the slur in his voice, the way his eyes dilate and his gaze drops to her lips. She would think he was finally following through on the potential kiss interrupted by the explosion, but that’s not like him- Obi when he’s threatened is all business, all weaponized confidence and efficiency.
His lips move again, closer again, but with only a wisp of air behind them Shirayuki can’t make out words. His eyes drift shut as he closes the last of the distance between them-
And his body goes entirely lax. His cheekbone bangs into hers and his weight presses against her ribs as he passes out. There’s blood in his hair, and her hands are trapped.
Her breath wheezes out of her, and she gathers all the air she can for a shout. “Help!”