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It is time. The doors swing open before Kenma, granting him access to the ball. He gently squeezes the arm he holds and sweeps forward into the glamor beyond.
The world of resplendent outfits and glittering chandeliers is familiar but not comfortable, never that. Comfort is his chambers, the library, the places he finds solitude. But kings cannot hide forever; his presence is required.
He is allowed one solace, a companion for the evening, and tonight he has chosen someone new. Their presence is announced, heads turn, and the room falls silent. The weight of their collective disapproving gazes settles heavy on Kenma's shoulders.
His entrance does not falter. Kenma anticipated this, but that does not mean he is pleased. He deserves more than their stares, than to be deemed improper for who he is.
Kenma did as was expected of him for decades: ruled fairly, won wars, married well, sired heirs. As he nears fifty, it is past time for his reward: to live as he desires rather than as required by his useless advisors and intolerable nobles.
And so he is, for kings need not ask for permission in this.
After all, kings the world over take concubines and consorts, women decades younger than themselves, parade them in front of guests dripping in jewels and finery. They do not hide the nights a consort sleeps beside them rather than their wife and the world accepts it; the strongest reactions are rolled eyes and rude jokes. Not shock, not outrage.
No one would look twice were the person on his arm a woman, young or old, but they are not. Tonight Kenma is escorted by one Kuroo Tetsurou, a simple blacksmith over twenty years his junior and outfitted in regalia befitting a king consort.
And so they stare.
They make a show of bowing, of paying deference, but their gazes do not waver, judgement poorly hidden by ersatz smiles. No one dares insult their king, not to his face, but once his back is turned hands fly to mouths and the low hum of quiet conversation sweeps through the room.
Kenma ignores the whispers. He knows well the ones who plot and plan against him, those who will use this night, use Kuroo, as a pawn. The words they speak are inconsequential. He is the king and Kuroo is his; these are the only facts that matter.
Once the surprise mellows, those same men and women approach with compliments and praise, the words as insincere as they are polished. Snakes taught to charm with fake smiles and sweet words are no less snakes.
A few congratulate them without hidden motive and he takes note. Bokuto, Oikawa, Hinata, and Miya greet Kuroo as a person and not a pawn. They will be rewarded in due time.
Kuroo himself is unfamiliar with this world, unaware of the games being played around them and intimidated by the attention. He smiles rarely, speaks even less.
Happy as Kenma is with Kuroo on his arm, the shadow of regret hovers over him. He was selfish in bringing Kuroo here, into the den of vipers that is high society where pretty things are ruined and cast aside.
But he despairs only for a passing moment. He both loves Kuroo and deserves him; he is Kenma's reward, fully earned after years of patience, and he will be protected at all costs as he has been for years.
The first time Kenma saw Kuroo was through the window of a carriage nearly ten years ago. He was begging on the street, dressed only in rags that barely covered his body, leaving far too much skin exposed for the cool weather. His bright eyes, wild hair, and lean muscles captivated Kenma and in that moment he swore to himself that man would be his.
A few well placed comments and bribes through Kenma's network and the man was hired as an apprentice blacksmith at the royal forge. Two years of carefully overseen training and he was promoted, by special request and monetary investment, to be Kenma's personal smith.
As the years passed, Kenma continued his plan in earnest. He visited weekly, each time insisting his ceremonial armor had some small flaw or his gilded sword was off-balance. Kuroo and he became friends, but never more; Kenma had his duties.
But now Kuroo is his in every way possible; he is worth waiting for.
And if year after year Kenma intentionally broke the swords and armor he never used, if he snuck out to secretly watch the sweat run down Kuroo's back as he shaped metal, no one would suspect the king to do such a thing.
Content with his choices, he twirls across the dance floor, held safe in his lover's arms.
Kuroo will never know the truth.
***
It is time. The doors swing open before Kuroo, granting him access to the ball. Kenma's hand gently squeezes his arm and pulls him into the glamor beyond.
The room is dazzling as he enters; the shimmering lights blind him, but not so much that he misses the faces turning their way. The court is a social judge and executioner, Kuroo their next target. The gazes boring into him are enough to intimidate even one as composed as he. His gait falters for half a heartbeat, but Kenma is steady beside him, an anchor to be relied upon.
After the appraising stares comes the wave of gossip rushing through the hall as people arbitrate his presence by Kenma's side.
Kuroo listens to the whispers. A man. Commoner. Filthy foreigner. Doesn't belong. What is the king thinking bringing him here? He cannot keep a smirk off his face.
They are right, of course, but still so very wrong.
Tonight is not Kuroo's first time at an event such as this, one full of insufferable yet powerful people playing petty games, but it is an uncomfortable experience to be in the spotlight rather than the shadows.
Little do the whisperers know that he has killed for men in this hall. Women, too, the ones who risk the dark alleys where his services are bought. Assassins are as much a part of the royal court as nobles and kings, after all.
He did not hone his skills here in this court, but it is not so different from his home that he cannot move within it, learn its people's secrets.
This lord once hired Kuroo to kill his wife's parents to faster inherit their land. That lady knows how to mix poisons that kill without trace. The duke drinking champagne is so disliked that three separate people want him dead enough to pay.
And he will learn more, far more, here than he ever could in the forge or pretending to be a vagabond on the streets. He must know enough to protect the man beside him from every danger lurking in the darkness.
Kenma must be kept safe, for nowhere in the world has Kuroo felt content like he does next to him. Never has he had a home like this.
Happy as he is on Kenma's arm, he speaks little. Until he can mask his accent, the one his clients know, it is too dangerous. And besides, he would far rather sweep the king back to his chambers and treat him to a different kind of entertainment than pointless conversations where the participants wear fake smiles and say faker words.
He knows Kenma tires of the role he must play as well, but duty still lies heavy on his heart just as the golden crown sits heavy on his head. It has since the day they met.
The first time Kuroo saw Kenma was through the heat shimmering air of the blacksmiths shop three days into his tenure there. He wore finery befitting a king and was accompanied by elite guards that Kuroo could kill easier than breathing.
The kingdom of Nekoma was soft, unused to true threat, unable to protect their gorgeous, perfect king, who was their brain and heart both. His soft features and clever eyes captivated Kuroo and in that moment he swore that no harm would come to the king.
The apprenticeship itself was a piece of luck and a splendid cover, but Kuroo worked tirelessly to grow his skill. He begged and pleaded his master to allow him to serve the king directly and after only a few years and some well placed bribes funded by his assassin work, he was made Kenma's personal smith.
By day, he grew close to Kenma by fixing swords that never saw battle and polishing armor without scratches. At night, he employed the tools of his other trade to strike down any who would keep them apart. Through both, he longed for the day Kenma would choose him over his duties, doubting it would ever come.
But now he is Kenma's in every way possible; the king is worth putting his life in the shadows aside.
He has no need of that version of himself anymore, not when Kenma takes care of his every need. That is not to say he will let his skills lapse. The ones who plot against his love, who threaten their time together, they deserve what comes their way.
And if one or two of the most vocal detractors fail to wake tomorrow morning, no one will suspect the king's quiet escort. The sachet that once held powdered poison has already been discarded.
Content with his choices, he twirls across the dance floor, held safe in his lover's arms.
Kenma will never know the truth.