Chapter 19: A Drunkard's Confession
The heavy oak door thudded shut, the iron bolt sliding home with a final, grinding click. The sudden silence was a physical thing, thick and velvety, broken only by the settling crackle of the hearth and Taichi’s own exhausted sigh. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a second, the day’s clamor still ringing in his ears. The scent of spilled ale, roasted meat, and a hundred different bodies slowly gave way to the deeper, cleaner notes of the tavern itself: aged wood, his own brewing herbs, the faint, sweet-woodsmoke signature of his unclaimed status that always lingered after hours.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He didn’t jump. He’d known he wasn’t alone. He’d felt the presence the moment the last drunk farmer had weaved out into the night, a steady, anchored weight in the corner by the dying fire. He’d been wiping the same spot on the bar for ten minutes, pretending not to notice.
Slowly, Taichi turned.
Yamato was still there. He’d taken off his armored pauldrons and gauntlets, leaving him in his dark linen undershirt and trousers, the fabric stretched taut across his shoulders. He was leaning against the wall beside the fireplace, a half-empty tankard dangling from his fingers. The firelight caught the gold in his hair and the intense blue of his eyes, which were fixed on Taichi with a startling, unguarded focus.
“You’re still here,” Taichi said. His voice sounded flat in the empty room.
“I am.”
“We’re closed.”
“I know.”
Taichi crossed his arms, a defensive barricade over his chest. “So, what? You waiting for me to toss you out myself?”
Yamato pushed off the wall. He moved with the careful, deliberate control of a man who’d had just enough to drink to loosen his tongue but not enough to ruin his coordination. He set the tankard on a table with a soft clunk and walked toward the bar. Not with his usual confident swagger, but with a direct, grounded purpose that made the space between them feel smaller with every step.
He stopped on the other side of the scarred mahogany, the bar the only thing separating them. Taichi could smell the ale on his breath, yes, but beneath it was the crisp, winter-air scent of him, laced now with something raw and desperate.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Yamato said. His voice was low, gravelly. “What I did. What I said.”
“You apologized. It’s done.” Taichi reached for a glass to polish, needing something to do with his hands. Yamato’s gaze tracked the movement.
“It’s not done for me.” He braced his hands on the bar, his fingers curling over the edge. The old scars on his knuckles stood out white. “Seeing you laugh with him. That stranger. It wasn’t just jealousy, Taichi. It felt like… like someone reached into my chest and squeezed.”
Taichi’s polishing slowed. He refused to look up. “That’s your problem to manage. Not mine.”
“I know that.” There was a frustration in his tone, directed inward. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve spent my whole life managing instincts. Controlling aggression. Measuring threats. I’m good at it. Until I walk in here.” He gestured around the quiet tavern. “Until I see you. Then it all just… shorts out.”
Finally, Taichi looked at him. The alpha’s face was open, stripped of its usual charming armor. He looked tired. He looked wrecked. A stubborn, traitorous part of Taichi’s chest twinged.
“You think I haven’t seen alpha possessiveness before?” Taichi said, his voice softer than he intended. “You think you’re the first guy to get a little growly because he likes the way I pour a drink?”
“This isn’t about liking the way you pour a drink.” Yamato’s words were vehement, pushed out on a breath heavy with hops and honesty. “I’ve had flings. I’ve had interests. This… this is a constant ache. It’s wondering what you’re doing when I’m on patrol. It’s memorizing the schedule of the grain merchant because I know you’ll be checking his shipment on Tuesdays. It’s tasting every other ale in the kingdom and finding them all like flavored water because they’re not yours.” He shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “I’ve never wanted to build something with someone before. I’ve only ever wanted to conquer things. You… you make me want to lay down bricks.”
The admission hung in the air, vast and fragile. Taichi felt his own breath catch. The glass in his hand was forgotten. He saw the truth of it in Yamato’s eyes, in the tense line of his jaw. This wasn’t a line. This was a confession, messy and inelegant and terrifyingly real.
His defenses, always so high and so sharp, wavered. Without thinking, his hand lifted from the bar. He reached out, meaning to maybe touch Yamato’s shoulder, to offer some clumsy comfort for the pain he saw there.
His fingertips were a breath away from Yamato’s cheek when his own sense screamed back to life.
He’s drunk. He’s hurt. He’s saying what he needs to say to make the feeling stop. This isn’t about you. It’s about his own lack of control.
Taichi’s hand froze. Then it curled inward, retreating back to the safety of his own space. He took a small step back, the distance feeling like a chasm.
“I can’t,” Taichi whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I can’t be the thing that fixes that ache for you, Yamato. I can’t be your… your consolation prize for finally feeling something you don’t know how to handle. I’m not a remedy for your jealousy.”
The flash of devastation on Yamato’s face was instantaneous and brutal. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a bleak understanding. But before Taichi could turn away, before he could seal the moment shut, Yamato moved.
His hand shot out, not aggressive, but swift. He caught Taichi’s wrist just as it fell back to his side. His grip was firm, warm, his calloused thumb pressing against the frantic pulse point. Taichi stiffened, a protest on his lips, but it died as Yamato did the one thing he never expected.
The alpha bowed his head.
He brought Taichi’s captured hand up and pressed his lips, hot and desperate, against the center of his palm. It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of supplication. A vow. He held his mouth there for a long, trembling second, his breath searing Taichi’s skin.
When he spoke, his voice was a raw scrape, whispered into Taichi’s flesh. “Tell me what to do. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll wait. I’ll learn. Just… tell me how to be worthy of you. Not your bed. You.”
The sensation was an electric current. It shot from Taichi’s palm straight up his arm, lodging somewhere behind his ribs. His knees felt weak. The sweet-woodsmoke of his own scent spiked, betraying his turmoil. The air was so thick with longing and regret he could barely draw breath.
Gently, carefully, Taichi pulled his wrist free. Yamato let him go instantly, his hand falling back to the bar as if burned.
“Go home, Yamato,” Taichi said, his own voice unsteady. “Just… go home.”
Yamato searched his face for another moment, looking for a sign, a crack in the resolve. He found none. Only a conflicted, weary empathy that was somehow worse than anger. He nodded, once. He didn’t speak again. He turned and walked to the door, unbolted it, and stepped out into the cool, dark night without a backward glance. The door swung shut, leaving Taichi alone in the silent, glowing tomb of his dream.
He stood there, frozen. Then he slowly looked down at his hand.
His palm tingled. The ghost of the kiss burned there, a brand. He could still feel the exact pressure of Yamato’s lips, the slight dampness of his breath. He curled his fingers inward, clutching the sensation to his chest, as if he could trap it there.
For hours, long after the embers had darkened to a dull red and the lanterns had guttered out, he sat on a stool behind the bar in the perfect dark. Staring at his closed fist. Feeling the echo of a desperate kiss on his skin, and wondering, with a dizzying, terrifying lurch in his stomach, what in the hell he was supposed to do now.