kinkfest | "these troubles all silent" (Onmyouji, Seimei/Hiromasa)

Title: these troubles all silent
Author:

nekokoban
Rating: PG
Warnings: n/a
Word count: 463
Summary: From the prompt: Onmyouji, Seimei/Hiromasa: intoxication - "Like moonlight reflecting off of sake."

The trouble, Hiromasa thinks, is not that Seimei is unpopular by any means: quite the opposite, really. The rare times he comes to court, princesses and servant-girls and married women all giggle from behind silk screens and long sleeves and paper fans, and even among the courtiers and ministers there are those who watch hopeful hungry eyes. He is charming and just mysterious enough to intrigue, and always smiles like there's a joke dissolving upon his tongue. Of course the court would be enamored of him: he is acknowledged the most powerful onmyouji of the court, he has saved the Emperor and country both multiple times; he is young (or he *appears* young, and that is a question Hiromasa is not brave enough to ask) and handsome, and moves gracefully as a dancer even if all he is doing is crossing the room.

Hiromasa knows this. He has been asked several times to carry poetry and other small tokens to Seimei: perfumed letters and fine silks and any number of things. And he does so, dutifully, though he knows they will all end up the same: tossed aside carelessly, papers and silks and small trinkets fluttering as they fall. Sometimes he'll make little breezes carry them in a brief dance so that Mitsumushi can chase them, her own long sleeves fluttering gracefully. It is always on the tip of his tongue to ask -- to scold, really, because it's unkind to discard tokens of affection -- but he always finds himself falling silent instead, watching.

When he is done, then Seimei will often turn Hiromasa and smile, fox-eyes bright. "Well then!" he says, like he has just washed his hands of the matter. "Now that you are here, Hiromasa, let's have a game!"

And they'll play shougi, or shiritori, or any number of things that Seimei inevitably wins; as punishment game, Hiromasa is made to play his flute. Seimei listens with his eyes closed and Mitsumishi at his feet. Sometimes he doesn't sing, but sometimes he does. His voice is low and pleasant, untrained but graceful as the rest of him. Hiromasa finds himself sometimes distracted by that, playing more by instinct than memory.

There are times where he closes his eyes for what seems like only a heartbeat and opens them to dark skies, far too late to trouble his servants to come fetch him, and ends up staying as a guest at the Abe estate instead. Late into the night, he sits beside Seimei as Mitsumushi pours them both sake, and he watches the pale white line of Seimei's throat and the red bow of his mouth, and thinks: the white snow of winter and the moon in the bowl of this sake cup are nothing compared to you, my lord.