A/N: I'm honestly surprised this fandom's so small. Well, here's my contribution to the extremely shallow pool of Sion x Ryner fics here - I started this while watching episode 8, I think, so it may be a tad inconsistent with the rest of the story line. This takes place well before Sion goes completely nuts.

Warnings: boy-on-boy & citrusfruits

The Heart Knows What the Head Denies

TAves

It was cold, in the castle. Not the cold of each nightly lapse of sunshine, but the pervading kind of cold that seeped slowly down through the grim granite blocks and ran like an undercurrent through the place. He could feel it now, the wretched taint rising through the tiles beneath his feet, prising ever wider the thread like cracks flowering on the pristine marble squares. Snaking upwards, clutching his ankles and burrowing into his skin. The coldness that rooted there – a harmless seedling at first, but soon -

He was relieved, at the cold. It helped ease the unnatural flush on his cheeks, and stop the rolling of his stomach (and his tongue too, as he searched for the remains of a meal worth more than the company he'd enjoyed it with). The party was like all the others – a pointless procession of the same men with their arms occupied by carousels of women, horse-faces, pointy chinned, slit eyed – the thick scent of a thousand bodies sweating in tune to a frantic orchestra.

The wine calmed him, he'd discovered that early. A few glasses and he could imagine himself in a meadow, watching the little nobleman bees buzzing around a field of flowers, commanding squadrons of smaller bugs, and he – the child with the butterfly net – calmly catching each one and placing them in small glass jars with holes poked in the top. There those little bodies would buzz and buzz and buzz, each time a little less hopeful, until they would silently give up and nap on the glass bottom. He'd built up quite a collection, he thought ruefully, the amount of insects he'd caught during those alcohol slurred moments would have made him a fine collector in his own right.

As if waking from a dream, the doors to his chambers were suddenly before him. Blinking bleary eyed at the imposing mahogany, he raised a hand to knock before realising that he'd no superior now. He was King. All doors opened when he drew near. By knocking, he was being polite to nobody but himself. Shaking long silver locks from his face – not that it helped him see any further – he pushed the doors open and slid inside.

The desk. The shelf of books, half bent from the weight of the atlases and historical documents strewn on the panels. The single window; opened just a slit to bait in the cool night breeze. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, he noted with disapproval. The wine was bad enough, and the heat merely exacerbated the problem He pressed cool fingers to his cheeks and sighed, the hot breath mingling with the heat from the fire, both whisked away by the fleeting night breeze.

The bed lay where it always had, a monolith tucked to the side of the room, solemn and ancient. Even so, it seemed to be twice the distance. Perhaps three glasses of the Margoret Bridge was a bit too much, even after the two weeks of Bernard Rubys'. Finally, he allowed himself to collapse on the sheets and felt too heavy to move a limb.

It was warm, pleasantly so, and suddenly he understood why the fire was lit. The ambience was perfect – the night air balanced the oppressive heat until the blankets became a lullaby, gently folding him in its feathered layers and whispering sweet promises of dreams unfettered by nobility, history, kingship…

Ryner.

The thought drew both a groan and sigh from his lips. That man's dream – that kingdom of 'afternoon naps' – was drawing seemingly further away as Sion sought to reach it. It was akin to the desert mirage of the waterhole, an unreachable reflection of the dry sky. Yet, Ryner's eyes on that day, the inconsolable expression of loss and distrust – not at him, but his promises - plagued Sion the most. That moment had been the final confirmation, he knew; what traded the simple kaki uniform for the heavy velvet laced robes of a King.

"Ryner," he mumbled and tasted the syllables. "Ryner."

He pressed his face into the pillow and shuddered. You are King, he repeated to himself. Yes, but you are also a man. He thrust the thought ruthlessly away. A King does not have the capacity to be both. But you do. You're special, Sion Astal. You are the man who moved a kingdom.

His breath came quicker now, and his hand grappled at the sheets. The wine coloured his world vibrant sunbursts of red. With a violent gasp, he collapsed again. "Ryner," he groaned, and hugged the pillow into him, curled tightly as he used to, as a child (the faded feathered cushion scarce comfort from the scars and scabs tattooed on his small, pale body).

"Sion?" The low whisper would have been almost inaudible, but for its owner being so close to Sion's ear.

"…Ryner?" Slowly, hesitantly, he turned to face the other side of the bed.

Ryner was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, clothes half-on and each breath exuding a distinctive sweetness. Baroche Midore, Sion reacted. One glass could render a weaker man unconscious.

Ignoring, for the moment, that they were two men sharing a bed, Sion said hesitantly: "You've been drinking."

"So have you!" the other man protested, an arm reaching over intending to punch Sion's arm but missed – fingers uncurling to brush the man's torso instead. "Seriously, you nobles cooped up in your castles and parties and the like, drinking the good wine and eating the good food. You don't know how good you've got it, Sion."

The silver haired man smiled ruefully and drew a little closer, tugging the sheets closer to him. Ryner swore under his breath and took the bait, shrinking from the bare air and shuffling across until the two were almost nose to nose. Sion could smell it clearly now – it was Baroche Midore without a doubt, the cloying scent mingling with something distinct to Ryner, an indescribable mixture of salt and dull mint. "Ryner, you misunderstand," he said softly. "You're the one who has it easy." The alcohol seemed to sharpen his bitterness.

"I know," was the prompt reply. "It was sarcasm. Sarcasm. Sion, you think people don't notice, when you come out of your room and smile like the bloody sunshine every fucking day? It's precisely. Those. Times. When I know there's something going on." Each word was punctuated with a strong push to the silver haired man's chest.

Sion was silent. So you know, he thought.

Except the magician couldn't know the pain of Kings; it was a peculiar sort, born from the perfect symbol being embodied by an imperfect man.

"…I'm glad," he said finally, softly. The hand he reached out to stroke Ryner's crow-coloured hair trembled. Ryner's eyes were closed, even as he tilted his temple into his touch.

"Sion, you're smiling, aren't you?" Ryner said, head resting beneath Sion's palm.

"Of course," he replied, but he was King. Ryner's hair was damp and smelled like smoke. The tavern, Sion sensed, with the wood smoke from the fire mixing with the grass smoke from the pipes of strangers. How long had it been, he wondered, since he was truly relaxed in a room of strangers? Even with Ryner there, motionless under his touch but for the gentle rise of his chest - how long would those illusionary lulls last?

His eyes roamed from the stray tufts of Ryner's raven hair splayed on the pillow, to the closed eyes, to slack lips with a trace of drool loitering lazily down the man's angular chin. It taunted him, how easily it could trace the soft contours of the magician's face when he could not. Just a little, he thought, and a shiver rose. Gently, he reached down and stroked the bead of liquid away from the man's lips.

Ryner's eyes snapped open. They swivelled and fixed on Sion's amber ones, wide. Sion pressed his lips together, but didn't remove his hand. They were close – the distance was a figment of the mind, so easily could it be destroyed. But he was watchful – the uneasy shifting of Ryner's eyelashes and the quickening of his breath, laden with the sweetness of pomegranate – was it wariness? Had he destroyed the trust he'd placed so much effort in building?

A small pink tongue darted out, wetting dry lips. Sion felt his gaze irresistibly drawn, and could not help be wonder at the tenderness. What would it taste of? A tantalizing fantasy: the texture of Ryner's skin and the feeling of his breath entwined with his own.

"Sion…" Ryner whispered his name like there was something constricting his throat, voice thin.

He couldn't tell. In some ways, the simple human could contain more complexity that a whole empire. Slowly, his other arm rose and his hand wove itself into Ryner's hair, twisting into the rope like strands. There was a pained hesitation in the other man's eyes, as he opened his mouth in a soft protest-

-to be captured by Sion's lips. Sion pulled the magician's head in and pressed deeper, dipping desperately into the forbidden nectar. A faintness gripped Sion's head. Ryner was impossibly sweet, and he dipped his tongue in again and again, grappling with Ryner's own slick muscle. The barest second was sacrificed for breath, until finally, Ryner placed both hands on Sion's shoulders and pushed them apart.

A pause, punctuated only by harsh, uneasy breathes.

Gasping, face flushed and pupils large, Ryner met Sion's gaze. "Idiot," he muttered. "You'd better take care of that."

Sion started, and a slow pink blossomed across pale cheeks. "Just," he said, and paused, dominated by the profuse blush. "Just so you know… I'm not so… experienced with these things."

Ryner paused and regarded the silver-haired man for a few seconds, brows knitted and eyes sharp. Suddenly, he chuckled. "As expected of a King."

Before Sion could react, Ryner was pushing him down, quick fingers working to unfasten clothing; needless obstruction to the sweetness of bare skin. He slipped his hands along Sion's chest, eyes drinking in pale unblemished skin stretched over taut muscle. Sion regarded him with careful golden eyes, conscious of the disturbed air brushing over his naked skin. Had he ever been so vulnerable before?

Ryner's hands traced the contours of muscle with a delicacy born of reverence, gently brushing a nipple, circling around his navel before dipping deeper. Sion tensed - a heat had seeded in his stomach, accompanied by a strangled jolt of desire. "Ah- !" he gasped. He fought with himself for control – then instinctively, he suddenly knew. Ryner was before him, still with one hand so innocently stroking his shaft, a vague smirk playing on his lips. But an urge to push down, to dominate, was crashing over him and with a single move he pinned Ryner down, eliciting a surprised gasp from the magician.

Ryner was staring at him, lips parted. Sion's hair was glowing almost unearthly silver in the moonlight, golden eyes luminous in the darkness. The body poised above the man had just the right balance of muscle and bone, sharp where it brought out the strength in his shoulders and elegance of his bones, and muscular on the arms and legs, but not overly so. His skin was pale, but not sickly, aglow with the flush of arousal. Unobstructed, the slender fingers of one pale hand snaked under Ryner's shirt and removed it, and his pants followed. Not until they were both bare, skin upon skin and breath upon breath did Sion finally bend down and press a gentle kiss onto Ryner's lips.

"Ryner…?" Sion breathed as they broke apart. There was something slicked onto Sion's fingers, a thick clear liquid slippery to the touch.

Ryner blushed, and turned his face away. "Just do it, Sion- Ah!"

Sion pressed a slender finger into the other man and watched the magician hiss as he looked at Sion through half-lidded eyes, ascertaining the silver haired man's intentions before suddenly; those hips were rocking on that finger in a silent plea. "Sion…" Ryner's cheeks were flushed. "I can't…"

Gently, Sion slid another digit in, feeling the muscles on Ryner's thighs tense. A sharp inhale was all the indication of the discomfort the magician felt before it settled into soft moans. In, and out, he slid the digits, feeling the muscles clench and the hips bucking. Control was tight on breaking point. Sion leant down and swallowed Ryner's lips, teeth nipping and tongue darting in a dance for dominance. He groaned as Ryner's tongue stroked the roof of his mouth, and growing a bit desperate and adventurous, he slipped kisses down the man's neck and along his collarbone, and the harsh pants elicited was all the testimony he needed and finally he placed his hands on either side of the man's hips and withdrew the fingers.

For a moment, they regarded each other, swollen lips and eyes dark with lust, Sion's silver hair spools of moonlight mingling with the dark earth of Ryner's hair. "Tell me," Sion whispered, "to stop now." Ryner raised his eyebrows and a slow grin formed on his lips.

"Now?" he laughed. It was a breathless one, saturated with a hunger and desire. "Look at us."

Sion met Ryner's eyes, bright with reflected moonlight and grinning insolently at the King – except it wasn't the King, it was Sion he was looking at. And then he considered his own body, hot and poised on the brink he had pulled himself from. A courtesy, he reminded himself and stopped to grin at his own foolishness. He had taken it too far to be excused by a mere courtesy.

"Mmph-" Ryner groaned as Sion brought his lips back down to kiss his own, tilting the man's head back to reach the sweetest areas. Sion tensed as he felt Ryner's fingers tangling in his hair, trailing gently down until they rested on his hips. An unspoken urgency sparked between both, and quickly, quickly-

Sion broke the kiss, and pressed Ryner down firmly into the mattress. Quietly, reverently, he pressed a slow kiss onto the man's delicate throat, and rested his head on Ryner's chest, watchful for his heartbeat. The two lay there for a moment, tucked in a little alcove of messed white bed sheets which hid the silver strands of Sion's hair, and caught the slender needles of moonlight peering in through the bars of the window. He was relaxed, Sion realised, or as much as he could be given his physical condition. Gently, he licked Ryner's navel, eliciting a soft sigh from the man.

Suddenly, the body beneath him shifted. "Sion," Ryner growled.

The silver haired man laughed lightly. "It's the shyness," he confessed, lifting himself off the bed.

Ryner made an expression of almost philosophical sarcasm. Leaning forward, he bent down and brushed the man's pale cheeks with a gentle kiss. "Liar," he mumbled, "your face is only just barely warm." and Sion's reply was lost in a gasp of pleasure as Ryner trailed down and bit one nipple.

He burned a constellation of kisses down Sion's torso, memorizing the parts where Sion gasped the most with the diligence of a scholar. Suddenly, he stopped and looked to Sion with an expression of both wonder and a tinge of laughter. His hand drifted slowly towards his hips, eyes latched on Sion's; a silent conversation exchanged.

Sion smiled and pulled Ryner in for a chaste joining of lips. "It's alright," he said as they broke apart. "I'll be gentle."

Ryner made a bemused expression. "I would still like to walk after this."

Sion laughed, but his eyes were solemn as Ryner spread himself on the mattress and beckoned to Sion with glowing brown irises. Sion hovered over him. The magician's cheeks were flushed a dark shade of cherry – from both the wine and arousal, Sion thought and noted the same within his own body, an urge to take and mark as his own. He watched the other man's expression change, as he enveloped himself in a cocoon of fierce heat. Ryner's teeth were tearing into his lips, eyebrows knitted and hands clenched on Sion's shoulders. He gasped, and suddenly his hips were rocking slowly – a curious brightness of pleasure lighting his eyes from behind a film of tears.

Carefully, he moved, and Ryner's hips met him. It was curiously rhythmic – each thrust following the contraction of his heart. A coil was winding in his stomach, the heat flowering and rooting until his senses were dominated by Ryner – the soft moans, growing in anxiety and desire, the scent exuded by his hair, the firmness of his muscles beneath Sion's hands. "-Sion!" the man gasped, and moaned with the deep thrust that followed. His hands were tightening in the sheets, throat bared and eyes fixed on Sion's own. "I-I can't -"

With a cry, he came, knees drawing into himself even as Sion pressed his hips apart and thrust the final few times to release the coil. Suddenly, he felt a rising sensation, as if he was falling from a great height, and gasped Ryner's name in a plea for salvation. Feeling suddenly lifeless, he collapsed on Ryner's body.

There was a thick milky liquid splattered on his stomach, on the previously pristine sheets. He wondered if the maid would know, and what she would think, and how many rumours would spread, and how that would impact his goal. Almost as if Ryner knew, Sion found his head being gathered in a silent embrace.

"Shush-" Ryner was whispering, chest still heaving for breath. "You haven't slept at all, haven't you, tyrant."

Indeed, Sion wanted to reply, but he felt too comfortable, too content to move his lips. Giving in with a sigh, he draped himself over the magician and let his eyes shutter close. I love you, his heart added, but his head pretended to not have heard.

Aftermath

"And why are you on the King's bed?"

Ferris's questioning was growing more direct by the minute.

Ryner feigned a sneeze. "I'm sick, can't you see?"

Her eyebrows had almost reached the roof. "Oh?" she paused. "And I suppose you're so sick that you can't walk, is that it?"

The magician winced. "Yeah…"

"And where is Sion today?"

The memories from the night blazed up in a brilliant distraction. Ryner fought a losing battle against the blush creeping onto his cheeks. "Busy," he muttered, and seeing no other resort, ducked under the covers. "Go away, Ferris. I have pervert germs, a thousand times more contagious than regular ones."

The door clicked. "Yes Ferris, he's very sick. You'd do well to keep away to preserve your health."

"Sion!" the two cried in synchrony.

Sion smiled, glowing. "Good morning."

Ryner shivered. He's sparkling, he's definitely sparkling.

"Well…" Ferris hummed. "If the King says so…" She turned to Ryner and grinned, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Get well soon. I have a very large stash of dango just begging to be carried."

A/N: -dies-

Trivia: my word document was (and still is) titled 'cannot write anymore'. I'm glad to have proven myself wrong c: