I wrote this after a very stressful day and after midnight, and I'm very tired. As such, I'm sorry for the odd writing, but I hope my first venture into the world of KKM fics isn't too horrendous.
This fic features a relationship between Murata Ken and Wolfram von Bielefelt, because despite my fondness for Yuuri/Wolfram this is truly the KKM pairing of my heart.
Some would have it said that Wolfram von Bielefelt, little lord brat, son of the previous Maou and ex-fiancée of the 27th Maou of Shin Makoku, had only married Murata Ken, the Daikenja and Great Sage, because of his resemblance to the king. They were wrong.
There was no denying the similarities in appearance. It wasn't every day that a double-black appeared in Shin Makoku, and for two to appear at relatively the same time had set the locals talking for years. Of course, they hadn't known about Murata at first. The Great Sage had come into their sights with blonde hair and eyes the colour of the sky, but it hadn't been long before the farce had vanished, revealing a young man with the same hair and eye colour as the 27th Maou, Shibuya Yuuri.
That was where the similarities ended, but of course, appearance was there only thing most people paid attention too.
Wolfram knew the difference, even if others did not. A shared hair and eye colour did not mean a shared face, shared scars, or a shared body; likewise, it did not mean shared personalities, ideals, or speech patterns. As Murata was willing to prove every time he spoke—whether it was what he called his "Great Sagely Advise", an irritatingly astute observation or a comment that made Yuuri's face turn bright crimson—there was a rather gaping difference between him and the Maou. Living for four thousand years worth of reincarnations would distance one from most everyone, though, at least in Wolfram's opinion.
At first he had been angered by the whispers, the snide comments spoken behind the palm of many a hand causing his blood to boil as his face to flush an angry red as he spun to confront the speakers. It wasn't too often that he was proud of the reputation the "fierce Bielefelt temper" brought him, but when he saw people flinch from his gaze, he almost felt it worth it. He was a skilled fire daemon, after all, and as one of his soldiers had once said, "I'd never want to be on the end of your rage, sir."
Murata, of course, found the incidences highly amusing, at least on the outside, but the fact that he didn't try to stop Wolfram's angry words some of the time only made Wolfram realise that sometimes, the outward amusement on the face of the Great Sage, his husband of a year now, was a farce.
"But you see, Wolfram, I'm the Great Sage," Murata had told him one night, before their marriage, his glasses glinting in the candlelight as his mouth quirked into a wry smile. "I can't just go about singeing everyone's clothing, or who would ever take my advice again?"
It wasn't just one-sided, either. In the beginning, Wolfram had once overheard Yuuri asking Murata, quite nervously, if it was because, "y'know, he looks a bit like Shinou…"
Murata's face had shut down so fast that, had Wolfram not been a soldier, he would have bumped into something and given his position outside the door away. Even Yuuri seemed to realise that he had made a mistake, for he hurriedly tried to placate his friend, but Murata had just risen with a tired smile and shaken his head.
"To some people, I look a great deal like you, Shibuya," Murata had said, his voice sounding ancient and tired, and in that moment Wolfram, through his irritation, could have easily believed him to be four thousand years lived. "And you and I are hardly the same person. There are only so many personality traits and appearances in the world, but that doesn't mean they've all been combined the same way."
Wolfram hadn't asked him about it when he had returned, just told him, in that blunt way everyone said he had, "You don't look much like Yuuri to me." Then he had fallen asleep, and Murata had complained groggily but not seriously of his thrashing in the morning, as per usual.
Wolfram's brothers had been a little more difficult than Yuuri had been, though, at least once Gwendel had started speaking to them again, though his dark eyes always watched Murata carefully when they were together until Murata, catching on quick, began to flaunt the relationship a little more, planting a cheeky kiss on Wolfram's cheek as they walked or loudly discussing adoption or what colour of pink Wolfram would wear at their wedding. Wolfram suspected that Murata had just liked the way his own face would turn bright red, and the way he'd shout at him afterwards, though the Great Sage always took it with a laugh and a friendly smile.
Even so, Gwendel had had his way, and one day Murata had come back to their shared room with a pale face and when Wolfram had asked, the Great Sage had just shrugged and said "Who knew your brother kept such a close eye on you, eh, Wolfram?" He had, of course, accompanied the words with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and Wolfram had hurled a pillow at him for his efforts.
Conrart had merely asked him one day, in that soft and simple manner of his, if it was because Murata resembled the Maou.
"Why, because you think I'm incapable of moving on?" Wolfram had snapped back, his anger rising all too quickly to the surface. Conrart had merely watched him sadly, shaking his head.
"You were in love with His Majesty for a long time," he had said softly. "I'm just worried that this is your way of—"
"Of what? Settling? I'm not settling for him, Conrart!" Wolfram had spluttered, and he had begun to walk the length of the study as he spoke, his anger making his teeth gnash together.
"But you cannot deny the similarities. I'm just worried about you, Wolfram," Conrart had answered, and it was a testament to how far their relationship had progressed in the past five years that he was even able to say those words at all. When he had spoken next, it had been reluctantly. "You also… You also bear a striking resemblance to the Original King."
That had made Wolfram's blood ignite, and he felt the flame of anger burn brightly in his chest, and not just because he was indignant. There had been doubts in Wolfram's mind when he and Murata had first begun their relationship, doubts about whether Murata wanted him or a ghost, and as Wolfram had found out later, Murata had felt the same times.
But they were past they, they had—they had discussed it, and damn it if his brother was going to bring that up again!
"What, because they have the same hair and eye colour? Because Shinou and I look a bit alike? So what?" Wolfram had stopped then, crossing his arms as he glared balefully at his half-brother, his lip curling in the expression that had once earned him the nickname little lord brat. "Murata's nothing like that wimp, and I am not Shinou." And he wasn't. Where Yuuri was impulsive, Murata thought his actions through; where Yuuri could be childish and naive, Murata had an air to him that made even his childish actions (and Wolfram could think of a few) seem more knowledgeable—like every teasing remark or sly observation had a point to it, an edge, even if it seemed innocent. Maybe that was the biggest different of all, though: where Yuuri was innocent, even after all this time, Murata, simply, was not. He had lived too many years to see the world the way Yuuri did, and while Wolfram would always believe in Yuuri's vision, he also sometimes found the naivety irritating—always had, even when he had still been in love with him.
Even just thinking of the way Murata got sometimes, when he would sit back with dangerous thoughtfulness at one of the many meetings they all attended, his hands folding as his glasses glinted mysteriously, was enough to solidify Wolfram's conviction. He could joke, yes, and he often did, pointing out inane things as they walked or saying things that either made Wolfram roll his eyes or elbow him sharply in the gut, but that was just one side.
Wolfram could not speak for his resemblance to Shinou, but at the time he had remembered what Murata had once told him—that while there were some similar traits, "there is little of what was essentially Shinou in you, Wolfram. Not enough to ever confuse someone."
"Murata, he… he's different," Wolfram had said then without thinking, his mouth moving with his thoughts, and though the anger and frustration had still been present, his shoulders still tensed, there had been an almost whisper-like quality to them, even spoken at his livid volume. "Do you now how long I've wanted to be loved just for me? Yuuri, he—" and those words had still hurt to say, even then "—he never loved me. Never. I… I know that. He loved me as a friend, because that stupid wimp has such a big open heart, but never more than that." He had swallowed, and Conrart had taken a step forward, but Wolfram stopped him with another glare and drew himself up, dropping his arms to his side, his hands curling into fists. "Murata doesn't care about my status, or—or any of that stuff. He isn't with me because he needs to elevate his own status and my appearance is just an added bonus, or because he pities the poor ex-fiancée of the Daemon King." Those words had been said bitterly, and thinking back to the days soon after the dissolving of their engagement made his face darken. "He loves me for me, Conrart. He may look like the wimp, and I may look like that bastard Shinou, but—but not everyone with blonde hair and green eyes is the same person!"
There had been silence for a few moments, and Wolfram had had no doubt that Conrart was thinking of their mother, so unlucky in love but filled with so much affection for those around her all the same. Shinou's eyes, of course, had been blue, even if their faces were similar. Finally, Conrart had nodded, a small smile flickering across his face before Wolfram had turned on his heel and left.
He hadn't been surprised to find Murata outside the door, and though the Great Sage had had the decency to look a little sheepish, Wolfram hadn't been able to miss the relief in his eyes.
"For the record," Murata had told him later, his voice so casual that Wolfram had glanced sharply at him, immediately expecting a cheeky remark, "you don't look much like Shinou to me, either."
After that, it had been as if the final barrier between them was lifted, one they hadn't even realised had been there in the first place.
The talking and whispering hadn't ceased after their marriage, but that was to be expected. Visiting dignitaries who had met Wolfram in the time of his engagement to Yuuri loved remarking on Murata's resemblance to the double-black king, but over time Wolfram learned to just ignore them, and when that didn't work, to glare at them with such force that they usually looked uncomfortable and moved on while Murata joked next to him, his smile that of a young man but his eyes taking in every movement, every word, with an accuracy that made Wolfram believe that this young man could have once been the legendary Daikenja. In those moments, Wolfram would almost always feel the sage's hand on his shoulder, on his wrist, on his arm; a gentle squeeze that seemed almost out of place coming from Murata.
He was a man of many faces, and indeed he had worn many, and though it had taken Wolfram a bit to come to terms with what that meant, it didn't change who Murata was now—merely made it possible. He was the Great Sage of Shin Makoku, yes, and he was a double-black, much like the current king, but more importantly he was Murata Ken, the man who made Wolfram's breath quicken and who made him feel loved and worthwhile, like he was more than just the little lord brat he had once been.
There was no greater feeling than that.