The Lion's Breath
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People use too many words. That was always what he believed. Too many variations of love and hate, sacrifice and suffering to be classified, named. Mikoto Suoh spoke a different language; his words always brief, but they would linger in the air as strong as the smoke from his cigarette.

But when they dragged Misaki Yata back to him, bloodied and bruised with a gaping wound in his leg where a jagged metal rod had skewered its way through, the red king had no words to spare. At least not for everyone to hear.

"A freak accident," Izumo quipped, "I've never seen him go down that way- but these things happen to even the best of us." He tried reading Mikoto's expression. He found nothing there.
The rest of HOMRA had crowded around their wounded comrade. Yata kept his head lowered, indignant to anyone's pity. As if they would look down on him for this kind of screw up. . .

Once the red king's commanding eyes fell on him, however, Misaki dropped the defensive facade. His eyes lit up with a special brand of fierceness, tinged with respect. A small stream of blood still ran fresh from the corner of his mouth.
From behind Mikoto's legs the silver haired girl peeked out to dab it away with her own little handkerchief. It stained the white fabric a more fitting shade for their company where it touched. Anna could already since the king's distinctive unease with Misaki's state. Something

"Should I make him a place on the couch?" offered Totsuka in that gentle tone he always kept. It was usually expected of him to make these sorts of arrangements.
Mikoto only grunted in objection. He issued a nod toward the upstairs room he kept only for himself. Though unspoken it was settled that Misaki would not be disturbed there for the time being.
This was a matter he would deal with personally.

-

Mikoto's own bed was quite large. For a man who spent a good deal of his time sleeping it was naturally comfortable. The lone sheet that covered it was tousled from the king's restlessness and his scent clung to it. Yata took a deep, ragged breath; it calmed him immediately. He could let his guard down now that the door was closed. He was safe enough.

The two were finally isolated from the rest. Mikoto Suoh could find his words now from where he loomed over the scathed body of his subject.

"They tell me the hospital threw you out after they removed the scrap metal." Mikoto put his dying cigarette out of its misery. "I'm not surprised."

"Nothing like a rebar through the shin to keep you from getting careless," Yata managed a smirk. He knew he would be fine, though he bore a strong resemblance to roadkill at the moment. "It was worth it. They've gotta learn to keep your name out of their shit-eating mouths."

Mikoto's eyes narrowed. "That seems a bit much."

"Yeah well there's no way I could have let it slide."

"And you would for forfeit your life for whatever honor you think I've got to my name?" It seemed so trivial the way he said it. The only thing he cared to have attached to his name was fear.

Misaki didn't hesitate. "Not without a fight. But I would."

Perhaps he answered too quickly. His leader turned from him, broad shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh. There were times he felt the gravity of his position. The weaker threw themselves into the fray in his name.
Totsuka came to mind as well. But they were the strong ones, really. Underneath. Mikoto had no one to fear, when all was said and done.

"Don't you... know you're the reason I'm still alive," Misaki added hurriedly.

I'm the reason you're broken right now. Mikoto couldn't help seeing him as the smallest of their clan, despite his strength. In a way it made him furious to see him this way. But yes. You are one of my own still. Mine.
His silent glare remained. They had never spoken this way before.

"I'm- I'm an idiot," Misaki admitted, looking visibly embarrassed by then, "without your power I wouldn't have a chance in hell surviving where I've had to. Everything I owe y-"

Mikoto had run out of the few words he cared to use. After shedding his coat he settled on the bed.

The young man's every muscle tensed as the warmth of his king's entire body pressed against his back. Incredible warmth. Fire waiting to spark.
Hot breath against the back of his neck was unnerving for a moment, but within moments the heart in his chest seemed to calm with the rhythm of Mikoto's breathing.

It was honestly rare for him to exercise his right to claim whatever he wanted. Whoever he wanted. But now...

His wounded subject grew anxious, sensing the powerful aura radiating from the body lying against him. He squirmed a little.

"Be still," Mikoto demanded as he secured the smaller male with one arm. Part of Misaki wanted to challenge that order, just to feel the deep rumble of the king's voice resonate through him again.

His red aura was strength to be given; he would give it, unconditionally, to those loyal enough to receive it. And it could heal just the same- he was certain it would if he willed it. The king had complete control. The pain would dissipate as strength was restored. His touch would only speed the process...

Misaki felt his waist pulled closer. They had an excuse for what was happening between them, and with that he could excuse being fondled, his still-tender body explored without so much as a word of preparation. He would never have let anyone else get so far with him; he couldn't even speak, only letting out tiny gasps of appreciation, unaware of the strength every fiber of his being regained by the moment.

Naturally their mouths sought each other out, dominant claiming submissive in an assurance of surrender; every movement gentle but deliberate. It took an incredible amount of restraint not to escalate into something more vigorous... After all, they were pair of violent beasts playing a delicate game together. At least there was a reason.

To his core, the red king would always be reckless. The lion would always have his way.