Chapter 10: A Bruised Ego and a Plan
The cold air of the castle corridors did little to soothe the heat in Yamato’s face. His jaw throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a deep, insistent ache that spoke of well-earned damage. He’d walked the long way, through the training yards and up the servant’s stair, avoiding any company. The scent of the tavern—of him—still clung to his tunic, a maddening ghost he couldn’t outpace.
He shouldered open the heavy oak door to the library. The quiet warmth of the place, the smell of dust and leather and the crackling hearth, usually settled him. Now it felt like a reproach.
Koushiro was right where Yamato knew he’d be: nestled in a deep armchair by the fire, a massive tome on ley lines open in his lap, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose. He didn’t look up as Yamato entered, just turned a page with a precise, soft flick.
Yamato limped across the woven rug. The limp was unnecessary, but his whole body felt off-kilter, a ship with a broken mast. He collapsed onto the low bench opposite Koushiro with a groan that was more soul-deep than physical.
Only then did Koushiro glance over. His brown eyes, magnified behind the lenses, swept from Yamato’s mud-spattered boots, up his rumpled tunic, and settled on his face. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch touched the corner of his mouth.
“You look,” Koushiro said, his voice dry as the parchment before him, “like you tried to wrestle a bear. And the bear debated you on philosophical points while it was winning.”
Yamato winced as he touched his swollen lip. “Close.”
“Mmm.” Koushiro closed his book, setting it aside with deliberate care. He folded his hands. “Let me guess. You saw him. Your scent spiraled. Your alpha brain took the wheel, you said something unbearably primal and possessive, and the omega who brews like a deity and has the temper of a wet cat told you to go to hell.” He paused. “Possibly with his fists.”
Yamato let his head fall back against the wood paneling, staring up at the shadowy, carved ceiling. “He told me not to come back until I had my knot under control.”
A beat of silence. Then a quiet, choked sound. Yamato turned his head. Koushiro had his fist pressed to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He wasn’t coughing. He was laughing. Silently, painfully, tears gleaming at the corners of his eyes.
“It’s not funny,” Yamato grumbled, but there was no heat in it. The sheer, brutal accuracy of it was funny, in a humiliating, world-ending kind of way.
“It’s brilliant,” Koushiro gasped, wiping his eyes. “Gods, Yamato. He read you like a child’s primer.” He composed himself, leaning forward. The firelight caught his spectacles. “So. You cornered him. You… growled? You postured?”
“I said it was torture. That I couldn’t take it anymore.” The words sounded even more pathetic spoken aloud in this quiet, scholarly space.
Koushiro let out a long, slow breath. “And he rightly interpreted that as a you-problem, not a him-problem. And solved it. With his fist.” He studied Yamato’s face, the bruise blossoming along his jawline. “He hits hard for an omega.”
“He hits hard for anyone,” Yamato corrected, a thread of unwilling pride in his voice. He sat up, elbows on his knees, the weight of his failure pressing down. “Koushiro. I don’t… I don’t know what to do. I’ve never met anyone like him. The more he shoves me away, the more I…” He gestured helplessly. “It’s not just his scent. It’s him. The way he moves behind that bar, like he owns the world. The sharpness in his eyes when he thinks I’m being an idiot. Which is always.”
“And you enjoy it,” Koushiro stated.
“It’s the only thing that feels real,” Yamato admitted, the raw confession leaving him feeling scraped out. “The court, the posturing, the simpering omegas who scent agreeable and fold at a raised eyebrow… it’s all smoke. He’s stone and fire. And I just charged at him like a bull at a red flag.”
Koushiro was quiet for a long moment. He picked up his quill, twirling it between his fingers. “You cannot conquer a man like that,” he said finally. “You cannot claim him. You cannot overwhelm him. Your biology is, to him, an annoying backdrop noise. A problem to be managed. You made it his problem. He corrected you.”
“So what do I do? Just… stay away?” The thought was a physical pain, sharper than the bruise.
“No,” Koushiro said. “You learn. You adapt. You stop being an alpha courting an omega, and start being a man… interested in another man. A very particular, proud, independent man who makes exceptional mead and has a good right hook.”
Yamato stared into the fire. The logs shifted, sending up a shower of sparks. “How?”
“Small,” Koushiro said simply. “Forget grand gestures. They’re declarations, and he’s not listening to declarations. He’s listening to actions. Consistent, quiet, respectful actions that prove you see him, not the omega.”
“What kind of actions?”
“He’s a craftsman. Ask about his work. The barley, the hops, the temperature of the ferment. Listen. Actually listen. Help without being asked. If a barrel is heavy, move it. Don’t make a show of it. Just do it.” Koushiro adjusted his spectacles. “Apologize. Sincerely. For the cornering, for the growling. Not as a tactic, but because it was wrong.”
Yamato nodded slowly, the concepts foreign as a new language. Courting was supposed to be about strength displays, scent-marking, protective instincts. This was… subtlety. Patience. It felt infinitely harder.
“And maybe,” Koushiro added, a slight smile playing on his lips, “start with something that requires no words at all. Something that simply says ‘I was thinking of you,’ without the burden of your frankly overwhelming presence.”
Yamato’s eyes narrowed, then widened. An idea, fragile and new, began to form. He looked at his friend, the scholar surrounded by books on power and ancient magic. “Koushiro.”
“Hmm?”
“You know the names of things. Plants. Flowers. The meanings.”
“It’s called botany, and yes, it’s a field of study,” Koushiro said, his tone dry again.
“Would you…” Yamato ran a hand through his hair, feeling absurd. “Teach me? How to make a… a bouquet. Not the courtly kind with roses and nonsense. Something that… makes sense. For him.”
Koushiro stared. The fire crackled. A log broke in two with a soft, resonant snap.
“You,” Koushiro said slowly, “want me to teach you about flowers.”
“I want to give him something that doesn’t reek of alpha,” Yamato muttered, his cheeks heating. “Something that says I hear you. That doesn’t ask for anything.”
A genuine smile, warm and surprised, spread across Koushiro’s face. He leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking. “Well,” he said, picking up his quill and pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward him. “For a start, we should consider hawthorn. For resilience. And perhaps some sage. For clarity.” He began to sketch, his lines quick and sure. “And definitely no roses.”