sketched into your stars, an Obiyuki fic
Link to AO3: here
A/N: Wrote this as a love letter of sorts to Sorata. The AU here was inspired by this fic: Indelible.
—
What beauty it is to die a man marked by love than to live a life unblemished by indifference.
—
Obi’s mum has his name written on her arm.
When Obi reached the tender age of ten, she told him, whilst handing him a coal-stained piece of wood to paint each letter of his name onto the skin of her left arm, “This is your soul mark. So I’ll always know you’re well and alive and thinking of me.”
She nudged him and he laughed, offering his arm to her as well. He watched as the word he has never used (obviously he wouldn’t call his mother by her maiden name) formed on his dirt-crusted skin. The strokes seemed to glow once finished. His mother had run her hand through his hair then; Obi remembers her smile.
A year later, Obi watches as her soul mark on him fades with every beat of her heart. He watches as his name glows stark black against her pale skin, apparent even through his tears. When her name finally vanishes from his arm a few days later, his own still tattooed on a dead woman’s body, Obi swears he will never be so callous with his name ever again.
—
The first thing Obi notices is the very blank canvases of her arms. So much like his, his fingers twitch to wrap around them to check if they are empty through and through. Obi has borne names before - attempts to mark, to own, to say, “you’d better remember who you belong to, boy” - but they always fade eventually. Surely someone as sweet as her has some names to bear, people who care for her?
But each time he encounters Miss, Obi fixates on every point except the white skin of her arms. He searches for other things instead - a smile hidden behind a cloth mask, a twitch of brow when he flies a little too close to her irritation, a bell sunk to the bottom of a lake. When she fucking jumps out a window, her arms are the last thing on his mind.
It is only later when her arms burn into his side on horseback that he glances down. Miss is quiet and her face is flushed. Her arms remain bare, though. As Obi lifts his gaze to Master, he thinks it’s only a matter of time.
-
True enough, Master and Miss emerge from the woods, smiles wide, faces flushed, and the inside of their wrists proudly marked with the loop of letters forming each other’s names.
Obi is glad, that is, until the next day when he sees Miss’ left wrist hidden by a wrapping of silk, framed by an intricate string of beads. He turns and sees Master approach, donning a pair of fingerless gloves, the left one stretching to the middle of his forearm. The Wisteria crest haunts the back of his hands and Obi frowns.
”It’s easier this way,” Miss tells him later, a secret smile playing at the corner of her lips. And Obi understands, he does. But his chest aches alongside the downturn of his mouth - for the girl whose arms are bare, for the prince with the Kingdom burnished on his back, for the pair whom Obi has inadvertently given a piece of his soul to.
-
The fiasco in Tanbarun was spent waiting with bated breath, and with Master checking his wrist every hour. Obi does not remember most of it, having survived three days without sleep. The moment he sees her again, dress torn, hair in disarray, cut on face screaming out his failure — Obi does not dare to seek relief. He throws himself into recompense, removing himself from her presence whilst seeking revenge on the ones who had stolen her, twice over, from under his watch.
The sun sets eventually upon the battle long over and Obi hides in the shadows of the trees around the Mountain Lion village. He jumps from branch to branch in the guise of patrolling the surrounding area. He bides his time, awaiting the cover of night to take the final leap away from a trust broken beyond repair.
His name sounds through the woods like the clang of a warning bell.
Obi lands in front of Miss, no hesitation.
Miss runs up to him, panting. “You didn’t seem yourself on the way here. You had me a bit worried.”
He stares at Miss, willing her to see the guilt he is drenched in. An oblivious smile paints her face. Obi clears his throat.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I was supposed to be your bodyguard. Your escort.”
Miss starts. ”But-“
A hand over mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you say, I won’t hear it.”
Then Obi voices his greatest failure.
”I was supposed to protect you.”
A beat. Then another. Obi removes his hand.
Miss lifts her head.
“So it doesn’t matter what I have to say?”
”That’s right.”
“Fine.”
Obi prepares for her final dismissal.
Instead, Miss gaze sharpens with something determined. Her voice is steel when she commands him. “Next time I visit Tanbarun, I want you to be my bodyguard again.”
Taken aback, Obi offers a well-thought out, “Huh?”
”I told you,” Miss continues, a smile stretched across her lips, so open and so bright in the dying sunlight. “We’d see the town together next time, right?”
Then so quietly, she offers, “…and maybe one day, we can exchange names too? So we don’t lose each other?”
“Shira-“
Obi breaks off in a gasp, slapping his hand over his mouth.
He scarcely has time to get his feet under him again when Miss bows. “Please, I’m looking forward to it.”
Miss pays no heed to Obi’s world tilting a few degrees to the left, and continues to keep her head bowed. Obi scrambles for calm, forcing his arm down. He stares at Miss’ arms again, one wrist wrapped in silk, the other persistently bare. His chest aches at her plea, one undeservedly poised to a man who has had too little to lose, what more a name. Still, still-
“I’ll hold you to that, Miss,” Obi says, choosing to step into an unknown. The ground is shaky at best, but Miss’ relieved smile sinks into his soul, and Obi feels another part of him surrendering once again.
—
“Listen Obi.” Master’s voice cuts through the air. “When you’re meant to be somewhere but then you go missing, that doesn’t sit well with people - including me.”
Master faces him and immediately Obi is arrested by clear, unquestionable blue. “Learn that lesson soon or next time I won’t come looking for you.”
”…I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of Obi’s mouth, the ground suddenly giving way under his feet. His fists unclench, hanging limply over his knees. Master turns away once more with a sound of acknowledgment but the fire in Obi’s chest burns bright- so bright. He grips his wrist, thumb rubbing against the skin on his forearm. Obi inhales, chest expanding, and looks up.
“Master-“
“Obi!” Miss blows into the room, arms full of supplies.
Obi releases his arm in surprise. “Miss?”
”Your shoulder.” Miss walks over, setting her supplies down on the stair next to him. “Show me where you got hurt.”
Immediately on the defensive, Obi places his hand over his injured shoulder. “Huh? It’s just a scratch- okay, okay, the shirt’s coming off, you can stop staring at me like that now.”
Gingerly, Obi removes his shirt and sits up. Master leaves the room, citing his need to check on the others. Miss sets to work preparing the dressing and Obi’s leg begins to bounce in the silence.
“Miss,” Obi breaks first. “Are you mad?”
Miss sighs. “No, I’m more relieved than anything.”
It doesn’t sound like the full answer. “So you’re disappointed then..?”
A huff escapes Miss’ mouth next. She presses the cloth into his shoulder and Obi hisses at the sting. “I can’t exactly say, ‘don’t worry me like that’, especially after all the stunts I’ve pulled…”
Miss works silently after that, focused on dressing his mistake and covering the wound. Obi hones in on every dab, every press of cloth, every pass of breath over his skin. It begins as a flame threatening to spark an inferno in his chest.
Then Miss calls his name, nothing more than a murmur, clear as a bell. Obi’s jaw clenches. He wants this. This freefall into a trust he holds for these people, his people - he aches for this- and isn’t that just the scariest thing?
Miss questions him about the scar on his chest, a distant memory. Obi stutters through a non-answer, his consciousness still ringing from the pinpoint of his name passing her lips. Miss looks up at him in exasperation before placing a final bandage over his injury. As she retreats, Obi takes hold of her hand.
“If you’d been dressing the wound back then, it probably wouldn’t have left such a nasty scar.”
Miss looks down once more, eyes softening in forgone pity. Obi’s scar itches but he persists in squeezing her hand once, an allowance of sorts. He catches her eye. And with all the sincerity a man like him can muster, he releases a contract.
“I’m sorry I didn’t return as promised. It won’t happen again.”
A breath, then pointing to his shoulder, “Miss, as a reminder, would you write your name here? Just so I don’t get lost and know where to return to?”
Obi flashes a cheeky grin, hoping it buoys the gravity of the request, cushions the weight of novel words leaving his mouth. But Miss doesn’t take the bait and chooses to bask in it instead, seeming to float with happiness as she acknowledges what this means for him. Obi coughs and looks away, a slight flush making its way onto his cheeks.
“Of course!” Miss replies, ethereal smile on face and all.
Days later, Miss hunts him down and drags him to the pharmacy. She sits him on a stool and orders him to take off his shirt, using a tone not unlike the one she used at the inn. Obi watches as she dips her pen into the ink pot, the loops seeping into his skin to take the form of a word he’s never let leave his mouth. When she’s finished, Miss beams up at him before handing the pen over.
Obi grips her hand and gently pushes it down. A moment passes, but Miss nods. A silent message received, and the pen is returned to the ink pot. They share a secret smile of sorts before Obi puts his shirt on once again.
—
The day Miss leaves for Lilias is bittersweet. Obi’s uniform chafes at the neck and he pulls on the collar for the umpteenth time.
“Stop that,” Mister admonishes. Obi purses his lips before leaning back on his hands, the warmth of the stone under his fingers seeping through.
Miss emerges through the doors, suitcases in tow. She approaches the four of them, smile wide. She explains His Majestic Bro-ness’ assignment in detail and Obi can’t help but latch onto one fact.
”Two years?!” Obi exclaims. “Honing your skills should take what, like a year, tops?”
He is still reeling when Miss catches them unawares. Looking at each of them, she says, “Umm - I was hoping to shake hands with each of you, if that’s okay.”
Beside him, Miss Kiki murmurs, “Handshakes?” She then steps up to Miss and engulfs her in a hug. Miss lets out an adorable squeak, her face turning red. As Miss Kiki lets go, her gaze falls to the large bag next to Miss.
“By any chance,” Miss Kiki says. “Do you have anything to write with in that big bag of yours? I would very much like to exchange names with you.”
Miss practically glows at the request before fishing out her trusty ink pot and pen and offers them to Miss Kiki. Miss offers up her forearm and Miss Kiki bends to write her name. Miss’ name is exchanged in return, written on the same location as hers.
Obi’s heart seems to be beating out of his chest. He leans on Mister, hoping desperately that he may somehow put a stop to this. Instead-
“No.” Mister betrays Obi. “I don’t go for handshakes either.”
Mister rolls up his sleeve and walks towards Miss, giving her a semi-blank canvas to write on. Miss smiles up at him with gratitude, and proceeds to leave her name on his skin. Mister then returns the favour before engulfing Miss’ tiny form in a giant bear hug.
Obi clutches at his shoulder.
The pair turn to him and Obi freezes. Miss approaches him, stepping into his space. The stare they share seems to span the length of an ocean.
Slowly, Obi lowers his arm and extends both of them out. Miss’ mouth opens and Obi is endeared. Carefully, he wraps an arm around her and grips lightly at the top of her back. Miss, in turn, snakes both arms around him and presses him close. Obi closes his eyes and leans his head briefly against hers.
The vestiges of what anchors him to this place, Miss releases them with her words, and Obi finds himself letting go. For now.
—
“Tell me, Obi,” Master says, hair gently blown by the ocean’s breeze. “Do you like me?”
”Yes,” Obi replies.
Master coughs slightly. “No hesitation, huh. Well, not that it’s a problem.”
Obi smirks. “I mean, you asked.”
A moment passes. The whipping of the Wisteria flag hung from its mast sounds through the quiet of the night, the stars its ever-constant backdrop. Master glances at him, eyes clear as day.
”What about Shirayuki?”
A pang slices through Obi’s chest. He stares at Master. Then turns back to the sea. Miss’ face comes alive in his mind’s eye. He takes a breath.
“Yes,” Obi tells him. “I like Miss too.”
To his credit, Master spends all but a moment looking shocked, and Obi can’t help but tease. “Did you not know?”
Immediately, the shock melts off Master’s face. Obi can almost hear Master questioning his intellect. Instead he says, “How could I have when I’ve never asked before?”
Master then begins listing Obi’s faults, like looking out for Miss properly, and explains why he’d just shot a cannonball through Obi’s poor soul, asking about his feelings. Not that Obi hadn’t planned on doing so - two years is a long time, after all.
At this, Master seems truly shocked and even comments on his upright-ness, to which Obi only blames the bunch of them all. They go back and forth a little - Master attempting to decipher Obi’s psyche and his inability to stay in one place, Obi attempting to dodge every understanding gaze Master shoots his way.
“If you’ve decided to stick with us,” Master says, handing him the other end of his proverbial leash. “Then let me make this clear-
“You know well how Shirayuki is. She needs someone around that she can count on. And that person can only be you.”
Master’s gaze almost shines in the starlight, the blues darkened by the night but as clear as day. He speaks Obi’s name and Obi clutches at his wrist.
”Going forward, I’m entrusting you with her.”
Obi’s knee touches the floor before any words leave his mouth. “For you and Miss, I would go anywhere.”
The waves crash against the ship and Obi looks up to Master’s satisfied face. Contrite, he offers his wrist. “Master,” he says. Master nods in understanding.
Later, the two share an intimate moment under the candlelight below deck, Obi’s wrist exposed, palm facing up, and Master berating him with every letter scribbled onto Obi’s skin. And Obi laughs and laughs.
—
For all the talk Obi did about longing for his Miss to Miss Kiki, returning to Lilias after the whole ordeal with Touka and the twins seems less like a victor’s welcome and more like a sigh of relief. Obi will soon accept a bed over some knight’s honour for protecting the Second to the Crown, so he avoids his Elder Bro-ness (and any of his associated posse) like a plague. This finds him lounging around the gates, an apparent image of nonchalance - save his hand digging into his right shoulder and his foot bouncing against the stone wall behind him.
A flash of red enters his vision and immediately his hand goes up. “Hey!” Obi waves. “Over here!”
Miss’ steps echo through the corridor despite the crowd. When her hands wrap around Obi’s wrists, Obi finds a different kind of mark searing his skin. His left wrist, bearing Master’s name, burns as she squeezes.
“Welcome back, Obi.”
Even without him looking into a mirror with his shirt off, Obi knows that the name inscribed on his shoulder is glowing. It pulses once, twice. And underneath, the muscle in his chest throbs in unison.
Obi’s hands go slack in her hold. Then immediately - stupidly - move to grab his Miss under the arms, picking her up and twirling her around. Hysteria leaves his mouth before being interrupted by exclamations of pain. Miss looks at him with concern when he finally puts her down, but Obi quickly redirects her attention to much more important matters - namely, Master.
A few days later, Obi, while Master catches up on his sleep, makes his long overdue visit to Miss as her patient. She checks on him, satisfied with the care he has put into his wound. The Olin Maris stone is subsequently returned to its rightful owner, but it is quickly passed back, Miss citing its usefulness to Obi.
“I didn’t have any idea whether you were okay,” Miss says after returning the Olin Maris to Obi’s neck. She touches her clothed wrist. “I have Zen’s, yes. But…”
Obi’s heart hurts at the thought of Miss ever needing to check on her wrists for his existence.
“You have Master’s name - mine shouldn’t matter… But-” Obi touches her name over his shirt. “I did think about coming back safely and I’m glad I was able to.”
He looks up at her, attempting a grin that seems too fragile for his face. “I’m home, Miss! I think that’s how it’s meant to go?”
Miss has a broken smile on her face that makes Obi want to wrap her up in his arms and squeeze. Instead, he relishes in her repeated words.
“Welcome home, Obi.”
—
In Lilias, the researchers are decidedly more liberal with whom they exchange names. The bonds forged between research papers, dim candlelights and furious scribbling are difficult to break beyond the high walls of the research city. More often than not, Obi finds collaborators taking delight in rolling up their sleeves, reaching over to conveniently placed writing instruments, and writing their names on each others’ arms.
Similarly, anyone who has survived the cold of the North together warrants a name exchange. This finds Obi caught in such exchanges at the tail end of a night shift or after a particularly hard beating courtesy of Makiri. Obi’s arms become littered with far more words than he has ever had the privilege to carry, a lesser burden than the ones he leaves on others. He takes refuge in the fact that they are usually covered up by layers and layers of thick wool, and that they will fade without anyone knowing better.
(At least that’s what he tells himself - when on more than one occasion, Obi sees his name standing out stark and dark on more than one comrades’ arms in the Lilias baths.)
This practice is not lost on his Miss, who excitedly stains her arms with ink, creating constellations on her skin as foreign to her as they are to him. She lovingly traces Yuzuri’s and Suzu’s names when she thinks no one is watching. Obi finds himself perching his chin in hand while she does so, chest warm at the thought of his Miss having people she loves love her in return.
(He pointedly ignores the silk wrapped around Miss’ wrist, and he doesn’t wonder whether the name underneath has lost any of its opacity. He doesn’t. The trickle of letters arriving that bear the official seal makes it difficult, though.)
Her other wrist, however, remains achingly empty. And whenever Obi is in the vicinity of one of such exchanges, Miss’ gaze somehow never fails to find his, a secret smile playing at her lips. Obi’s heart beats in his ears and he turns away, his hand digging into his right shoulder, lips pressed together.
The practice regains its weight the night Little Ryuu is challenged to a crossroads: to follow them on their traipse around the North, or to move to Wilant for research. He calls on both of them, climbs up a small hill to where they stand, waiting. And with stars in his eyes, he asks for their names to be written next to each other on the inside of his left forearm.
So he can see their names whenever he pulls his sleeves up to attend to patients, Little Ryuu explains, or when he retrieves herbs from the greenhouse. A reminder of who he has grown to be, and who he wants to become. And, Little Ryuu insists, their names have to be one after the other, because they come together.
Obi isn’t someone meant for words like these, nor to have his name tattooed on a soul as pure as the boy in front of him. But Miss abruptly agrees for the both of them, tears in her eyes. Obi attempts a smile but covers it up by ruffling Little Ryuu’s hair before holding him close.
Little Ryuu holds out his pen and Obi and Miss look at each other, smiles wide.
“You first”, they both say, already rolling up their sleeves. Obi pretends not to see the tremble of Ryuu’s lips and grins through the affair. He knows this mark will last for a while.
—
Obi’s very real fear that Miss’ name will one day fade from his shoulder comes to fruition the day Lord Shinsu requests for him to return to his post by his Master’s side. Somewhere far, far away - far from herbs and mystery boxes and strange plants. Where Obi becomes out of sight, out of mind.
Oh, if only his younger self could see him now; scrambling to dig his roots even deeper instead of up and out. Belatedly, Obi takes this realization as a sign of growth, though, whilst jumping from rooftop to rooftop, the feeling of being left behind never does fade. His mind blinks back to labored breathing, stale air, a sickly pallor and his name persisting in its existence amongst a room full of death. Again, he is being cleaved against his will - but this time, things may change if Obi fights hard enough.
He lands behind Lord Shinsu, exchanges barbs with him briefly, before moving to the main event. Obi pulls up his big boy breeches, straightens out his uniform blacks. He throws out his ace of spades, digging deeper into the soil at his feet. Obi clings on to Master’s command, pulls at it any way he can, but in the face of Lord Shinsu’s unchanging expression, Obi feels like he’s dangling off a precipice, saved by the skin of his teeth, or rather, the mention of Master’s name once again.
Lord Shinsu then lays out his conditions and Obi has no choice but to agree. After all, if this is as far his Master’s name can get him, what more is he to expect from his own? Obi bows, sinking back to the security that he still belongs at his Miss’ side, as long as Master wills it.
“Good evening, Lord Shinsu!”
Obi’s head snaps up. In the glow of the firelight, Miss stands out against the night sky, the stars glittering above her. She stands in the distance, hands clasped, and she seems nervous?
He watches her take a breath. “Lord Shinsu, I come to you with a humble request.”
At this, Obi attempts to stop her, to tell her that it’s a done deal, there’s no need to fight anymore. Clarines’ favourite uncle gives him pause though, a palm up behind him. Obi grinds his teeth in frustration. Fresh from his most recent bout of submission, he clenches his fists and waits.
Some conversational martial arts later, the good lord finally allows Miss an opening to speak her truth. Unbeknownst to Obi, it is also the beginning of an end.
“Whilst under your service, Lord Shinsu,” Miss speaks to the floor. “And whilst Obi continues his service as my guard, kindly refrain from saying that to be my guard, anyone would suffice.”
What?
As stoic as ever, Lord Shinsu asks, “Is this with regard to what I said today?”
“Yes.” Miss continues to have her head bowed.
”Even if there’s someone better?” A pang goes through Obi at this. Because world on worlds, it is true; there are probably better guards in this man’s service. Guards who wouldn’t have let their charge be kidnapped right under their noses, for one.
Miss immediately obliterates that train of thought with an affirmative. Lord Shinsu then reiterates what Obi clung onto so desperately earlier.
”Is it because Sir Obi is the only one who serves as Prince Zen’s immediate knight?”
The dagger around his waist has never felt as heavy. This is a role, he tells himself. A role graced upon the undeserving. Obi’s fingers twitch at his side, itching to trace the name branded on his wrist. To see that it hasn’t faded, that Master knows him, that this responsibility is because Master cares…right?
”Yes,” Miss replies, lifting her gaze. “In the same manner the title ‘Friend of the Crown’, bestowed by Prince Raj, was meant to act as a shield for me - the title of ‘Prince Zen’s Immediate Knight’ similarly exists as a reflection of His Highness’ feelings.”
Something settles in Obi’s chest. Good, Miss understands his role. He’s here on Master’s command. This is where he is called to be.
But Miss continues. “But for Sir Obi, to be able to accept a title as unique as this, it must have taken him a resolve equivalent to its weight.”
Obi’s mouth parts at this. Wait, Miss, he wants to say. But she isn’t finished.
”And I know,” Miss speaks, voice resolute. “It is with that same resolve that he has come to be by my side.”
The image slices through Obi; a snowy day with a dagger laid at his feet, the cold seeping through the cloth of his pants. Their chests heaving from the run through the forest, sunlight peeking through the branches. A question, Is it fine if I stay here?
Obi’s first instinct knocks him to sitting, hiding himself behind the banister out of sight. While his legs have surely lost their ability to keep his weight up, Obi persists in that incessant need to shield himself from this. That precipice he was dangling from earlier? It crumbles under his hands and Obi grasps at air, only to find his feet landing on a trust so unwavering, so solid. She sees him so thoroughly, has delved into his innermost fears and wants, as if she’s traced his name over and over, so familiar with its loops and syllables. He wants to crouch down and bask in it, he wants to crawl to her side into her embrace, he wants-
He wants to become worthy of this.
“Obi!” Miss’ voice rings through the night.
Immediately, there is a tightness behind his eyes he’s barred himself from for so long. The stones on the floor begin to blur.
“See you tomorrow!” She calls.
Obi presses his fingers against his eyelids. The corners of his mouth tips upwards. Tomorrow, she says. Like it is a simple unending concept; like it is a given.
The wind passes through the tassels above him and Obi follows in its wake after the receding footsteps of his Miss. He stands, stumbles into a turn, and watches as Miss and Lord Shinsu make their way back to the residence. It’s fine. He’ll see her tomorrow, preferably when his insides feel less like they are threatening to spill out through his throat.
Suddenly, Miss turns. Obi’s eyes widen. Did Miss grow a pair of eyes behind her head when he wasn’t looking? Miss briefly returns to Lord Shinsu before taking wide steps back in Obi’s direction.
Obi’s legs follow suit, his eyes fixed on Miss’ approaching form. After descending the first flight of steps, they stop. He can’t go further- he can’t. There isn’t a stone left unturned in his being and that’s too much for Miss to see up close.
“Obi.”
“See you tomorrow, Miss,” Obi quickly rehashes her earlier sentiment, tests it out briefly on his tongue. It escapes as a poor mimicry of the pulse behind the statement.
Miss’ bewildered stare causes the edges of his smile - he is smiling, right? - to tremble.
“You should head back with Lord Shinsu.”
”What about you, Obi?”
Ah, caught red-handed. Nothing escapes his Miss. Why does he even try, really.
“…that’s right. I did promise to tell you when something comes up,” Obi mumbles.
He looks up. “I heard everything,” he says. “And there’s something I want to say, but I’m not sure if I can put it clearly.”
Miss blinks, once, twice, the stars in her eyes. Her face then melts into the most heartwrenching of smiles.
“It’s okay.”
Obi’s chest throbs, the tightness behind his eyes returning. He tilts his head up, hoping to stave off the blurred edges of his vision. Above him, the stars twinkle with no shame, their existence bright, persisting, plastered on a blanket of black.
It is with that same damn resolve that Obi’s legs move. He stops, just a while’s away from his Miss. He hopes she meant it when she said he looks good in the firelight. Because if there’s anything that’ll be next to his Miss from now on till time eternal, it should at least be something pleasant to look at.
He points at his chest.
“This,” Obi murmurs, a silent prayer, an offering. “Here.”
Miss looks up in astonishment. Obi reaches out and tugs her to him, his hand pressed to the small of her back.
“Could you hold it for me?”
He presses into her warmth, closes his eyes. His Miss, who has held onto he who has no home; who laughs, cries, smiles, with him; who has taught him the beauty of holding on. Perhaps the resolve isn’t so much a resolve, but a pull unavoided, a vice Obi so willingly offers his wrists to, to be pulled along, tethered, with nor so much a care. Who is he to resist? And now, he has surrendered all his cards, given every single part of himself to the girl in his arms, and he waits, with bated breath, for the answer he trusts her to give.
Both of Miss’ hands land on his back. She holds him as if he is precious, and for the first time, as if he isn’t going to disappear. She holds him like she is certain, that as much as she will keep him in her arms, Obi will keep her in his.
“Okay,” Miss says, voice suffusing joy. “I’ll just have to keep holding you like this, then!”
Obi’s chest expands, fills, with the tingling of Miss’ laughter in his ear. He holds her in earnest, just as she trusts him to. And responds with a laughter as free as her own.
Later, when they part, Obi gently grasps Miss' right wrist and cradles it over interlocked fingers. He brushes his thumb over the unblemished skin. A glance up, and Obi almost ducks his head at how Miss’ face lights up.
“Take care of my name, Miss,” Obi tells her. “It will likely never fade.”
Miss beams, certain, sure.
“I’m counting on it.”
—
Some fun(?) stuff about the AU that didn’t make it into the fic:
Wisteria men usually do not have any names written on their bodies for purity’s sake - only Clarines’ crest literally tattooed on their backs. Past kings (and queens) who have had names littered on their skin were frowned upon for being disloyal to the crown and at risk for treason. (Which is another reason Zen stares so intently when Shirayuki asks for Kiki’s and Mitsuhide’s names written on her arms)
Obi gets a lot of shit from Lilias’ soldiers in the bathhouses for having Shirayuki’s name written at such an ‘intimate’ place on his body. Obi usually just brushes it off and jokes that it’s “his mistress’ brand on him”.
Kiki and Mitsuhide have each other’s names written on the backs of their sword-dominant hand. They exchanged names when Kiki decided to stick with Zen.
(the most unrealistic part of this AU is Lilias’ researchers wanting their names anywhere other than as first author of their publications)
