Rating: T [slash]
Pairings: MasakixKichijouji, a.k.a. Ichijou/Cardinal George
Disclaimer: "The Irregular at Magic High School" is the property of Satou Tsutomu. The fanfic author is not making any money from this story.
Author's Note: Although the English anime subtitles call Kichijouji Shinkurou "George," I'll be using "Kichijouji," like the light novel. In Japanese, Masaki calls him "Jouji," so I will have Masaki do that in my stories, too. Obviously, "Jouji" is a nickname from Kichijouji, but "Jouji" is also the Japanese version of "George." (Satou is being clever.)
Name Order: I prefer to render Japanese names as they truly are—surname first—even when writing in English.
Kichijouji Shinkurou was, quite frankly, a nervous wreck.
Not that he let on to anyone.
Some fifteen miles from the Yokohama harbor, the bus had stopped. Several students were still nauseated from having seen Masaki explode the enemy forces one by one. The bus driver let everyone exit, and most of them had clustered on the nearby beach, trying to breathe fresh air and settle their stomachs. A few had vomited.
Kichijouji, however, was focused on the plumes of smoke rising from the harbor and imagining Masaki still fighting. It wasn't that Kichijouji doubted Masaki's ability to fight. He had seen the Crimson Prince both in practice and in battle. It was simply that Kichijouji understood strategy, and the Japanese forces had been outnumbered when the bus departed. That was hardly comforting.
Kichijouji and Masaki had been best friends for three years now. But more than that, when Kichijouji's parents had died, the Ichijou Clan had taken him in and saved him from the horrors of the magicians' orphanages. That was enough for Kichijouji to declare his undying loyalty to the family, and by extension, to Masaki.
But most of all, Kichijouji was in love with Masaki.
As a result, Kichijouji was just as nauseated as everyone else, only for a different reason: he feared Masaki would be wounded. Or worse.
And Kichijouji felt—with no dramatic flourish whatsoever—that without Ichijou Masaki, there was no Kichijouji Shinkurou.
An excruciating twelve hours passed before Kichijouji arrived at the Ichijou residence, and during all that time, there had been no word. Another two hours passed after that before it was verified that Masaki was alive and well. This relieved Kichijouji's basic fears. But there was no way for Masaki to come home yet, and that left Kichijouji on edge. Noticing this, Mr. and Mrs. Ichijou talked Kichijouji into spending a few nights at their house rather than in the Third High dorm.
It wasn't until the evening of the next day that Masaki arrived. It was all Kichijouji could do to stay calm upon seeing him. Mr. Ichijou commended Masaki for upholding the family's values, fulfilling his duty as the eldest son, and protecting their nation in its time of trouble. Mrs. Ichijou gave her son a warm hug. Both of Masaki's younger sisters dropped in long enough to reassure themselves and then tease Masaki, claiming that he aimed to be the world's youngest war hero.
Kichijouji stood by in the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, a properly polite expression on his face.
Once the rest of the family withdrew, Kichijouji followed Masaki upstairs. As usual, Masaki's clothes were ruined by blood splatters—Kichijouji assumed none of it his own—as well as dirt and sweat.
Masaki paused in the hallway and turned to face Kichijouji. That smile graced his lips—the smile Kichijouji had learned was just for him. Every time Kichijouji saw that smile, his heart thumped.
"Thank you for making sure all our classmates returned safely," Masaki said.
It was during moments like these that Kichijouji wanted to throw himself against Masaki's chest and hug him. Such an overt and emotional display was simply out of the question, though. "Thank you for coming back safely." He wasn't sure he'd ever said anything that was quite so much an understatement.
Masaki reached out and placed a gentle hand on Kichijouji's shoulder, just as he had when they were standing in the parking lot. "More importantly, you remained safe."
It was such a simple touch, but it left Kichijouji's heart pounding. He glanced away. Some days he thought he would combust from the need to become Masaki's lover. Then he would caution himself not to be greedy or draw the Ichijou family's disdain. This restraint would leave him aching. Finally he would bury the desire under some research project or particularly difficult code and try to ignore it.
Kichijouji dragged his gaze back to Masaki. "Hopefully I can go with you next time." He had a bad feeling like there would, in fact, be a next time.
Masaki smiled. It was That Smile again. "I know you would accompany me anywhere." He lowered his hand.
Kichijouji felt a blush tingling in his cheeks. You're right. I would.
They both glanced away. A momentary silence fell over them.
"I'll shower now." Masaki slipped into the bathroom.
Kichijouji forced himself to retreat to the guest bedroom. He changed into the clothing Mrs. Ichijou had left for him—a black yukata decorated with white kanji that read "luck," "fortune," and "longevity." He settled at the computer desk and attempted to distract himself with his latest project.
He had little success.
Thirty minutes later, he found himself knocking on Masaki's bedroom door. At Masaki's invitation, Kichijouji entered. Masaki stood in the middle of his bedroom, his hair still wet from the shower. Like Kichijouji, he'd donned a yukata, this one purple with a pattern of silver bamboo leaves.
Kichijouji was charmed by the sight; Masaki looked handsome in traditional clothing. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, only to realize he had nothing to say. He didn't want anything in particular except to be in Masaki's presence.
Or, to be more honest, he didn't want anything he could actually have.
Kichijouji said the first thing that occurred to him. "I feel restless."
Masaki stared at him blankly. He took two steps forward, then paused. "Jouji . . ."
Kichijouji took a step forward as well. "Watching you walk away into the combat zone was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do." The words just popped out. Kichijouji hadn't meant to admit to that.
Masaki took another step forward. "It was my duty. But I'm sorry I worried you."
Having not been rebuffed, Kichijouji knew the rest would tumble out now. "It wasn't really about the other students. You wanted me to stay behind because you would be distracted with fear over my safety."
Masaki stepped forward again, having halved the distance between them. "No. Well . . . yes." A soft look crossed his features. "I knew you would make sure they returned home safely. But I was worried about you the most."
Kichijouji's heart resumed thumping. It was something about that soft look. "If you had died, and I thought I could have saved your life by serving as your strategist—"
Masaki closed the gap instantly, pulling Kichijouji into his arms and hugging him close. "No. We did the right thing."
Kichijouji threw his arms around Masaki's waist, clinging to him just as tightly. He ended up burying his face against Masaki's chest, his nose brushing Masaki's bare skin—that little triangular patch that showed above where the yukata crossed over itself. "Masaki . . ."
Masaki's hand caressed over his hair. "I know it sounds ridiculously stereotypical, but this is just the way it is: I knew I couldn't die. You'd be waiting for me, and if I died, I'd let you down. You'd never forgive me."
Thanks to the hand stroking his hair, Kichijouji could barely focus enough to register Masaki's words. Masaki's arms were strong, and his chest was solid and warm. Kichijouji felt safe and aroused and desperate. Kiss me. Kiss me! I don't care if the world ends. I just can't hold this in any longer.
Kichijouji lifted his head and caught Masaki's gaze. "It's not—" He trailed off, his sentence forgotten. Masaki's expression seemed like a mirror of his own feelings: aching, loving, aroused, desperate. Without even thinking, Kichijouji tilted his face in invitation.
Masaki leaned down so fast their noses nearly bumped. Kichijouji worried for a split second that they'd fumble, but they corrected their angle.
Then Masaki's warm lips were pressed against Kichijouji's, and all Kichijouji's concerns vanished. For a few moments, they just pressed, neither of them having kissed someone before. Then they shifted, mouthing each other's lips. Kichijouji grasped the back of Masaki's yukata, clutching a handful of cotton. He clung to Masaki's waist with his other arm.
Masaki took one final step forward, gently pushing Kichijouji against the bedroom door. He cupped the back of Kichijouji's head, supporting his neck. Then Masaki pinned him between his body and the door. Tingles raced down Kichijouji's spine.
Masaki's tongue teased Kichijouji's lips, parting them. The sensation of Masaki's tongue sliding into his mouth drew a moan from Kichijouji. After a moment, Kichijouji figured out how to kiss back, moaning again as their tongues caressed. Masaki moaned as well, pressing against Kichijouji's body and pinning him more firmly to the door. Kichijouji gasped into the kiss.
Kichijouji could feel how hard he'd gotten, and with the way they were pressed together, he could also feel how hard Masaki was. It was both reassuring and arousing, and Kichijouji had no idea what they would do about it. For now, all he could do was gasp and moan through the kiss. Every time they ran out of breath, they would pause only briefly and then resume. The kiss was desperate, filled with need and longing, and Masaki's tongue caressing his filled Kichijouji with so much pleasure he felt half drunk.
Finally they had to stop. For several seconds, all they could do was pant. Masaki pressed their foreheads together. Kichijouji had grown so hard he was throbbing, and he could feel Masaki hot against him.
"What do we do?" Kichijouji whispered.
"I don't know," Masaki admitted. He shifted his hand from the back of Kichijouji's head to his face and then caressed Kichijouji's cheek. "The only thing I've done before is dance."
Kichijouji had to smile. "Right." He'd heard rumors about what boys did with each other, but after World War III, cultures the world over had grown more conservative again. Kichijouji would have to do some digging to get the information he needed. "Looks like I need to engage in some research. I just have to figure out which websites are all glitz and which ones are for practical information."
Masaki blushed so hard the flush reached his ears. "Ah—right."
Kichijouji thought that Masaki's bashful streak was endearing. Watching Masaki stutter when trying to talk to Shiba Miyuki had just made Kichijouji love him more.
Masaki seemed to recover. He resumed caressing Kichijouji's cheek. The soft look returned to his face. "I want to protect you. Forever."
Kichijouji couldn't speak. If only he'd been a girl, the offer would have counted as a marriage proposal. As it was, Masaki—as the eldest son—would be required to marry and produce heirs. The continuous lineage of the Ichijou Clan had to be preserved at any cost—including that of a forced and loveless marriage, if need be.
Kichijouji decided if he could have half of Masaki, it would suffice. Since his parents were dead, Kichijouji would be expected to marry and have children for the sake of the Kichijouji family line. But a fair number of people in the top twenty-eight families had lovers on the side. If their wives married them for political reasons, they might not even care if Masaki and Kichijouji remained lovers. If Masaki and he were discrete, it was likely no one would say anything.
But that was a problem for another day.
"I accept," Kichijouji said, as though Masaki really had proposed marriage. "Yes."
A brilliant smile lit Masaki's face. He ran his hand behind Kichijouji's neck and pulled him into another kiss.
Kichijouji sank into the sensation again, both his body and his heart buzzing.