Mikoto doesn't presume to understand Munakata. The Blue King has always been good at maintaining a facade, at staying cool and composed under stress, whether political or physical or emotional. But he understands the other man enough that when the door to his cell opens, he's not at all surprised to look up into violet eyes.
Munakata steps inside, lets the door swing shut behind him. Mikoto rolls his shoulders, considering staying prone for a moment, then swings himself upright after all, though he doesn't bother to straighten from his slouch. Munakata's more than stiff enough for the both of them, his uniform crisp and clean as his posture in front of the cell door, like he's Mikoto's personal jailer.
"Munakata," Mikoto says after a moment, when it becomes clear that the other King intends to simply watch him. It's better than being shoved against the wall, at least. "What are you doing here?" He shifts his legs out in front of him, lets himself slide down the wall an inch. "Did you change your mind about my offer?"
"You know I can't accept your suggestion," Munakata says. His voice is perfectly level, as crisp as his clothes, absent the warmth of affection or hate or humanity alike. "It's not feasible."
"So we're back to the first option," Mikoto says steadily. His voice is steady too. It's not like he had more than a fleeting hope of Munakata accepting his suggestion in the first place.
"You could step down," Munakata says.
Mikoto doesn't bother answering that, just lets a smile curve over his mouth as he watches Munakata's face. After a moment, the Blue King reaches up to touch the bridge of his glasses, a needless adjustment that speaks more to his discomfort than anything else.
"Could I at least have some cigarettes while I wait?" Mikoto asks, not because he's expecting agreement but just to break the pool of silence forming in the space between them.
When Munakata moves, it's so fast that Mikoto is flinching back in involuntary anticipation of a blow before he realizes the other King isn't moving towards him at all. The slam of his fist against the cell wall makes him blink, and the stiffness in Munakata's shoulders shifts with the motion of Mikoto's eyelashes, starts to look like desperation instead of distance.
"I don't want this," Munakata says without turning around, and his voice is hot now, it's cracking open into emotion that is painful to hear. "I don't want this, Suoh."
Mikoto relaxes back against the wall, letting tension bleed out of him as he watches it shake Munakata's shoulders out of that clean line. "There's not another option." His voice is level, heavy with resignation and the bleak satisfaction of his decision, the impossibility of any other choice.
"There has to be another option," Munakata grates, and he's turning, he's surging forward and his hand is clutching a desperate fist at Mikoto's shoulder. The thin fabric of the t-shirt bunches under the force, fits itself into Munakata's fingers, and Mikoto leans into the pull, tips slightly sideways in response to the force. Munakata's face is very close, his glasses translucent this near, and Mikoto can see the shine to the color in his eyes, the too-fast pattern to his blinking and the shake to his mouth. "There must be, give this up, I'll hunt down the murderer for you."
"It wasn't your clansman," Mikoto says. His voice doesn't shake, his words come easy. This is just truth, there's no getting around this fact.
"Don't do this." Munakata's hold on his shirt drags him forward, slams him back against the wall, and Mikoto's still flinching from the impact when Munakata leans in to kiss him.
It's not the way it was before. There's no gentleness to this, none of the surprising affection Mikoto has seen under Munakata's shell, not even the thrilling almost-violence of pure want that characterized their first interludes. This hurts, Munakata's pushing too hard and Mikoto's shoved up against the wall with nowhere to go, the other's teeth are catching at his lip until Mikoto thinks he might be bleeding. He's not going to protest, not when this might be the last time he'll ever get this, but when he parts his lips and tips his head Munakata takes a sobbing breath and draws back, drops his head against Mikoto's shoulder and gasps desperate lungfuls of air while his other hand digs into the other's red hair like he can hold him there by force.
"Don't." It's not a command anymore, it's not even a plea. There's no hope behind the word, anymore. "Don't, Mikoto. Please don't."
Mikoto wishes his hands were free. They're pinned down awkwardly by his restraints and the weight of Munakata's body pressed against him, and the Blue King's uniform is pulling sideways and Mikoto would like to know if the strands of hair at the back of his neck are as soft as they always are, if Munakata's skin is as warm under the cool containment of his uniform as it always is. But his hands are restrained, and he can't reach up to pull the other in closer like he wants to, the cuffs are between them like a physical representation of their tangled responsibilities.
But he can feel the warmth of Munakata's forehead through his shirt, the damp of tears slowly soaking through to his skin, and when he tips his head sideways he can press his lips to the other's dark hair.
"Sorry, Reisi," he says, and his voice does catch, on that. "I can't."