Habit

This not quite on the timeline, mostly a scene I thought would be amusing to see played out. Forgive the awkward-sounding ending. I had a lot of fun writing this oneshot, especially since I got the idea randomly during Government. I hate that class and I couldn't wait to start. Hints of FakirMytho. If you spot any major OOC, be sure to inform me. I don't mind constrictive criticism…seeing how I don't get a lot of it these days… A big thank you to those who reviewed my last Princess Tutu fic! Hope you all enjoy!

Princess Tutu is not under my ownership…but I would love to be Kraehe…


xXx

Ruby-red curtains flapped, almost shuddering around a white marble figurine.

On the ground level, just outside the building, Fakir burrowed his eyebrows frustrated at the sight of his eccentric roommate once again with his tiptoes on the ledge of their full-sized window doors. He stared up displeased as the flirtatious hem of his giant nightshirt rippled teasingly against his lean bare legs. The boy clearly had no regards for public decency.

'Disobedient wretch...that's why I can never leave you alone...'

Then again, if Fakir had his way, he would have locked the boy up by now.

After climbing up the staircase to their shared bedroom, the darker-haired let his textbooks slide out of his arms onto the coffee table between their beds. He snapped harshly at the scantly-clad figure still hovering by the window, "What is this nonsense? I thought I told you to get dressed."

"Is this not clothing...?" Mytho slowly blinked though his damp blonde bangs, absently running a hand over the front of his button-up before lingering thoughtfully over the space above his stomach.

Where his skin made contact with the fabric, it darkened with water. The smell of peppermint bath oil floated all around the bedroom, invading Fakir's senses unmercifully. Reminding him of faint dreams he might have had, ones of contented feelings, with dutiful smiles. Cold green eyes floated over the other boy who looked back unresponsively, taking note of the fact that he obviously didn't care about drying himself off, a moment before breaking eye contact.

"What you need to do is put on a pair of pants. You're soaking wet and it is cold outside, as if you could tell—" Fakir sneered, gesturing to the open window. As if on cue, a chilly breeze rushing in, "—so if you get sick, don't think I'm taking care of your sorry ass—"

His malicious concentration froze at the sight of his charge graying in the face, slender chest heaving rapidly as a string of noisy coughs seized his small frame. Fakir came forward at the same time Mytho wavered, one of his hands frantically flying out in hopes of grasping something steady. They found the soft material of a royal blue uniform as his best friend gently—almost too gently for his fierce nature— cupped his face with both of his palms, sinking with him onto their knees in the plush carpeting.

"You feel warm." The elder muttered, brushing careful fingers over a moist burning forehead in confirmation of this statement, "Probably a fever."

Bulging golden-copper closed as the violent coughs calmed, his body sagging upon his companion's who neatly swept him up bridal-style onto his cot. Mytho released a breathy gasp at the quick motion, head weakly spinning, but remained still as Fakir reached across the sheet to retreive a glass of water. He raised it to the boy's lips, coaxing the liquid down his throat by massaging the ball of his Adam's apple; Mytho didn't put up a struggle and swallowed in compliance.

It was ritual to them. Fakir was very sure that the sleep medication he had been sneaking into his prince's drinks were harmless—that they wouldn't pain him in the long run— and he had to do his duty. He had to protect him.

Half-lidded dark amber gazed up at him, silent mouth parting slightly, still wet from the drink. He swore internally at that evil look, the stupid prince didn't know how to be seductive, so why the hell did he get so good suddenly?

He tried not to stare at the milky white skin beneath the gaping V-neck collar, exposing the column of his neck. . .at the same enchanting color hardly covered up by the tails of that accursed nightshirt, the muscles of his inner thighs peeking out shyly. . . just begging to be bruised by lustful fingertips and nails. . .

"Fakir?"

Thanking the gods for the interruption from his increasingly horrifying and forbidden thoughts, he drew his attention back up to an accustomed solemn expression. His silvery-haired prince placed the back of his hand on a tanned cheek above him, his ordinarily serene voice hoarse.

"Why do you not want me to regain my heart?"

Somewhere between reddening with fury and desire—a dangerous combination— Fakir clenched his teeth together, crawling up over the form limp on the pillows to trap a pair of white wrists above them.

He leaned in closely, growling heatedly mostly at the truth that the boy straddled beneath him would have no reaction, "Every time you ask me that question, I will always have the same answer for you. You are better off without useless emotions. Is that what you want, stupid child, do you want to be like everyone else who cries over broken hearts? Suffers? Allowed to become slaves to their pathetic desires? They are weak, you are not! Do you want to be like that?

No emotion came into copper-gold.

"Yes."

"You are worthless," Fakir lied, freeing him, sitting on the opposite end of the mattress as Mytho gradually rose up from his defenseless lying position. He fixed his eyes on the pink tender skin of his wrists, whispering dimly, "...I feel this."

He clutched an arm to himself as if injured, bowing his head, "I know I feel this. So..."

"So why can't I find the words for it?!"

At the unexpected roar coming from behind him, the knight jerked around. To scorn him, the image of two perfect lines of tears rolling down Mytho's face. His roommate's breathing was starting to pick up again, the drugs coursing through his system reducing speed against the natural rush of adrenaline. He still had energy to stare pleadingly with red-rimmed eyes, "Why am I not allowed to have a heart for these feelings, Fakir?"

Though the tears had struck him somewhere cruelly deep in his gut, Fakir's practice at keeping pity or remorse for this creature at bay paid off as he pushed his hands down on small trembling shoulders. He touched his lips to the blonde's ear warmly, murmuring as if he were a distraught toddler, "You just need rest is all. You shouldn't let your body strain like this."

Finally succumbing to medicine and his own defeat, too tired to fight, too meek to hate, the other boy fell back and curled up on his side, sobbing onto the silk sheets.

Purposely turning his back to him, Fakir walked away to shut the window doors and draw the blood-red curtains close, leaving only lamplight to induce the shadows. He ran his fingers carelessly through his ponytail, glancing uncomfortably at his semi-conscious companion.

When he leaned over to sweep the stray strands of white out of fluttering heavy eyelashes, he was surprised to find his nerve foolishly daring as his own callused lips stroked the velvet space between two brows.

Surprised that—Mytho responded, flushing in his sleep.

xXx


End.