Work Text:
The best part of these social functions, in Rantaro’s opinion, is usually Mina. She’ll join Rantaro on the side of the room and they’ll mutter snarky commentary about the other guests, trying to get the other to break and burst into laughter. A mean, arguably unprofessional way to spend their time—but hey. It’s not like either of them ever want to be attending these, the rooms chalk-full of stuffy people who are only interested in their status, so Rantaro feels justified in doing what he has to do to get through it. He never claimed to be morally admirable by any stretch.
Unfortunately, Mina is not here today, because she has a “prior engagement”. In other words, she abandoned Rantaro to his fate, and is thus a traitor—but when Rantaro had told her as much, her eyes went so big and wet and guilty that Rantaro immediately retracted the jab. He didn’t mean it. It was just a joke. But now that he is standing in their usual corner with a cup of punch in his hand and no sister at his side, well, maybe Rantaro’s thinking some traitor-adjacent thoughts. He couldn’t be blamed for it.
It’s the usual crowd present tonight. Older men who greet Rantaro by name who Rantaro, for the life of hi, cannot remember. Nobles, diplomats. Young women who Rantaro doesn’t mind talking to or dancing with, but usually tries to slink off before they can make any noise about marrying them. It’s not any of their faults. Just that—well, Rantaro’s pretty young, isn’t he? And he’s got other things on his plate, twelve sisters to look after… He’s not really sure how an engagement would factor into that.
Also—maybe this is childish. But Rantaro always figured—someone to marry? He’d want to know them. Like them, at the bare minimum, but ideally he’d like to be so earnestly close with them that he couldn’t imagine spending his life with anyone else. And outside of his family, there is nobody in the world who Rantaro knows well enough to fit that description. It’s a true shame. And also, what a bratty thing to complain about, right? The lavish life that Rantaro lives, laden with privilege, with extravagance, he hardly has the space to be complaining about a potential engagement.
But for as long as he can avoid it, he’s going to. He’s cowardly like that. So he doesn’t move from his spot at the wall, instead taking the time to watch the different figures in the room sway back and forth, listening to the dull murmur of chatter. Occasionally, he catches snippets of conversation as guests pass by, but it’s nothing interesting. Really, nothing interesting. Rantaro would hope that at least one of them would have new information to give, about anything, but in fairness, it’s a pretty insular group of people.
In fact, the majority of party guests here are people Rantaro recognises. He’s probably been introduced to all of them at some point or another. The exceptions are the staff, who Rantaro would actually be interested in talking to, but won’t approach at a party. He wouldn’t want to get them in trouble for mingling with royalty. He’ll hang back surreptitiously this evening, though, in the interest of assisting with cleanup, the way he typically does. The way his father usually allows him, so long as he can do so without being noticed by anyone outside the family.
There are still several hours left of the event before Rantaro can busy his hands, though. He takes another sip of his punch, straightens off the wall, and adjusts his weight. Without his sister at his side, he really does look like he’s just—surveying the party, which isn’t a great look for royalty. There’s nothing else that feels particularly appealing to him right now, but he ought to go start a conversation, maybe find a noble around his age and—
“Excuse me.”
It’s a murmur from next to him. Rantaro turns, meeting a pair of eyes at around his shoulder level. The height isn’t what takes him off guard—the woman is a pretty standard height for Japanese women their age—but rather the hue of her eyes, striking crimson, sharp enough that they almost seem to pierce right through to the back of Rantaro’s skull. Paired with very long, glossy oak brown hair… Rantaro is sure he’s never seen this woman before in his life.
Her attire is a little plain, though not out of place. A black dress, a hair ribbon to match her eyes. Rantaro studies her face, trying to place her as an heir or a noble and coming up empty. No, he’s never seen her before. And she waltzed right up to speak with him anyway; that’s interesting.
“Hello,” Rantaro says, and smiles, giving a slight bow in greeting. “Enjoying the party?”
“It’s fine,” says the woman. “Could you show me to the bathroom?”
This is the sort of thing you’d ask staff about, but Rantaro’s not upset to be asked. It’s something to do, at least. There is no pretense, either, in this woman’s eyes. Only quiet confidence in the set of her jaw, the steady way she meets Rantaro’s gaze. There is nothing royal about her, but Rantaro doesn’t find himself minding that either. If anything…
“I sure can,” Rantaro agrees, and pulls off the wall completely. He sets down his punch cup, he’s finished most of it anyway, and begins to show the woman out of the room. “It’s not a long walk. Have you been to any of our parties before? I feel like I’d remember a face like yours.”
“No.” That’s the only response Rantaro gets, simple, almost curt. He doesn’t push for more, merely shooting a curious glance over his shoulder as he takes the woman down the hall away from the ballroom. When their eyes meet again, the woman opens her mouth, then shuts it. She averts her gaze.
They turn the corner. The women’s bathroom is a shorter distance from the ballroom; Rantaro points it out, then moves back to settle against the wall.
“I’ll wait here in case you need help finding your way back,” Rantaro suggests.
“No need,” the woman tells him.
“Oh? Okay. You have a good memory.” Rantaro offers a smile, though he’s a little disappointed for the excursion to have ended so soon. “In that case, I’ll—”
Rantaro stops talking. More specifically, he is stopped by the sight of a blade, glistening, aimed directly at his jugular. And isn’t that something. Not the first time Rantaro’s seen one of these, of course, and not even the first time it’s ever been aimed at him—but damn, is it a little closer than usual.
“Uh, huh,” Rantaro says. “Okay. So I’m guessing the bathroom was a ploy to get me alone.”
The woman’s eyes have hardened dangerously; she presses in closer, the tip of her blade mere centimetres from Rantaro’s throat. “Don’t speak. You’re not going to make this any easier on yourself with small talk.”
Fair enough. Rantaro glances down the hall to the ballroom, where his guards are all stationed. None of them had probably been expecting their prince to waltz off down the hall with a stranger. Perhaps they didn’t even notice. Wouldn’t that be funny? He’ll be dead in seconds, long before the royal guard has even noticed he’s missing to start worrying. He feels, if anything, faintly bad for them, sure that his father will have stern words to give anyone who lets a hair on his head be harmed. But at the same time…
“Okay,” Rantaro says, and sighs. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ll spare my life.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Let me argue my case first,” Rantaro insists with a huffed laugh. “For one thing, I really can’t die right now.”
The woman raises an eyebrow, as if impressed at the sheer audacity of Rantaro’s claim. “Really.”
“Really! I know you probably hear that all the time. I, uh. I mean it though. It’s really important that I’m the air.” Rantaro shifts his weight. He’s aware he’s not being very convincing. “It’s just—do you know very much about the royal family? The chain of command. I have a few little sisters. Twelve, actually.”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve! Well, some of them are through marriage. Either way, with me as the heir, I can keep all of us together. We’re actually at a bit of a standstill, because I’m supposed to pick a queen and send the rest of them out to marry other royalty, but I don’t—want to do that.” Rantaro swallows. That blade is very close to him, but his palms are starting to sweat at the thought of his sisters, Kikuko being the youngest at thirteen, being sent off to marry strangers. “I’d rather we all stayed together. At least—until they’re all grown. If I died, I don’t—I mean, I don’t know what would happen to them. There wouldn’t be anyone advocating for them anymore.”
The woman’s expression has become less severe than it was a moment ago, though otherwise, it remains inscrutable. “So… you want me to spare your life… because of your sisters.”
“Well, you don’t have to spare it,” Rantaro coughs. “Just—come back later? In five years. I guess that’s a pretty big amount of time to wait? Four and a half. I mean, maybe I could squeeze by with just three—?”
“Stop,” the woman interjects sharply, “stop—talking, for a moment. Stop negotiating. You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious about my sisters,” Rantaro tells her, making eye contact. She scoffs.
“I didn’t mean that. I mean, you can’t be serious that you’ll let me come back in the next three years to kill you.” The lack of a fight must be truly bewildering, because the woman pulls back her knife and folds her arms. “You’re just saying that to get me to back off.”
With more space now to move, Rantaro slumps against the wall. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you you shouldn’t make assumptions about other people?”
“My mom died when I was an infant.”
“Oh.” Rantaro supposes he set himself up for that. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The apology earns him a glare, more than the dig about the woman’s mom. “I’m trying to kill you. Don’t you have any respect for your life whatsoever?”
“Ehhh…”
Rantaro looks away. He’s not sure how he’d put it. The idea of dying doesn’t really scare him. There was a time when… Well. Maybe as a kid, Rantaro would’ve fought for something other than his sisters. But thinking of a full life as royalty, ruling the kingdom, it doesn’t… So long as his sisters are happy, Rantaro’s not that attached to the idea of growing up.
“I just figure you have your own reasons,” Rantaro says with a shrug, “and, I mean… I can’t exactly ask you for my life forever. That feels a little unreasonable, doesn’t it?”
The woman opens and closes her mouth. She lets out a low huff, a furrow appearing in her brow. “It doesn’t matter what you ask me for. I can’t give it to you. Regardless of what you want for your sisters, I have to kill you. Theirs aren’t the only lives at stake.”
“Oh. So it’s like that, huh?” Rantaro looks away. This is the sort of thing he ought to be thinking about taking care of, as the heir to the throne. Except of course, if he dies right now, there’s nothing he can do. “...Is there any way I can… I don’t suppose I could… I mean, can I help you? At all? I can’t say I know anything about the situation that you’re in, but if someone you care about is in danger—”
Rantaro doesn’t get to finish his offer. Whether or not this woman would’ve accepted it, he supposes he’s never going to find out, because at the other end of the hall, there is the sound of rushing footsteps and clambering armour. They’ve been discovered. Rantaro sees the moment it hits his attacker too, the way her eyes blow wide, the colour draining from her face.
He moves without thinking. “There’s a window in the bathroom. Go, now.”
“You—” her head whips to the guards, then Rantaro. “Why? Why are you…?”
“Come back and ask me again later if you really want to know,” Rantaro laughs. “Thanks for making the dance tonight interesting. Get out of here, okay?”
Her mouth opens and shuts. Then those red eyes narrow, and she darts into the bathroom. Rantaro doesn’t hear the window opening, or anyone crashing on the floor below… but when his guard reaches him, they report that the bathroom is empty, so she must’ve made it out. What a relief.
Regardless, an attempt on the prince’s life is reason enough to cancel the function. Rantaro remains intently unhelpful in every questioning about the incident, claiming inattentiveness. The vast majority of his staff either don’t know him well enough or don’t care enough to read much into it, so he gets away with it, albeit with a suspicious look from his father, who falls into neither of the previously listed categories. Nonetheless, Rantaro is released to his bed chambers, and in the absence of responsibilities for the night, falls right asleep without changing into his pyjamas.
It’s a pretty early bedtime by his usual standards. With that in mind, it’s not all that strange, the fact that he wakes up before the sun has risen, moonlight streaming in through his open window. Of course, what Rantaro isn’t expecting to see is the woman from earlier, cloaked in black, red eyes piercing even in the dark of his bedroom. She’s changed into a much more practical pair of pants, and holds a long piece of fabric over one arm—no, that’s another cloak. As Rantaro sits himself upright, she tosses it into his lap, and he gets only a moment to look at her for confirmation that she’s sure.
“Maki,” the woman says. “Harukawa Maki. That’s my name. If you’re going to help me, you should know it.”
“Maki,” Rantaro repeats, and pulls the cloak over his head. “It’s a pleasure, Maki.”
“You’re insane for thinking that,” Maki sighs. “Hurry up, then. We only have so much time.”
That’s for sure. Rantaro shoves some pillows under his blankets, then rushes to join her at the window, a grin on his face. He’ll admit it; even if the royal life doesn’t allow a ton of room for it, Rantaro has always been weak for an adventure.