Ryou x Thief King (or almost); double drabble.
Dreams of Silver
The host is sleeping, deep and peaceful, a learned behaviour; his chest is raising and falling, and he emits a faint nasal sound, not quite a snore, one breath out of two.
The king, sitting next to him in the muddy sand kept cool by the large rook behind them and the closeness of water watches him quietly. When he first appeared, he had wanted to kill him, but the spirit itself had said, before being torn away, that the boy must survive and be returned to the future, or they would die.
But now that fear and hate are gone, he wants to touch him still, learn the strength of the neck he can't snap, caress the impossibly tender skin of his foot soles, ... But the host might shy away, and he needs to keep him close to protect him; and he needs the sleep, if they are to wander on.
He settles for running his hands through his hair, carefully, never tugging: in the right light it is like threads of silver, and he imagines weaving it to daggers and swords and necklaces to choke kings with, and magic artefacts, and whispers soft spells in his ear.
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