He isn't fooled by the other man's advances, the erotic words whispered in his ear, the slip of his hand down his back and over his ass. He isn't fooled, and his companion doesn't entertain himself with the thought that he is either, both knowing what they're looking for in one another without ever speaking it.
It is not Judal that he wants, and it is not Hakuryuu that the Magi craves.
And yet, somehow, they understand their own needs and each other's without saying so much as a single word on the matter.
He closes his eyes as his many layers are pulled from his body, not caring if Judal rips anything at this point; he has been so wound up, so desperate for that one person that he cannot have, can never hope to have, that he will take all that the Magi offers him as compensation for his emotional pain. He takes Judal by his rope of a braid and tugs him in as the older man struggles out of his pants, pressing his tongue into the eager mouth, teeth clacking in their raw need for a warm, reciprocating body for the night. He is not shy tonight, and Judal loves it.
The Magi's desires are obvious to anyone who talks to him, for he never shuts up about the damn king of Sindria, but for tonight it seems he is able to keep his lip buttoned.
He enters him roughly without preparing him thoroughly enough, and Hakuryuu can't hide the tears that leak from his eyes no more than he can silence the pained groan in his throat. He rocks back on his knees in the semi-darkness, eyes pressed shut as he imagines it is not Judal who is fucking him from behind, and knows full well that Judal is imagining it is an entirely different person underneath him too. He entertains his fantasies, pretending he can feel the pin pricks of too-long nails digging into his hips instead of the Magi's blunt ones, imagines that the scent of the other person isn't that of peaches, but of flowers and grass and life.
He can never have Zagan, just as Judal can never have Sinbad, but for now, at least, they can pretend.
He bites into the pillow as he comes, slamming his hips backwards into Judal's for all he's worth, milking his orgasm just that little bit longer, the name of his Djinn hot on his lips, repeated like a mantra as he cries into the pillow. The slap slap slap of Judal's hips comes to an abrupt stop as he spills inside the prince, breath ragged, head thrown back in pure ecstasy, Sinbad's name ripped from him in a strangled moan. They can never make it through a session without both slipping up at the end.
He does not stay, does not feed his need to cuddle after sex, does not indulge in the wishes of being kissed and teased and loved. Judal is already bored of his company, now that his purpose has been filled, and he leaves for his room, briefly, vaguely wondering if Judal is also fighting back the body-wracking sobs that threaten to engulf his whole person.