Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Ohhhhh…”

Beers typically enjoys his life. He enjoys his job, for all that he doesn’t show it on his face. Or his actions. Or his words. Or even admits it to himself. That’s dangerous territory right there, admitting it to yourself.

“I have all my fingers…”

He likes waking up early. Gives the day a bit more punch. Immediately gives him something to bitch about, which is nice.

“The knife goes chop, chop, chop!”

He likes kissing his mate goodbye. She’s usually still awake by the time he leaves, working on some project or another. This time it’s another paper about ants. Or termites. She hasn’t asked him to proofread it yet, so he’s not quite sure.

“If I miss the spaces in between…”

He likes cooking, for all that, most of the nobility in this skunk hole of a Fortress wouldn’t know a crepe from a pancake even if he used that shit as a discus straight into their over-decorated necks.

“… my fingers will come off!”

Good food is essential. Good food makes happy people. Happy people tend to tolerate his bullshit better, and there is nothing he enjoys more than subjecting people to said bullshit.

“And if I hit my fingers, blood will soon come out!”

Good help, people who he… tolerates (he likes no one and makes a point of informing everyone as such so they measure their expectations. There is nothing worse than dealing with coworkers off the clock), and who tolerate him in turn?

“But all the same…”

They’re hard to find.

“I play this game…”

Usually, he respects them enough to do their own shit. He hires people for competence and patience. Not for their people skills.

“...’cause that’s what it’s all about!”

And now he’s remembering why, exactly, he never hires on charisma.

“Oh, chop chop chop chop chop chop chop…”

All of his idiots are gathered around a cutting board, and not cooking like they know they should, given that His Majesty is still hosting visiting nobility. It’s baffling, how there can be so many estranged Lords looking to suddenly visit and schmooze. Fucking Asakura. He should have stayed gone.

“I’m picking up the speed!”

Beers shoves his way past two of them.

“And if I hit my fingers then my hand will start to—“

His hand shoots out and wraps around Akira’s wrist right before the knife comes down again, stopping his terrifyingly fast motions in their tracks. The cutting board is covered in pockmarks, with little chips taken out of the weathered wood.

No blood, he notes.

“Akira,” he says, as startled (yet mischievous) gray eyes peer up at him. “What the fuck.”

“Beers!” Akira says cheerily, recovering from his shock. Oh shit oh shit oh— “Lovely to see your face again so soon and not glued to a stovetop. Like you said it would be. For the next twenty minutes.”

Akira’s in trouble. Oh, he’s in soo much trouble. This is the third time Beers has had to reprimand him within the hour Akira’s been on shift. One would think he would have learned after the first slap on the wrist, but as they say, curiosity killed the cat.

Or, more accurately, pent-up energy in the thief pisses off the Chef.

“What do I owe the pleasure this ti—“

“Shut up,” Beers interrupts him calmly, plucking the knife from his hand and examining it.

The little crowd around them goes, ooooooh. Like kids. Were he not in the unenviable position of authority, he would join them. Alas.

“See. I was at the stovetop. But then I asked for a ladle to be put into my hand. Not a big ask. Nothing that should be difficult, since this has been the usual for the last Two Goddamn Months.” (To his left, his Most Sous chef shrugs and grins. Really? He should know better, but Beers isn’t surprised.) “Imagine my shock when a ladle didn’t manifest into my empty hand. Can you imagine it. Do you realize how crushed I was.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

“And imagine how crushed I was when I realized there was actually no one nearby. And that they were all over here.” There’s a pregnant silence, and then the others start silently slinking away. It’s the quietest he’s heard his kitchen in years. “And imagine how I felt. Coming over here, looking for my missing staff. And finding you. Playing five-finger fillet. And—“ he looks down at the cutting board, “splintering one of my good boards.”

He looks back up at him and is gratified that there’s a pang of sheepish guilt there.

“You like games. Let’s play one.”

He leans in on his elbow until he’s close enough to be Deeply Uncomfortable.

“What do you think I’m thinking right now. What emotion am I feeling.”

Akira can do one of two things;

One, be honest and respectfully culpable. Save face for them both and take the reprimand in stride.

Or two, double down.

Beers has invaded his space, looming incredibly close, expecting him to shift away and look down. They’ve butt heads before, always playfully—or at least Akira is. Beers is… well, Beers about it. Too bad for Beers, Akira woke up this morning high-strung, full of frenetic energy, and a tempestuous Attitude. So if he expected anything less from Akira, that’s on him. After the moment of shock and guilt passes, Akira leans in and props his chin in his hand so that they’re nose to nose.

“You’re captivated by my stunning eyes and wicked charm?” he purrs with a lopsided smile.

This close, Beers can count every individual eyelash around Akira’s eyes. There are. Frankly a ridiculous amount. He should really put some back. Save some for other people.

“Close. Try again.”

Ugh. Those eyes are…

And the brush of his nose is…

Coffee and cinnamon invade his senses with every inhale, aggressively so. Fucking hell. If Beers weren’t so bent on making sure he shows no weakness he’d be recoiling by now. It’s too deep for his tastes, too rich.

"Damn, coulda sworn it would've been that. Hmm..."

Akira raises a brow and taps his pointer finger against his lips. He wonders just how much he can get away with today before Beers inevitably gets annoyed with the game and shuts down Akira's flirtations for good. It's been made clear, several times, Beers has zero interest in Akira that way—to Akira's dismay, given Akechi pretty much outright rejected him too—but more so that Beers finds Akira's antics amusing for how hard Akira tries to crack his impenetrable facade.

And okay, Akira is really lonely and pent up and hasn't gotten laid in over two months if he included any of the times he's shared with Akechi, and if he excluded those… six months. It's incredibly frustrating.

"If it's not my eyes..." Speaking of which, Akira's widen as an idea pops into his head. "Beers, could these thoughts be not safe for work?"

Akira bumps their noses together.

"If so, I don't think I should say anything."

Were Beers a lesser man, the snickers around him would possibly be embarrassing. Mortifying, even. What a sordid situation, the potential scandalous ramifications of indulging this Fucking Loser in his Unseemly Flirtations.

“Two things wrong with that,” Beers drawls, rising back up and casually rubbing his nose. Urgh.

Cinnamon. “Three, maybe. Starting from the top.”

He raises one finger.

“Like I have told you before, you’re too tall for this ride. By like a full foot. I like them fun sized and you are both an entire meal and also so off-limits it’s absolutely insane. I prefer to have my balls attached to my body, thanks. I’d rather not get them ripped off by the Prince.”

"On my knees, I'm fun-sized," Akira mutters under his breath as he’s lectured.

Beers ignores him and raises a second finger.

“You really need to get laid. Like. Now. Holy shit. I don’t know what his Royal Highness is doing, if he lost his dick to frostbite or if it just jumped ship from lack of use or what, but you seriously need to figure something out because you smell desperate.”

One more finger.

“That’s real bold of you to say anything about workplace safety considering you are currently in a kitchen and pulling That Shit.” He knows he has a talent for emphasizing words in a way that his mate has told him sounds like Capitals Incarnate, and he is putting it to Good Use. “I don’t know Jack, shit, or fuck about kitchens down south but I like to think they’re smarter with their knives than you’re being right now. In my kitchen, we fillet fish, not fingers. You could be blessed by the Southern Knife Goddess or whatever the fuck and I wouldn’t give a shit because you do not do that here.”

He puts the confiscated knife back down on the cutting board, making hard eye contact. “Let me know if you want more of my thoughts. I’m a ‘sharing is caring’ kind of guy. Unless it’s dick. In which case I’m a miserly bitch.”

Irritation swells in Akira’s chest, both at himself and Beers for begrudgingly doing the right thing. Akira went too far today and he doesn't actually want to get the Chef in actual trouble. It's a delicate balance between teasing harmlessly and hitting on Beers, one Akira will figure out.

Eventually.

Akira picks the knife back up and twirls it between his fingers. This wouldn't have even happened in the first place if Akechi just—-No. That's not fair. It was Akira who put the space between them, removing himself from the temptation to push Akechi into uncomfortable territory because Akira understands why Akechi can't go there, or why Akira can’t take him there. They've been cordial and friendly with one another for the last six weeks, and sometimes maybe they’d suggestively banter when Akechi wasn’t so worked up and they had a spare minute together but it never went anywhere and… ugh. He slams the knife back down into the chopping board and then freezes once his brain catches up to what he's done.

"Beers, you're right, I'm sorry,” Akira gets out in a rush. “I didn't mean to—that was an accident.” He gestures to the knife buried deep in the wood of the board. “I'm just—frustrated with everything right now. I don't know what's gotten into me."

It takes a lot to piss Beers off. Really, it does. Beers likes to think he’s a level-headed man. It comes with the territory of pretending to be an emotionless stone wall. Hard to keep your face neutral if you’re exploding emotions all over the place, right? Right.

Point is, he’s fine when Akira’s restlessness drives him to keep showing off and fidgeting even as he’s trying to make a point. It’s fine. He knows his points are more comedic than disapproving. That’s the point.

He is not, however, fine when the knife is suddenly slammed into his fucking cutting board right at the tail end of his speech. He cuts off abruptly even as Akira goes still, and starts stammering apologies and what sounds to him like an excuse. That’s fine. That’s whatever. Everyone has Days.

He is not fine with the fact that he’s going to have to take this fucking board to Iwai and see if it can be salvaged after that, because Iwai pisses him off in new and exciting ways every time he sees him. So that’s not cool.

“Clearly, it’s a bug of some kind that’s crawled up your ass and died a horrible, ass-related death,” he says, forcing himself to think about how much he actually does like Akira. “Following up on that, I don’t let bugs in my kitchen. Unsanitary.” Reaching out, he yanks the knife free and looks at the deep mark left behind. Fuck.

His eyes flick back up to Akira, who at least looks properly ashamed.

“So until you dig that bug out, I don’t wanna see you back here. Clear?”

Fuck.

“Wait, no—Beers—” Akira jumps off of the stool he was sitting on to move closer. “I truly am sorry. Please don’t kick me out. Stick me on trash duty or something. Anything.”

Akira hates having to beg but if he gets kicked… he has nowhere else to go. The servants’ quarters aren’t exactly the most welcoming place to hang around. Ever since he transferred there, the other servants have taken an… unkind interest in him. The more mild-mannered servants whisper about him in the halls and shoot glares at him as enters and exits his room each morning. The nastier servants will ridicule him or try to boss him around if he hangs out in the quarters for too long. It’ll only make this aggravation and restlessness ten times worse if he’s trapped in his room and Akira also really doesn’t want to end up snapping at Akechi later. Like he’s been doing with Beers this morning.

Or worse, Akechi finds out he got kicked from the only place that’ll take him and it’ll sour the tentative tolerance and peace—if one could even call it that—between them. Akira needs to get his head screwed on before he really does fuck up big time.

“I don’t want to stop working. I’ll get my act together, I swear,” he pleads.

“You won’t,” Beers replies flatly. “I can already tell. Plus I can’t have my staff thinking I’ve gone soft.” He gestures broadly towards the kitchens, most of whom have gotten back to work after that brief distraction. “I can’t sit here and babysit you.”

He does feel for Akira, genuinely. He’s gotten the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, and he seems to handle it with more grace than almost anyone else would. It’s admirable and even stuck in the kitchens like he is, he can tell the Prince is Slightly Less Wound Up. Slightly. There’s only so much you can do for a spring coiled that tight and rusted shut from neglect. And blood. The blood was an important part to mention. But he does have a kitchen to run and food to serve and people to deadpan at and a Sous to keep away from the oven, so he doesn’t have time to figure out what the fuck is going on with his latest hire.

“Look,” he says, putting the knife back down and crossing his arms. “Here’s a tip for you. I heard that the Prince got cleared for training again not too long ago. One of my sauciers keeps up with that sort of thing.”

(Off by the fire, his eagle-eared eavesdropper turns around and gives an obnoxious thumbs up. Which he pointedly ignores.)

“So he’s probably out showing off in the training yard and trying to play catch up. Go harass him or something. Servants are allowed to watch the knights trained on their days off, and guess what you’ve just been given?”

Akira's face falls, and he says defeatedly, "...a day off."

As much fun as harassing Akechi sounds, it's not something Akira particularly wants to do right now. Mostly because if he does, it's going to out the fact he's not at work where he should be and that's going to either piss off or stress out the Prince even more than he normally is.

A fresh wave of anger rolls through him and spikes in his scent before he can cool himself down. Since he can't hide it, he scoffs and crosses his arms. His nails dig into his biceps as he tries to get a grip but his mood has decided to swing whether likes it or not. He's going to get in more trouble either way so he might as well face the music and enjoy the show.

Oh, he’s pissy today. Full of vinegar.

“Alright, seriously. Get out. If you’re just gonna sit there and pout, you can do it elsewhere. I get you’re having a bad day, but I don’t have to tolerate it in my kitchen.” Beers straightens up, looking directly at this stubborn, pissed-off Omega. “Go find the Prince. Tell him I gave you a free day. Figure your shit out. Clear?”

Beers stands to his full height and looms over Akira by a few inches. Add the fact the man is built like a fucking bear, all solid, corded muscle, broad shoulders, and imposing mass, he appears even larger than he really is. Or at least what Akira thinks bears look like, seeing as he's never actually seen one to truly compare.

He thinks Beers is a close enough guess though.

"Crystal," Akira grits out and storms off, grabbing his heavy coat from its peg on his way.

He does not slam the door, however. It's not Beers that Akira is mad at. It's a bit of everything. Settling into his new monotonous life here has him itching for more. Confined to essentially three places (the Servants Quarters, The Kitchen, and The Infirmary) and the stretches of passages in between unless accompanied do very little to satiate Akira's curiosity. After his last stunt when he got upset, he’d rushed off towards the training grounds, diverted to a hot spring, and got in trouble with Akechi which led to… well… a bit of a release. It took quite literally Akira walking into the wolves' den to get any of the attention he craved.

The closer he gets, the more servants he sees scurrying around. Just how many of them have a day off today? he thinks. More than usual, or they're easily distracted. Maybe he would have been fine going back to the Servants Quarters if they were all congregating here. What was so special about Alphas beating the shit out of each other? Akira rolls his eyes and follows a whispering pair of excited betas out into the training grounds.

A good number of servants, some of whom Akira could recognize, some he didn't, gather around the edges of the yard. Manually cleared of snow, there's a wide circle of hard dirt, tamped down by hundreds of Alphas stomping it down and brawling over its entirety. And speaking of brawling Alphas, the ring is currently occupied by two of them, judging from the blooming cloud of aggressive, warring pheromones that linger at the very edges of the ring. It was clearly designed for Alphas to go all out while sparing a crowd some of the discomforts of actually smelling them; there was nothing more offensive to the nose than two dominating scents filling an entire room. There’s nothing to be done for the wind, though.

The two Alphas in the ring are shirtless despite the chill in the air, sparring hand to hand. One of them was shorter than the other, stockier, with short-cropped black hair. A vicious snarl locks on his face as he is once again shoved away from his opponent—

The Prince.

Akechi.

Goro wears a grin as feral and wide as his opponent's, bare chest heaving for air, a fine sheen of sweat over his upper half. All he has on today is a pair of breeches, barely armored, all the better for him to move faster, quicker in. His hair is tied back for once, a tight cord wrapped around the fine strands and keeping it out of his face as he bares his teeth at his sparring partner, rolling his shoulders.

"Learned your lesson?" he sneers, all dripping scorn and battle lust.

His opponent barks a laugh, cracks his neck, and launches himself back at him once again, and the two turn into a flowing mass of flesh, attacking and parrying in equal turns.

“You’re more keyed up than usual,” his opponent taunts back. “Your omega not doin’ it for ya anymore?”

Instantly heat flashes across his face, and he has to resist the urge to beat Akira’s face out of his brain. Realistically, Goro knows it’s irrational. It isn’t the fault of his soldiers that he hasn’t spent any meaningful time with Akira since that discussion six weeks ago; they don’t know that they’re now barely on speaking terms again, and the sudden loss of a confidant is affecting him in more ways than he’s willing to admit.

At least he can vent his frustrations here in one of the few ways he knows how, baring his teeth and lunging forward and getting a punch across the mouth for his trouble. Pain blooms across his mouth, and he can see Kuze’s alarm in his eyes. “I thought you’d dodge-!” He starts to say, only to be cut off as Goro gleefully decks him back in the face and sends him into the ground, staggered.

“Perhaps if you used your brain to think about your opponent rather than petty insults, you would have dodged that!” he crows, a feral grin on his face as he pointedly refuses to think about the nights of lost sleep, wondering if Akira missed him at all.

Akira's mouth runs dry.

There are a lot of things special about watching two alphas beat the shit out of each other that Akira suddenly understands and finds himself spellbound, gravitating toward the ring. The snow crunches under his feet with each step he takes until he melts away and he suddenly grips the edge of the barrier. He's unable to keep his eyes off his mate the Prince. Or if Akira were being honest, the Prince's body as it moves through a series of fluid movements. It's got a few cuts and scrapes, and one gnarly-looking bruise on his chest under his right arm but other than—

Akira thinks too soon. The Prince's opponent sneaks in a punch that lands right across Akechi's mouth. There's a brief bout of panic in his opponent's eyes before Akechi nails him with a left hook within milliseconds, sending him sprawling into the cold dirt. The man on the ground groans and doesn't move. Akechi's barking laughter echoes as he prowls around his prey. Akira's never heard anything more enticing in his life. His throat works to swallow as he forces his eyes back up to Akechi's face. He's freely bleeding, his bottom lip split on the right side from that last blow he received.

Akira wants to lick i—wait, what?

Akira shakes his head and listens to Akechi's smug victory taunt.

There is nothing. Nothing more satisfying than victory. Not a good meal. Not finishing a book. Not going to sleep in his own bed.

No, what satiates the gnawing ache in Goro’s soul is the comedown of a battle high, knowing that he won. That he has proven himself the better man, combat-wise. Seeing his opponents sprawled out in the dirt and himself standing tall...

There's nothing better in life.

Something warm trickles down his chin and he swipes a thumb over it, inspecting it. Blood. He licks it clean and then stalks over to his opponent. "Underestimated me again, Kuze." He laughs, a higher cadence to it than he'd normally allow himself. "It is a marvel, though. I thought two months would surely cause at least a little ring rust."

Kuze groans in response, and there's a distinct note of annoyance to it as he looks away.

"Nothing to say?" he snorts, but reaches down and offers him a hand. "Up you go. I'd like another opponent sometime today, please."

Maybe then he’d be able to stop thinking quite so much.

Akira's body is hoisting itself over the barrier before he can even comprehend what he's doing.

His feet hit the dirt and it shocks enough sense back into him to realize that, yes, he's about to do the stupidest thing he's done here yet at the Fortress. Maybe even stupider than trying to rob it. He doesn't know whether he should kiss Beers or curse him for putting the idea in his head. All he does know is this is the outlet his body and mind are aching for.

"That desperate to get your ass beat, your Highness?" Akira calls out to him and takes great pleasure as Akechi whips around to face him. "Might I take a stab at it?"

What the fuck?

Goro’s eyes go wide as he sees—fucking hell— Akira swagger towards him, a cocky grin on his face and confidence in every step. Why is he—what is he—

It’s startling to realize that this is perhaps one of the only times he’s seen Akira before evening in over a month. The thought doesn’t sit well.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?!” he demands, keenly aware of the rippling murmurs that break out among the small crowd.

Akira's smirk grows sharper.

"I was given a day off and permission to harass you," he explains, slipping his coat he never bothered to button up from his shoulders and tossing it behind him. It lands, draping gracefully over the barrier with a flutter. Next, his fingers find the collar of his shirt and he deftly undoes the first few clasps and then yanks it over his head. "So here I am."

He makes a sweeping gesture with his arms, shirt balled up in one hand. The winter air nips at his bare chest, sending goosebumps across his exposed skin. For once, Akira doesn't mind. The look on Akechi's face is absolutely worth suffering over.

“Are—are you serious?!” Goro stares at him in utter disbelief. Why is this happening? How is this happening?

His eyes flick down to Akira’s bare chest, lean muscle shifting under his skin and working as he eases through some familiar stretches. Who, or what, did he piss off to have to suffer through this particular hell?

“You get a day off, and you… decide you want to spend it here on the training grounds?” he questions, keenly aware of their rapt audience.

Admittedly, this isn’t the most… proper of events. If Alphas trained their Omegas in combat, it was in secret. To spar so openly with his Omega, whom everyone knew was captured and forcibly claimed… Perhaps he can use this as a message at the expense of some of his respectability, what little he has these days. Show everyone that not only does he have Akira’s loyalty, but that he isn’t a man to trifle with, either.

The adrenaline from his previous victory and the prospect of another fight pounds sluggishly in his veins, driving him to pace. The predatory stalk around Akira is… unintentional, but he has to keep an eye on him, in case he decides to go for a sneak attack. He wouldn’t put it past him, clever thing he is.

"I heard you were cleared and came to watch. I'm not disappointed," Akira says, raising his arms above his head and twisting to the side. "I've heard many things on my way here about you, your Highness. I wished to see for myself what you're made of."

Akira rights himself and lets his arms rest loosely at his sides. It contrasts with how wired he feels. Raw, unfettered energy crackles just beneath his skin. Akechi's pacing ignites something in the back of his brain and sends a rush through his system. The urge to fight back, to expend the restless monster he's been housing in his chest since he awoke.

The thrill of a fight, oh how he’s missed this.

It trickles into his scent enough for Akira to notice but he pushes the awareness aside. He's got bigger things to focus on.

"Indulge me?"

So he does want to fight.

Goro’s eyes widen slightly as he watches him continue through the stretches of an experienced fighter. The way he moves his body so easily, the way it responds so clearly to what he wants it to do even in those simple motions speaks of someone who can take care of himself, and definitely has in the past.

The perks of being a renowned thief, he supposes. He wonders how well he can hold his own against someone who’s actually trained…

He knows objectively that he should say no. He should tell him to get off the field, go find something to do, or if he wanted to stay, to put his damn shirt back on.

Goro does none of those things. Because he’s curious, and because he’s itching for another fight. A sedentary lifestyle doesn’t agree with him at all, and frankly he’s not sure if Chiaki-San cleared him because he’s actually ready or because she was sick of him asking. Too much energy, too much frustration, no outlets.

And here was the source of many of his frustrations, offering himself as an opponent.

How is he supposed to turn that down?

“I suppose I can, for a little while,” he drawls back, and this time his steps around him are more deliberate. Calculating.

(He doesn’t think too hard about Akira’s scent, and how strangely spicy it is today, the way it lingers on his tongue.)

It should not feel as good as it does being under Akechi's scrutiny like this. Knowing Akechi is studying him, his body and its language, is like gasoline thrown on a burning fire. The pent-up feelings inside Akira grow wilder. He's itching to throw himself at Akechi.

It's been too long since Akira's been in a training fight, with the only purpose being to flaunt your strength and dexterity and outsmart your opponent with a strike they never see coming. It's been even longer since he's been in a formal ring… if the Southern Arena even counts as a ring.

"Excellent," Akira purrs with a tilt of his head. "How would you like to do this, your Highness?"

Patience. Patience. Patience.

Akira was an opponent of relatively unknown skill. With other opponents he could attack first, having a general knowledge of how they fought. Knowing their skill level, and that his exceeded theirs. Akira… is different, as always.

Akira’s confidence has always generally stemmed from being able to back up his claims, and he has no doubt that it holds true for his combat prowess as well… though.

He’s a thief. He fights, should fight, quick and dirty, scuffles that last less than a minute so he can make his escape. Goro is built for battle, for wars that slog on for hours, moving from one opponent to the next. Ten minutes of brawling at a time, prolonged stamina and strength. Opposing fighting styles, but in a longer match, Goro would no doubt be the winner.

He just… needs to…

Strike first.

He lunges toward Akira without replying, two grabs with one aimed low and one aimed high; one hand going for his face, and the other for his wrist.

Most of Akira’s opponents in the past in the arena had been Alphas, some bigger, some stockier, and some like Akechi, around his size but with more lean muscle. Where Akira excels most is his agility—they underestimate just how fast and evasive he can be. They throw their weight around and pack their punches with so much more force than was necessary. It’s easy to dodge, especially when many telegraph their movements so obviously.

Akechi doesn’t telegraph his moves, however, but there’s brute force with the sudden lunge he makes. If Akira hadn’t anticipated Akechi making the first move, it would have connected.

Akira flips backward in flourish, out of range, and lands in time to watch the sheer confusion blossom over Akechi’s face as his swing and grab are met with nothing but air. It buys Akira the window he needs to dart forward and shoulder-check Akechi out of the way to take back the center of the ring, where Akira wants to be. Pain erupts across the middle of Akira’s back as Akechi’s fist collides with it—Akira hisses, managing to slip past still and not stumble.

He winks at Akechi when the Prince turns on the spot to face him once more.

Of all the things Goro expected Akira to do to dodge the grab, he somehow did not expect a God damn back handspring.

The man moved like liquid, like smoke, flowing into the motion that took far more body control than it looked like it did. This did not look like the same smirking Omega he’s been subjected to for the last few months. This is a man who is intimately aware of every inch of his body, what it can do, and what he, specifically, is capable of.

Exactly like Goro.

Shit.

It’s all he can manage to land a blow on his back as he passes, staggering at the force behind his shoulder (stronger than he looked; stop underestimating him) and whirling around to regain his balance as he stares him down.

“You’re quite fast,” he muses, rolling his shoulders back as he stalks around him again. Coiled and tense and ready this time; he won’t let him surprise him again.

Akira mirrors Akechi, circling and sizing him up. The ponytail is…surely doing something to Akira. The way it reveals Akechi’s pale throat, accentuating his jawline, enticing Akira to get closer. The fire within him roars as the urge to grab it increases the longer he stares.

Akira doesn’t feel like prey, though. Quite the opposite. He wonders if Akechi feels the same.

“How else did you think I managed to take down eight guards? Certainly wasn’t because I was slow,” Akira taunts, taking one measured step over another. Muscles taut, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“I assumed they were incompetent, honestly,” Goro admits easily, keeping his eyes on Akira’s chest. In all but the most skilled fighters, the contraction of muscles there would telegraph the next move; a deeper breath, the tensing of one side over the other, bracing oneself…

Akira is certainly one of the better fighters he’s faced, he can already tell, but that doesn’t mean he can abandon that particular foundation. The circling takes them on opposite sides of where they had been, and now he catches another whiff of Akira’s scent. Thick, warm cinnamon curling deeper into the rich depth of coffee and adding a spicier kick to it-

Odd. Usually, the bitter coffee tones were mellower, only a faint trace of cinnamon to it…

He would devote more thought to it, but he can’t afford to divide his attention right now, not unless he wants to embarrass himself in front of a crowd.

“You think everyone is incompetent so that’s not an accurate measure, unfortunately,” Akira says, channeling that manic energy into his next move. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

With only those words as a warning, Akira surges forward, acting as if he’s going to swing on Akechi’s left only at the last second to switch gears and in a flash land a blow on Akechi’s right. He doesn’t stop, coming on strong with a flurry of punches that force Akechi to react defensively, tucking his arms against his chest to shield his ribs. The point of this isn’t to actually incapacitate Akechi with any of these moves—it’s meant to agitate, to irk him into lashing out, and create a window for the actual takedown move Akira is banking on.

Sure enough, there was no warning twitch of muscle, just like Goro feared. He moves lightning-quick, blurred to the naked eye as he strikes. Rapid-fire, unending, a wave of quick punch after punch that takes all of his concentration simply to ward off.

Admirably, the force behind each of them isn’t insignificant. This was surely the kind of fighting style and ferocity that would incapacitate other, lesser fighters.

Sadly for Akira, Goro is not a lesser fighter.

There's a rhythm to them, a pattern, there's a pattern to everything no matter how much effort is put into the illusion of randomness. All he has to do is... find... There!

With a low growl, he strikes through the gap, that split-second motion where Akira leaves his chest open as he rains down blows. It means Goro takes a few, but it's worth it, ducking under his guard and putting (almost) all of his strength into a single punch aimed at the soft part under his ribs. It's risky, but he needs space, and Akira isn't giving him any.

The window comes at a cost, one Akira had thought he’d been prepared for but gods damn it all Akechi is fucking strong. Pain radiates up the side of Akira’s body and knocks some air from his lungs as Akechi’s fist connects with his body. He doesn’t let it distract him though. His plan works exactly as he intended. The blow causes Akechi to lean into it, shifting his weight forward on his one leg.

“Have a nice trip,” Akira wheezes and suddenly ducks down and sweeps Akechi’s leg out from underneath him.

Akechi goes down.

His leg is yanked out from under him, and for a moment all Goro can see is the hard ground rushing up at him, much too quickly.

Shit.

It's half instinct, half awareness that causes his hand to shoot out, hooking on Akira's elbow before it gets too far away. He hears Akira yelp, feels him stagger, not able to quite get to his feet from the duck, and before he knows it they're rolling in the hard dirt like scrapping cats.

Akira is quick and lithe and squirmy, but Goro's grip is like iron. All he has to do is get on top of him, shove his back into the ground, press his own face hard against his neck, and inhale and remind this Omega why he is his Alpha-

Wait, where the hell had that come from?

This isn't how Akira's plan is supposed to be going.

He quickly realizes if he stays on the ground the fight is over. Akechi weighs more than he does, not by much but just enough to put him at advantage over Akira so if he gets the upper hand, Akira won't be going anywhere Akechi doesn't want him to. A strong hand shoves his shoulder down as he tries to roll and escape out of reach. He has a split second to make a decision—play fair and accept defeat… or play dirty. As Akechi moves to put all his weight down Akira's mind makes that snap decision.

His hand shoots out, grabs Akechi's ponytail and yanks.

A vicious growl tears its way out of Akechi's throat as his head is wrenched backward. It lifts Akechi up, creating just enough space between their bodies for Akira to follow up with a swift knee to Akechi's lower belly, almost into his groin but not. Akira is a gentleman after all, despite all his dirty tricks.

It does the job and then some.

Akechi's growl cuts into a pained wheeze and he doubles over on Akira, who then rolls them both so that Akira ends up on top. With one hand still wound in Akechi's hair he pulls Akechi's head to the side, exposing the unmarred column of his neck. This close, he can't escape the outpouring of his worked-up Alpha's pheromones. It hits him like a drug. It's all Akira can breathe—all he wants to breathe. His skin glistens where sweat has gathered and Akira has to actively fight the impulse to lean down and lick a path up his throat, over his scent gland to taste him. Cedar and smoke flood his brain and Akira's urge to fight is suddenly replaced by a completely different one. Or… or maybe that urge has always been there, fueling his aggression and pent-up frustrations and—Oh.

Akira becomes hyper-aware of every place their bodies touch, how he inadvertently rolls his hips against Akechi as he pins him.

Oh no.

The fucker cheats!

He cheats, and Goro is beyond infuriated, beyond angry, beyond irritated that he didn't fucking think of that. Why didn't he assume that a thief would cheat and fight dirty like that? Of course, his ponytail is a target, but it’s usually not on the battlefield. He's annoyed with himself. Annoyed with Akira. Annoyed that... his annoyance is rapidly fading.

Akira smells so fucking good and looks incredible over top of him, chest heaving and face flushed, staring down at him like he wants to devour him alive. His hair is mussed and he's panting, skin shining with sweat and he looks so utterly debauched that it's unreal. All they're doing is sparring. All they're doing is fighting, and there's an aching pressure against his—

Oh no.

He can't do this, he cannot do this!

Akira freezes abruptly over him, eyes widening, grip on his hair loosening even as those damn hips subtly gyrate harder against his crotch. The urgent spice of cinnamon on his tongue, coating his teeth and his palate is too much, he can't stand it.

Using the surge of adrenaline from the realization of what is actually happening oh my God, he bucks his hips sharply, ignores the stuttering whine that the motion draws from the Omega over top of him, and flips them. It's less of a scuffle now than it was before, with Akira apparently just allowing it to happen, but it ends like this:

Goro is over top of him straddling his thighs. Not his hips, because then Akira could potentially pull the same move he just did or knee him in the back. His wrists are gathered and pinned down over his head hard, keeping him from grabbing his ponytail again. And he is trying very, very hard not to think about what this position looks like, or how thickly Akira's scent blooms in response.

Thank goodness they're in the middle of the ring.

"Akira," he hisses, choosing to blame the flush on his face on exertion rather than Literally Anything Else, "What the actual fuck?"

Why is he turned on like this? Has the separation really left him so… so desperate? Goro has to be missing something, something obvious, something right in front of his nose…

That’s the second time someone’s asked him that today, and the first time he actually has an answer.

Akira's chest is heaving, taking in lungful after lungful of Akechi's scent. It riles him up even more. His lip curls back and he snarls at Akechi—for the way he has him trapped, for the way he's looming over him and doing nothing. Not touching, not scenting, not tasting—Akira thrashes, attempting to break the vise grip on his wrists. Akechi apparently is expecting that and bears down on him harder. This was supposed to help Akira vent out his frustrations, not amplify them even more.

Akira had ignored the signs his body had been sending him. The mood swings and irritation, the attitude and lack of patience, the—what had Beers said he smelled like? Desperation? Yeah. That. He'd been on suppressants for years; he'd forgotten what it felt like to be close to his Heat. How long did he have before it hit? He doesn't know, and it aggravates him further.

“Is this why you were given a day off?” Goro hisses, leaning in and pressing him down harder. Akira’s still squirming powerfully, doing his damnedest to break free. At this point, though, Goro is more afraid that he’s going to get ravished if he lets him up instead of being pinned.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Akira growls and thrashes against the hold but Akechi gives him no quarter. "Get off."

He’s completely incapacitated and at Akechi’s mercy. After a minute Akira tires out, abandoning his resistance in favor of catching his breath.

It works against him.

His lips part and he gets a mouthful of Akechi. Their noses bump when Akira tips his chin up in an attempt to taste more.

The sight under him is deeply tantalizing. So much so, it’s… frightening. What exactly is it that pulls him closer, inadvisably so to the man under him?

His eyes snapping with fury but dulled with a simmering heat that pierced through to his core?

His warmth under his hips, the solidity of him, the way he fit so well under him?

Their general compatibility? Was it deeper than physicality? Could it be kismet?

Akira smells so fucking good, and it’s all amplified by the sweat and the flush that’s spreading down his neck. The pink of his face contrasted with the spice-tang of his scent against the vicious snarl on his face.

The sight of his fangs, tiny and Omegan though they are, sends an unfortunate curl of heat up his spine. Combined with the heady scent of cinnamon on that brink of too thick, searing away everything else in his nose and the entire world with it as he leans in, desperate for more and to lick into his mouth and get a true taste of him—

“Gonna give us an encore, your Highness?!”

The jeer inspires a rippling cascade of laughter and hooting, and Goro abruptly snaps upright, his entire head on fire as he realizes exactly how close they’d gotten. What it must have looked like, oh God.

What the fuck.

He immediately releases Akira’s wrists, getting off of him and stepping back to give him space.

The rowdy cat calls douse the fire that had been building in Akira. Slightly. Now that he's stopped fighting he's not being driven by pure adrenaline anymore, it's enough to shock him back to reality—he's lying in a pile of dirt, horny, frustrated, freezing, in the middle of a crowd mocking them.

Akira is up and on his feet in the blink of an eye and bumping into Akechi on his way past him. He doesn't bother putting his shirt back on, opting to throw his coat over his bare skin, the shirt over his shoulder, and hop out of the ring without looking back.

He has to do something about this predicament he's in before it's too late.

Goro doesn’t even get a chance to offer to help him up before he’s halfway to the fence.

“Akira—“ he starts, only for whatever he was going to say to die in his throat as he watches him yank his clothes back on. The humiliation is obvious, and Goro’s stomach churns unhappily.

He’s upset, he can smell it. Did he do something wrong? He obliged him with a fight, he didn’t take it easy on him… kind of, he only flipped them after he needed to. Everyone saw how good Akira was. Was that not enough?

…maybe he needs to follow him and apologize. Maybe bring him food. Maybe it was hunger, maybe he wanted a new coat, maybe he—

Akira’s scent fades as Goro stands there deliberating, and on his next breath, it’s all crisp, clear air. He jolts, abruptly realizing where his thoughts were.

What the fuck.

That was what mates did, not… whatever they were. Why was his brain telling him to appease…?

Akira under him, flushed and heated, eyes glassy and mouth half-opened—

And that works, since soon enough he’s dragged into another bout by someone who’s suddenly gained some confidence after seeing the Prince get taken down by an Omega.

As soon as he’s able, he needs to go after him, and ask him what’s going on. He doesn’t spend nearly enough time with Omegas to figure this out by himself.

That was thoroughly counterproductive, so much so, it may have made everything worse.

As he walks through the halls in a hurry, Akira buttons his coat together to keep it from flapping open. He doesn't need to deal with scorn alongside the judgmental looks he's already getting storming through the castle. He entertains the idea of bursting back into the kitchens to give Beers a piece of his agitated mind but he's already so far away, and he'd have to double back and march past the same groups of nobles and their servants again. ...so that's out. For now.

He continues on his mission to the Infirmary, which is where he should have gone in the first place in hindsight. Gods, he hopes Chiaki is on shift and not dealing with an emergency so she can be free to deal with his. Turning the corner and dodging another small group of onlookers who whisper and snicker as he passes— he’s sure he looks a right mess after that fight—he sees the Infirmary archway and picks up his pace. He's not so much running as he is power walking as he enters, frantically looking for the one person he's banking on saving him from himself.

He spies her heading toward their supply room and rushes to catch up.

In her long and illustrious time here in the Northern Fortress, Chiaki has come to terms with many principles that tend to hold true, regardless of the situation. They are a series of standing stones, the groundwork from which she can accurately assess any decisions that need to be made, and commit to doing what must be done. The foundational pillars of morality and medicine both.

There were three main tenets, those which stood taller and held truer than any others:

One, and the tallest of them all... The King was a liar. Self-explanatory. Thinking too hard on that one would drive her to madness and treason, and neither of those options held much interest for her at this moment in time.

Two. Injuries were always either much more severe or much less severe than purported. There was rarely ever any in between.

Three. If she heard running, something was very, very wrong.

And here and now, even her old (well, middle aged, to be more accurate) ears catch the sound of someone rushing towards her, she knows whatever is about to happen, it won’t be pretty. She turns towards the sound and her eyes widen slightly at the sight of Akira, rumpled and clearly in a tizzy, rushing towards her. "Akira? Are you alright?"

“Aha, depends who you ask,” Akira says in lieu of a greeting. He lowers his voice to a low whisper, even though the closest nurse is still a good distance away from them. “I need to speak with you. In private.”

He realizes he’s still holding his shirt in his left hand and quickly stuffs it into his coat pocket.

“It’s urgent.”

Chiaki’s eyes flick towards the motion, and she lets out an exasperated breath, inhaling to ask him exactly why he was running around shirtless—and stops, her eyes widening. The scent of cinnamon in the air is nearly tangible with how thick it is, and she understands without him saying a word.

“Come with me,” she urges him, taking his arm in a firm grip and ushering him back into the infirmary proper. Instead of towards the beds, however, she pulls him towards the side where an old door is half hidden behind the overfull shelves.

Pushing it open reveals an office, and she wastes no time in sitting him down in one of the ancient, comfortable chairs before closing it behind them.

It’s a smaller room, perhaps a supply closet once upon a time. The walls are made of worn gray stone that would be cruel and unfeeling if unadorned, a small sink attached to one wall… but full of a softer warmth due to the various objects scattered around. Shelves and bookcases are packed to the brim with various books and keepsakes, all of them carefully arranged and dust-free. Tucked in the corner by the door, invisible unless one came inside, was a smaller, low table that had a pair of unlit candles on the edges of it. More keepsakes sit on this one, small slips of paper tucked under each and every one.

“When did you notice?” she asks, hunting through the jars of preserved herbs on one of the shelves next to the makeshift shrine. She’s tragically lacking in some of the best ones, which is… annoying. Perhaps the kitchens have what she needs, but she doubts she’ll be able to get away long enough to make a trip there and back.

"This morning. Woke up restless and irritated… couldn't figure out why," Akira begins to explain, thinking back to his morning and how he'd been unreasonably grouchy from the moment he opened his eyes. “And I’ve felt that way all day.”

…was it really this morning that his symptoms started? Or just had just gotten bad enough to become an overt problem? Akira's stomach drops.

"But actually, now that I'm thinking about it… I've been pent up for a few days now. I didn't really put two and two together because there are some days when Beers just gets on my nerves, like I get on his. I thought he was the one with an attitude, not me..."

Akira winces. It'd been him all along. Fuck. He owes Beers an apology. Or three.

"It became obvious to me that it's the first sign of my Heat when I—uh—decided sparring with Akechi was how I was going to blow off some steam. It… didn't exactly work."

She’s nodding along, in complete agreement with his assessment. Most Omegas, it seemed, weren’t completely in tune with their Heat symptoms. It was understandable that he didn’t recognize the signs, and instead—

Wait.

Her fingers pause over plucking out a few leaves. “You did what?” she asks, turning back towards him in disbelief. “Akira—”

“I know, I know,” Akira rushes to say, holding up his hands placatingly.

Her scent sharpens with her expression.

“I was so graciously given a day off from the kitchens and told to either blow off steam or get fucked. We both know the latter isn’t happening,” (Chiaki sighs deeply), “so I thought punching his Highness would make me feel better.” Akira crosses his arms and digs his fingers into his biceps and mutters. “It was stupid, I shouldn’t have listened to Beers.”

Of course, it was Beers.

Some days she wishes to strangle that man.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She agrees, turning back to her jars.This bag won’t be quite as strong as she knows he’ll need later, so her focus is more on symptom relief than any actual contraceptive just yet. A few more dried leaves and buds get selected before she’s satisfied, and before long she’s adding them all in a teabag, bustling around as they converse. “I’m shocked you didn’t go into full Heat right there in the courtyard, with all the pheromones those Alphas give off,” she tells him bluntly. “Did you at least get in a few hits?”

Honestly, it is a miracle his Heat wasn’t triggered on the spot. He’d be feeling much worse—well, actually he’d be feeling pretty good, and needy—if it had. Maybe it’s a testament to his sheer willpower.

“I did,” Akira proudly boasts, relaxing a fraction when he realizes Chiaki isn’t going to shame him. With a small smirk he adds, “I downed him first. He didn’t see it coming.”

“Now that’s impressive,” Chiaki hums, steady hands making a cup of tea with the ease of long practice. “I haven’t heard of anyone downing the Prince in quite some time. You should be proud.”

Turning back towards him, she presses the warm cup into his hands. “Let it steep for a while longer,” she advises him. “It’ll be more effective that way.”

The praise makes his omega instincts preen, but a part of him hesitates. Toppling Akechi will probably have consequences for the Prince; Akira has a feeling he’s going to be in the ring fighting a lot longer than he planned to today.

He accepts the tea and stares into it. “What is it, may I ask?”

“Chamomile, rue, ginger, and a few other ingredients,” Chiaki tells him. “Mostly natural contraceptives and symptom relievers. Along with a few others to lessen the eventual fever, and to suppress your scent. It should give you enough time to make it back to wherever you intend to spend your Heat, be it alone or in the Prince’s bed.”

Akira swallows thickly.

It's only a symptom reliever, not a suppressing one. If he doesn't take a suppressant within the next few hours it'll be useless. Akira's running out of time.

"Chiaki," he breathes, "I appreciate this I really do, but I can't go into Heat. Not here, not now."

The tremor in his voice is obvious. He’s afraid, and Chiaki can’t rightly blame him. Going through a Heat in a strange land was already frightening enough, and add in the complicated situation he found himself in with Goro, and his identity…

Sympathy pools in her gut, and she reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “What I’ve given you there is already skirting the edges of legality,” she tells him quietly. “Six years back, his Majesty completely outlawed nearly all forms of suppressants for Heat or Rut, declaring that they were signs of humanity that should be celebrated rather than hidden.” She can’t help the way her voice edges into disdain by the end of it.

She made her opinion of that motion very clear when it had initially been proposed decades back, and of course, her concerns and vocal opposition were ignored. That particular injustice still stings sometimes, mostly when the strain of childbirth takes her patients away before their time; what was the point of her position as Head Healer if her opinions about healing were ignored? More than a few of the names on her shrine are for those taken far too young for something they never chose.

Akira goes rigid beneath Chiaki’s touch while his heart rate skyrockets through the ceiling of her office. He’d gotten suppressants before from a back alley doctor he befriended on his first night in the North, so he’d thought it was just highly restricted, available only in certain parts of the North, not outlawed entirely. What a fool he was to think the Fortress would have any to begin with.

His throat is as dry as parchment and his voice rubs against it like sandpaper when he confesses, “I’ve been suppressing my Heat for five years.”

He’s so fucked.

…for five years?

Chiaki’s eyes widen, and she can’t even begin to hide the horror growing on her face, matching his own. “…you can’t be much younger than the Prince…?”

A thought strikes her then, suddenly and out of nowhere and she snaps back upright, dread lurching in her gut.

“Have you ever gone through a Heat with anyone else?”

Akira grows even more uncomfortable. The last time he'd been in Heat he was eighteen and he'd been living in the Southern Pantheon. He hadn't even had sex yet at that point; too concerned about trying to help fight a war he didn't want to partake in. How the hell does he explain that to Chiaki?

He can't.

He's surely gone three shades paler standing here under her watch, and his scent turns bitter.

"No."

There’s a beat of silence, and then Chiaki says a few things that she’d rather not be repeated. Judging from how Akira winces and shrinks back, he won’t be spreading them around. Once that is out of her system, she takes a breath. Professional, serious advice is what is needed here. Not emotional cursing and instinctive reactions.

“You have to tell His Highness,” she tells him firmly. “If he hasn’t already figured it out. But you need to tell him what you’ve just told me. You cannot hide this from him, do you hear me?”

If Akira does not tell him, and if Goro succumbs to the natural Alpha instincts she knows he will… when that particular truth comes out, no one will handle it well. Goro is too predisposed to jump to conclusions and second-guess the intentions of others. Akira is too prone, from what she can tell, to refusing to speak candidly on any subject.

Together it was a recipe for disaster that would lead to a messy implosion of what went unspoken between them.

Tell Akechi.

Akira has no idea how to approach the subject with him at all. While most of the conversations they’ve had over the last six weeks have been stilted and awkward, there were a few occasional nights where they stayed up way too late debating something inane… but that didn’t mean they were on good enough terms where Akira could just waltz up to him and demand a week of his time to fuck him stupid. Akechi’s stance on sex was very clear.

This is the worst thing that could ever have happened.

He hadn’t been expecting it so soon. He thought he had at least another month before it hit—plenty of time to make an escape and get more illegal suppressants from Takemi. This is what Akira gets for putting it off, even though he has good reasons for doing so—the security is so fucking high he can barely breathe without seeing five guards. The Fortress truly feels more like a prison than a castle. Now that his Heat is almost here, there’s absolutely no way he can attempt to get out. He’ll get caught before he can even leave the building.

Akira takes in a quick breath, opens his mouth to speak, and then exhales sharply. He can’t do it. He takes a sip of his tea instead. It has a kick to it, the strong ginger notes coming through on his tongue. He really hopes this can alleviate these symptoms so he can stop fuming over his sexual frustration.

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbles into his cup.

She can tell he has already thought about it and decided against it. Irritation bubbles up in her chest and is very quickly shoved back down with a soft sigh.

“That’s all I can ask,” she tells him, turning back to gather up a few more tea bags.

“Are you planning on spending it alone, then? If so, I can send you to the same place the servants go and give you supplies to lessen the symptoms and your scent.” Anything to keep him from doing something silly. He’s done so well lately, she doesn’t want to see him break that streak.

"The thought of spending it with someone seems mortifying," Akira says, then takes another sip. The tea actually tastes very good. "Even more so with the Prince."

The thought of Akechi seeing him like that, so vulnerable and weak, churns Akira's stomach. He can't appear weak. He'll lose the meager respect he's managed to earn over the past few weeks and he can't afford that. A part of him withers and curls in upon itself as he thinks about what he's about to face.

"I appreciate your assistance and discretion, Chiaki-san."

“I admit I would rather you put your pride aside, but I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.” Chiaki sighs, putting together a bundle of things he may need. “It will end much quicker and be much more pleasant with company. Being alone will only make it take longer.”

…but at least the risk of anything… catching would be drastically reduced. Unless someone—

No. She won’t even think such a thing; the odds of someone even attempting to go down there after what happened last time are astronomically low.

“From what I can tell, you should have a few more hours before it fully sets in. Do you remember anything about your previous Heats? Duration, intensity…?”

Akira's grip tightens on his cup.

How much to admit? How much does he hide?

"They were about five days, intensity peaked in the middle... the third day was always the worst," Akira says and decides that since Chiaki has done nothing but be kind to him, he should extend trust. "...Don't know how much that is even relevant, I'd only ever gone through it twice before I started suppressing them."

Twice-

Chiaki’s nostrils flare, and she's grateful that she's facing the other way. Otherwise, he might have seen the way her expression pinches. Two Heats.

"It's very relevant," she replies patiently once she's sure she's got a grip again. "If you only went through two of them, I doubt your cycle managed to stabilize properly. This one likely won’t follow the same pattern. It might be worse, or lighter."

"Fantastic," Akira deadpans. He raises his tea in mock cheers and says, "Bottom's up."

The tea is hot so it burns a bit on its way down but what Akira's about to face is going to be much more uncomfortable. He might start chugging down as much of this brew as he can. Even without his shirt, he's already beginning to feel a little overheated under his coat.

"Where should I go?" he asks, setting the empty teacup on her desk lightly. "I want to make as few waves as possible. If I see Akechi when I go up to his quarters to gather the few personal items I have—" his pillow, maybe one or two of the bedsheets with Akechi's scent to make the world's most pitiful nest, "—I'll let him know what I intend to do."

"...There’s a hallway at the end of the servant’s quarters, closed off by an iron door. It leads to the boiler rooms," Chiaki tells him after a moment's thought. "Only the engineers typically go there, but they’re all Betas and won’t harm you. It's close enough to the kitchens that you can likely sneak in and ask for some handouts in between waves, as well. I usually send my nurses there if they don't have a mate handy and don't feel safe in their rooms. The doors have locks on them for that purpose, so you can sleep soundly."

She turns in time to see him put down his cup after chugging the tea, and her eyes flick toward it. "You should have drunk that more slowly,” she chides him, coming closer and pressing the small bag full of supplies into his hands. "If you drink too much too fast, you'll end up more miserable than you already will be."

"I'd take a sore throat over what's to come any day," Akira says, tucking away the bag into one of his coat's deep pockets.

With a plan in place, even if it's the world's most miserable plan, it makes Akira feel a little more stable. The details he can work on his way to the boiler rooms.

Perhaps he should try to catch Akechi before he heads up to his quarters, so he doesn't alarm him if he walks in and sees his bed getting stripped—that would be a dead giveaway for what’s going on. He'll just tell Akechi he's coming down with a bug and is going to quarantine for a few days. If Akechi pushes, Akira can just say he doesn't want to risk infecting him, not with all the important court meetings going on while the various Lords are visiting.

Foolproof.

"I should probably let Beers know too, shouldn't I? I won't be able to work while I'm—otherwise occupied."

Also, he should if he's going to be sneaking into the kitchens to make tea and steal bread. The last thing Akira needs is to have Beers catch him without understanding. He wants to keep his job, thanks.

“I will let Beers know,” Chiaki corrects him firmly, her tone brokering no argument. “Don’t waste what time you have with tasks you can delegate. Go get situated, and if you think you have time, leave a sign by whichever door you chose so I know where to leave more tea.”

He’s so… silly. So independent when he doesn’t need to be. It’s both endearing and a little sad, especially when she compares those similarities to Goro. Hopefully soon they’ll figure out they’re more alike than they have any right to be, and that will lead to a significant decrease in heart-to-heart conversations on her part. Not that she minds them, but she’s a firm believer in communication over senseless pining.

“Is there anything else I should know, little shadow? Any underlying conditions?”

Akira lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Pretty sure I just admitted more than I ever have in my life to one person in one conversation, so no… unless I suddenly discover a condition between now and a few hours from now…”

Akira wants to evaporate on the spot. He’s at his most vulnerable and practically spilled his guts to this healer he’s known for basically two months. Granted, she’s the sole reason he’s breathing at this moment, so he rationalizes that she’s the safest person he could confide in. He trusts her enough to keep this secret, trusts her to make excuses for him… which is more than he’s trusted anyone in a very long time.

“There’s nothing I can think of to say, other than this is going to be perhaps the most miserable experience of my life, but I’ll deal with it,” he says with a smile, bowing to her and adding more seriously, “Thanks again, Chiaki-san, I owe you a few.”

"You would owe me nothing if you were smarter about the decisions you make," Chiaki notes dryly but sighs. At this point, she's accepted that the majority of her patients have about as much sense as there is grass outside this fortress. Disappointing, but merely a fact of life.

"Go on then; get settled before it gets started."

She helps him out of the chair, takes his hand and squeezes it, and ushers him out the door of both her office and the infirmary.

The tea sits in his belly, warm and more filling than Akira expects, quieting the way his body had been practically vibrating with need. His head already is beginning to feel clearer with each step he takes. He gives Chiaki a parting nod and slips into the hall.

Groups of Nobles chatter among each other, clearly uncaring that they are in the way of the irritated-looking nursing staff who have to squeeze around them to get in and out. No wonder Chiaki had been getting supplies; she was likely the only one who had enough authority to even ask them to move. There’s a particularly large group congregating in the middle of it, a trio of nobles and their slew of servants chatting none too quietly. Akira skirts around the edges of it, trying to move past unseen. It’s unfortunate that the moment he looks up his eyes lock with that of a handsomely scarred noble.

Lord Asakura. Akira finds it hard to break the man’s intriguing stare. It’s unsettling the way he can feel the Lord’s eye following him past the circle of gossiping nobility and down the hall. His skin crawls until he turns the corner and Asakura’s gaze finally breaks.

Akira sighs and feels a weight lift off his shoulders. The man’s presence is commanding and heavy, and no matter how handsome he is it doesn’t make Akira feel good. It feels… predatory. He shakes it off and feels a twinge of guilt for the Lord’s new mate. She has to deal with it all the time.

He winds his way through the castle back toward the training area, hoping Akechi hasn’t left yet.

He gets his answer before he even gets to the training grounds.

A sharp turn later, and he's suddenly face to face with a stranger... or, face to towel that definitely looks like it's seen better days. It's obvious why he didn't stop, given that he was in the middle of scrubbing his face with it.

"Hey!" The towel is yanked down, revealing blue eyes (one steadily darkening and swollen,) and short-cropped black hair. The scent of petrichor (Alpha Alpha Alpha) is coming off of him in waves. "Shoot, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Are you okay?"

Akira so badly wants to ask, Do I look okay to you?! but holds his tongue. No need to take out his mounting unease from his latest interaction on this unsuspecting soldier, who after a second Akira recognizes as the Alpha that Goro fought this morning, Kuze.

“I’m in a hurry, I’m looking for the Crown Prince—it’s urgent,” Akira explains in as few words as possible. He hopes the tea in his system is helping to mask his scent. “I need to speak with him.”

“With the Prince?” Kuze repeats, eyebrows shooting up as he looks him over for a moment before he brightens with recognition. “Oh! Wait, you’re his Omega! You just kicked his ass earlier!”

The grin that crosses his face is easy, wide, and genuine. “That was awesome. I haven’t seen anyone take him down like that in years!” He’s clearly ignoring the ‘urgent’ part, too wrapped up in his enthusiasm.

“Aha, yes that was me,” Akira says weakly with a smile.

He’s flattered, he really is. He just doesn’t have the time for this conversation.

“Do you know if he’s still in the training area?”

Akira hopes to all the Gods Akechi is just watching, not actually fighting.

“Yeah! I think Sanada was fighting him still when I left!” Kuze replies enthusiastically. “He’s probably gonna be there all day, most everyone wants to see if they can get him off guard like you did. Hey, do you think you could show me how you—?” He kicks his leg a little dramatically, a poor imitation of the sweep he’d used to knock the Prince over.

In any other circumstance, Akira would have been more than happy to. Kuze was probably the second nicest person he’s ever had a conversation with (Chiaki being first) but at this moment, Akira is dying a little inside.

“Of course, but ah, I can’t right now. There’s something extremely important I need to tell the Prince.”

He has the tea to thank for keeping him so level-headed, but it’s not a miracle drug. It’s staving off the worst but it can’t stop it from coming. Akira’s body tingles uncomfortably.

“Could you…” Akira trails off, suddenly unsure how Akechi would react if some random grunt was once again informing him of terrible news related to his Omega. Fuck. “Could you tell him I was looking for him?”

“Absolutely!” Kuze nods enthusiastically, clearly happy to help. “Want me to tell him to go find you? He’ll probably drop everything if I say it’s urgent.”

Some of the enthusiasm drains from him as he stands there, now clearly taking in how rough he looked. “Are… you okay? Do you need me to go get him now?”

It’s finally dawning on this plucky guy that No, Akira is Not Okay and is actually beginning to fall apart at the seams.

Akira nods and manages to get out without too much strain, “Please.”

Kuze’s eyes widen slightly, and he has the decency to look somewhat abashed as he turns and starts heading back to the training grounds—

“Okay yeah just, stay right there, I’ll be right back!”

The last Akira sees of him is his back, jogging away at a decent clip. He’s at least taking his urgency seriously now, it looks like.

Relief makes his shoulders sag.

Okay, all he has to do now is wait right here until Akechi comes out so he can tell him he's sick and needs to quarantine for a few days. He leans against the corridor wall and runs through versions of how he might say it and sound convincing, and comes to the realization of how fucking stupid it sounds. Even an Alpha with half a brain would see right through his excuse, and unfortunately, Akechi has more brains than the last ten Alphas Akira saw on his way over. There's no way he's going to buy it.

Seconds turn to minutes and Akira's anxiety doesn't abate. Nor does Akechi show. It's taking Kuze an awfully long time to inform Akechi his sick Omega needs to talk to him. Unless he still hasn't been able to reach him yet because he's in the middle of a fight.

Ten minutes turn to twenty.

Fuck

The sound of voices approaching amps up Akira's worry—borderline paranoia at this point—and he flees. He can't stay here. People will notice. Gossip travels so fast, it wouldn’t surprise Akira if everyone found out about his Heat before Akechi did.

Akira has a choice; go up to Akechi's quarters, grab a few things, and hope that Akechi has enough foresight to look for him there, or, head straight to the boiler room which is so much closer and with the least amount of people he might encounter. What ends up making the decision for him is the wave of tension that rolls through his body from his gut and up his spine. It disorients him and he trips, throwing out an arm to catch his balance.

"Shit," Akira mutters, taking several deep breaths to calm himself.

The tea must be starting to wear off. Gods, Akira is not prepared for this. He'd forgotten just how strong they are, and how they're only going to get worse.

The boiler room it is.

In the annals of the Northern Fortress' history, the boiler rooms that span a good portion of the underside of the Fortress remain a frequently admired aspect of its daunting construction... for those who cared about such things. Not many did, but those scholarly few who relished such topics frequently found themselves engrossed in various aspects of their existence, from their size to the means by which they remained full and ever-burning, to the sheer scale of the layers of contingency after contingency laid in place if any of the numerous, massive boilers lined up along the walls of the many rooms ever failed.

It was a maze of a place, thick metal pipes running along the walls and ceilings, disappearing up into the stonework of the Fortress to the living quarters up above, and anywhere else the heated water was necessary. It was a masterpiece of structural architecture, of the scope of human planning. The hot water circulated constantly through the pipes that spiderwebbed through the stonework, adding much-needed heat to the structure along with the various fireplaces that were built into the framework as well, both sources of heat compounding to make sure that the Fortress was never without warmth; a necessary function to survive in the frozen wastes.

The constant snowmelt was funneled down through a complex series of filters and collectors that lined the top and the sides of both the fortress and the various greenhouses, all piping back down into the boilers. Multiple generations of boiler technology were in use, showcasing exactly how much time and effort went into developing better options and more sophisticated ways to maintain their lifestyles. Boilers were only replaced if they were at the end of their service life, and were frequently checked for issues and potential malfunctions. It allowed the Fortress to have a rotating series of contingency plans, with thick reinforced walls separating the multiple boilers to prevent anything catastrophic from spreading and to allow the fortress to maintain structural integrity above ground.

Multiple engineers had spent their lifetimes down in these rooms, obsessively checking over the complex machinery that allowed the looming monstrosity up above to stay hospitable... and a not insignificant number of them had lost their lives in the process. Regardless of the failsafes and contingencies put in place, accidents happen, and every single one of the processes and rules that were put in place for the care and maintenance of the underground boiler room had been written in blood.

And those whose blood had written the rules lingered to make sure they were followed. Stories were told of arrogant newcomers who thought they knew better. Who thought they could cut corners, who thought they knew enough to streamline the process while disregarding the rules that had been put in place so long ago. Anyone who tried to disturb the rituals and the safeguards, anyone who attempted to come in ignorant of the customs, and tried to ruin centuries of mechanisms meant to keep those who maintained them safe...

They often did not last long, citing restless sleep, a 'malevolent' presence around them they couldn't detect, and strange... accidents. Pipes would crack at very specific points to spit steam directly toward these supervisors, burning them, and the fix would be relatively simple... for anyone who wasn't the victim. Unnatural noises, quiet footsteps, the occasional shriek of metal that sounded far, far too human…

In the North, the consensus was that ghosts were not only real, but they existed in the bowels of the Fortress and around the wastes. Any traumatic death could leave a spirit, the last remnant of one who wasn't quite ready to go. Unfinished business was something taken very seriously, and there were those who dedicated their lives to helping those lost souls satisfy their last requests... though any attempt to settle those that took up residence in the boilers below was never truly successful. As they dedicated their lives to the upkeep of the Fortress, so did they dedicate their afterlife.

That fact, along with the general eeriness of the place, made it so that no one but the engineers tended to stay there for long periods of time... making it a perfect hiding spot for anyone who wished to stay undisturbed. The engineers knew better than to try and chase out anyone who sought refuge in the boilers; it wasn't a place one went willingly, after all, and the spirits who lurked there didn't only include those who died in the line of duty. Stories were told of Omegas who were caught down there, their screams drowned out by the roaring of metal and steam, and how those tormented souls still held a grudge against any Alpha who dared to try and enter. It was a perfect hiding spot, and every Beta who worked down there merely offered friendly nods toward those who situated themselves in any of the rooms that lined the hot, darkened hallways.

The rooms themselves were fairly sizable, each one containing two to three boilers situated against the far walls. The churning of water inside was dull, but noticeable, a soft roar that eventually faded into white noise. Materials for nests were left in baskets by the door, blankets and furs left by those who wished to appease the spirits who lingered, and to help ease the suffering of anyone who found themselves in the rooms for the night. There was no furniture, not when it was a safety hazard, nothing but the bare minimum. A floor, blankets... and the boilers, pipes winding overhead and back out into the corridors. Sometime in its history as a place of refuge, locks had been placed on many of the doors, locking from the inside. It was a rite of passage that any senior engineer was given a master key, and only those Betas had keys. Anyone who attempted to make copies quickly found themselves losing either the set, or their minds.

The room Akira found himself in was the same as the rest; dull, and empty except for nest materials, and a lock on the door. There were two boilers in the room against the back, hulking monstrosities of metal and steam that worked tirelessly and radiated heat. The pipes overhead looked fairly new, glinting above his head in the lantern light. He passed no one along the way; it was deserted.

He was alone.

He sags against the door frame, overheated and tense, and takes stock of a basket of nesting materials along the wall. He sends a silent thank you to Chiaki and pries himself off the doorway to stumble to the basket. He draws one of the furs and buries his face in it. It smells of fresh linen and nothing else; clean and sterile, ready to take on the scent of the person using it. A tiny part of Akira whines that it doesn't smell like his Alpha but he shuts it up quickly. Akechi doesn’t need to see him like this. Actually, no one needs to see him like this. After not having had a Heat in years, he knows it’s going to hit him like a runaway cart and trample him. It’s going to be bad and he’d rather lock himself away to save face. He’s strong, resilient Joker, he can handle anything.

He scents the blankets one by one and begins to build a small pile by some of the large pipes. They loom above, thrumming with energy that makes Akira feel less alone, as odd as that is. He doesn’t want anyone to see but deep down, the old instinctual fears of being separated from the pack make him anxious. The pipes feel protective in a way he can’t explain.

It’s unfortunate that in this instance, those instincts were right. Busy nesting, and fighting off the need to curl up in it before it’s done, he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s too late.

“You’re a tricky one to hunt, thief. I’ll give you that,” an arrogant, teasing voice calls out to him, followed by a distinct wave of smothering pine. Alpha. “Unfortunately for you, I’m a much better hunter than most.”

It’s then Akira realizes he left the door open.

“I am surprised, though,” the Alpha continues, stepping inside. Akira twists to watch two more men file in behind him, fanning out and blocking the door completely. “I would have thought you’d be spending all your time with your Alpha.”

Lord Asakura smiles, and while the grin is friendly, his single eye is cold, calculating. “Did he kick you out? A little spat between the happy couple?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck

Akira clenches the fur blanket like a lifeline. Three. Three Alphas, though the other two clearly are lackeys. However, these three aren’t just regular guards, these three are, by the looks of it, seasoned soldiers. The Lord is a former general of all people. It’s an unfair fight—Akira knows that’s what it’s going to turn into—but he has faced and beaten worse odds.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, my Lord,” Akira says levelly. His mind races through multiple escape plans at once, analyzing his options. None of them look promising. “Nor do I believe his Highness will think kindly of you inquiring.”

“Probably not,” Asakura agrees, casually walking further into the room. There’s no weapon on him, at least not visibly. “His Highness doesn’t think highly of me anyways though, so I don’t think much will change in that regard.” He chuckles quietly, and the two Alphas behind him both smirk.

“So disregarding what His Highness will think, I find myself curious. What are you doing down here of all places?” A hand comes up to his chin, thoughtful and mocking. “Avoiding someone, perhaps? Or hiding?” There’s a playful curl in his voice.

Thank the Gods his Heat hasn’t actually started yet, otherwise his scent would have sent them all into an aggressive frenzy, but the nest he’s building gives away that it’s close.

“Naïveté is not a good look on you, if I may be so bold,” Akira says, clearly not caring how bold he’s being. “I think you should leave before you do something you’ll regret.”

The pipes above their heads groan, but none of them look up. Asakura’s grin fades, down to a strange little half-smile that spells nothing good. “I think I’m too old to start having regrets now, thief. But aren’t you sweet, worrying about little old me.”

Nothing outwardly changes, but the deliberate stride he takes towards him, slow and unhurried, is that of a predator. Intent is thick around him, and his eye never leaves Akira’s own. “Now here’s the question; are you going to make this easy, or harder than it needs to be? I warn you, I don’t care much about… damaging property, even as pretty as you are. And, well… especially not Prince Shido’s.”

Akira’s eyes narrow as he bristles at the implication.

“You need to leave, my Lord,” he tells him lowly.

He’s settled on a plan, the best one he could think of in thirty seconds. His muscles tense, poised to spring.

“Despite your master, I don’t think you have the authority to send me away.” Closer, closer he comes; close enough that Akira can smell the thick pine, the harsh tang of clean metal. Cloying and crisp all at once, thick with Alpha pheromones. “It’s funny, though. I came here fully prepared to have to speed this along. But from what I can tell, though… I don’t think I’ll need it. You’re in Heat, aren’t you? I thought that’s why you were down here, but I didn’t think the servants still used this old place.”

Behind them, one of the other Alphas kicks the door closed, and the metal screeches as it goes, a metallic scream that sounds far too human.

Akira’s heart lodges itself in his throat. Shit. That complicates things. Quite a bit.

“Do you only have one eye?” Akira retorts flatly.

Anger flashes across the Lord’s face and that's the opportunity Akira takes to strike. He lunges forward, throwing the blanket over the Lord’s head, and kicks his right knee as hard as he can, it disorients him enough for Akira to dart around him and slam into the Alpha on his right. They grapple for a moment before Akira trips him and manages to shove him into the other attacking Alpha.

His hand lands on the handle of the door and he thinks for one brief euphoric moment he’s gotten away with it—until a hand comes down on the back of his neck.

“Oh, you’re a fighter, aren’t you?” Asakura hisses, large fingers digging into his neck, directly above the glands. There’s a pinpoint accuracy to how he does it, digits calloused and cold against his skin. “That’s good! That keeps things interesting!”

He yanks Akira back against him, until he collides with his heavier body, and his other arm wraps firmly around his chest like a thick iron band. The thick stench of pine flares from him, smothering and pungent.

“It’s just a shame you aren’t at your best. I’d almost like to try to see who would win… or, well, how long you’d last.”

The other Alphas stagger back up to their feet, both of them looking furious as matching snarls fill the air, aggressive hormones flooding the small room.

There's so much assaulting all of Akira’s senses right now; the press of a strong arm across his body, the throbbing in his neck from the grip, the scents of all three Alphas clogging his lungs, the taste of their lust in the air, the domineering stances that fill Akira's vision—it's a miracle he can think straight.

"Why wait to find out?" Akira slams his head backward as hard as he can.

Pain erupts throughout the back of his head, but Akira wouldn't trade it for anything when the sound of a sickening crunch reaches his ears a second later. The Lord howls behind him and his grip loosens a fraction, giving Akira room to wiggle out of it—

—Until the two Alphas in front of him pull him into another grapple and bring him to his knees. Each one pinning an arm and stepping on one of his feet to ensure he won't escape. It doesn't matter how much he struggles, they have the upper hand, the leverage, the weight, and the aggression to keep him in check.

For the first time since he was a child, Akira truly panics. Fear floods his system, and not even the night he was claimed could compare to what he feels now—with three, angry, lusting Alphas hellbent on taking out whatever grudge they have against the Prince on him. He hates how helpless he feels, how stupid he is for not checking behind him and locking the door.

Not to mention if they fuck him during his Heat...

Akira's fear skyrockets even further as he snarls in their grips.

"You won't get away with this," he barks out, deciding if this is his fate, he's going to make it as unpleasant and uncomfortable for them as possible, too.

There's no response, not until Lord Asakura crouches in front of him. Blood pours down his face out of his nose, obviously broken, but he ignores it to grin crookedly at Akira. The white of his teeth contrasts disturbingly against the deep crimson dripping off his chin. "I might not," he agrees, reaching up to gently touch his nose and wince briefly.

His hand comes back down slowly, and he studies him for a moment before continuing. "But see, I don't mind the failure." Reaching back into his pocket, he pulls out a capped syringe, gleaming sickly in the light. As Akira watches, he pulls of the small, clear cap, tossing it aside and leaving the sharp tip exposed. "Of course, success is the goal. But—ah, hang on. I suppose you're too young yet to know this, so here's a little life lesson, free of charge."

His hand shoots out, snagging into his hair in a brutal grip, wrenching his head back to expose his neck. "When making a plan, it's a good idea to account for your failures, and figure out how to spin those to your advantage, too." Heedless of Akira's ragged, terrified breaths and the thick scent of fear, he presses the cool metal tip of the syringe to his neck directly over his gland that's pumping out distressed pheromones. "For example, if I fail..."

He jabs the needle into his skin, directly into the gland. "You and your bastard Alpha will remember this for the rest of your lives, and that's victory enough for me." His smile goes cold and cruel as the syringe slowly empties its contents into his bloodstream.

Above them, the pipes shriek from the strain, a metallic rattling reverberating through the room.

Akira goes still as the needle pierces his neck and gasps as Asakura injects whatever the hell is in its syringe. For a moment, Akira feels nothing save the sting from the puncture and nothing else. He thinks it might not have any effect after all, maybe it is just a scare tactic—

Oh no.

Its onset takes a few seconds. A gradual burn that starts in his neck and steadily works its way down, down, down… He'd already felt slightly hot before the serum, but this… this drug is making it a hundred times worse. His temperature climbs, well past what he'd felt earlier, and his senses start to muddle. His belly grows tense, and lower still he finds he’s achingly empty. His breath comes in deep, ragged pants as if he can’t quite get enough oxygen into his lungs. His brain latches onto the strongest scent in the room and that bitter hit of pine makes his head spin. There's a loud noise that pulls Akira out of himself and back to the present, in the room with three hungry Alphas. When he turns his head towards the sound, the world needs a second to catch up, moving in slow motion to focus on what Akira's turned to look at. The pipes. The pipes are groaning, a discordant cry that almost seems human.

A cold hand on his chin forces his attention back to the man before him. He warps into focus, bloodied and bitter.

"Let me get a good look at you."

The hand leaves his chin and joins the other by Akira's neck. With a violent motion that makes Akira flinch in his captors' holds, Asakura tears open the front of his coat with his claws, scratching him hard enough to draw blood and revealing Akira's flushed and overheated chest and torso to the cool air. It's both relief and agony, as the Lord's solitary, gleaming eye roams over his exposed skin. His stomach churns under the hungry gaze. He tries to shift away, but the arms binding him only grip tighter and force him forward. His muscles throb beneath their fingers.

"What a pity your body is being wasted on someone like the young Prince." He drags his claws down Akira's sternum leaving a trail of burning pain in their wake and the others force him to bear it. It repulses Akira to be touched by this Alpha—-Not his Alpha, he wants his Alpha—-"I bet he doesn't even know how to fuck you properly. He's always been a weak Alpha."

"I doubt you know the first thing about satisfying an omega," Akira spits, all inhibitions spirited away by the drug making his mouth a lot looser than it normally would be, "You seem like the type to cum in two minutes—that is if you can still get it up long enough to knot. How old are you again?"

"We’ll see if I can’t make you sing a different tune. Give that tongue of his something else to do," he commands to the man on Akira's left. "And see if that improves his mood at all."

The atmosphere shifts, malevolent and hungry intent filling the air.

“Gladly,” the one on the left growls; he’s the Alpha that Akira initially tripped, and he’s clearly still pissed about it. His hand comes off Akira’s shoulder—

the pipes rattle overhead, vibrating with the force of the steam pressure—

—down towards the front of his pants—

the boiler behind them rumbles ominously, the flames in it roaring higher and flooding the room with red, reflecting off Asakura’s single eye

—where after a few shifts of thick fabric—

something hits the ground nearby with a metallic sound

—his cock is free. A vicious grin crosses his face, and the Alpha grabs Akira’s hair now to turn him towards his exposed member.

CRACK.

A burst of steam abruptly fills the air, superheated vapor pouring in from overhead directly into the face of the approaching Alpha. An agonized scream drowns out the droning hiss of escaping air, and the man staggers backward to try and escape it. He lets go of Akira in the process, and the other man releases him as well in his shock.

Asakura recoils, single eye wide, but barrels forward regardless to yank the man out of the way of the burst pipe. Akira is briefly forgotten as Asakura forcibly pulls the man’s hands away from his face to check the damage, shock and horror replacing the previous overwhelming blanket scents of fury and lust.

In the chaos of the burst, Akira wastes no time and staggers to get out of the room. Wrenching the door open, he throws himself through it and promptly slams it closed, his shoulder smacking against it. There’s so much thick steam permeating the hall, making it hazy and humid. The hot air clings to him like a second skin as he wades through it. The man who took the brunt of it is still screaming when Akira reaches the end of the hall. Burning up, shaken, full of adrenaline, cramping with need, and rising high full of whatever they drugged him with, Akira stumbles his way out of the boiler rooms and into the Fortress proper.

Going there had been a mistake.

No, Akira shakes his head, they’d been following him. From the infirmary, he realizes. Anywhere he might have gone would have been a mistake. Will continue to still be a mistake because Akira knows once they recover, they’ll track his scent to finish the job. Whatever it was, Akira doesn’t want to find out. Nowhere is safe, except… the one place Akira shouldn’t go in this state.

Even just thinking of Akechi has him tripping and falling into the wall. Alpha. He gasps and wraps an arm tightly around his bare stomach to soothe the latest wave of tense heat coiling in his belly, threatening to knock him over. He can’t go to Akechi like this—clearly incapacitated and well into the beginnings of his Heat. His scent is starting to come through stronger too, meaning his miracle tea has finally worn off. He doesn’t have much time left before it gets worse.

At least he hasn’t started to slick yet. Small blessings that won’t last forever.

He looks back up down the hall and it distorts, phasing out into a long, never-ending stretch of stone and twinkling lights. The sight makes him woozy and he stumbles forward a step before catching himself again.

Should he go back to the training yard? Full of hot-headed, frustrated Alphas he might have been able to fend off if hadn’t been drugged. It would make things so much more difficult for Akechi. Or wait, how much time has passed since he left for the boiler room? Probably enough by now that Akechi would be long gone from there. In the hot springs, bathing with the other Alphas? Or could he be in the grand hall—was there a council meeting today? His head pounds when he tries to think about it all. Gods, he hopes it’s not a council meeting, but his gut is telling him it’d be just his luck. He should go where he should have gone in the first place.

Another wave hits him, rolls from his lower body up his spine, and back down again in a shudder.

Fuck it all. He hates to admit it, but he needs Akechi now, in more ways than one. It’s not like he could lose any more of his dignity anyway. With as much composure as he can summon, Akira sets off toward Akechi’s room to face his inevitable fate.