The moment Yozak met Murata, he knew he’d found something he’d been waiting his whole life for.

Yes, Murata was the legendary Sage. Yozak knew that, you couldn’t help but know that. But this feeling had nothing to do with his allegiances, with his duty. This was different. It reminded him of the day long ago when a young boy rode into an empty field and stole him away from his miserable existence. Yozak had looked at the outstretched hand, saw Conrad’s smile and knew that he’d found a piece of himself. That day, Yozak formed bonds of friendship that would last long past the time he’d grown cold in his grave.

When Yozak met Murata, he knew he was in for something else entirely.

Yozak never hesitates to call it love. He’s held back that word before, and he’s learned that when something slips through your fingers there’s no getting it back. Murata is much more cautious, only letting the word fall from his lips in half syllables, mumbled and threaded with gasps.

Sometimes Yozak worries when he sees Murata and Yuuri together. He knows the stories, the tales of the Sage and the King that no one will tell the young Maou for fear of what Wolfram might do. He sees the looks that Ken casts in the oblivious king’s direction, but as much as Ken is the Sage of old, Yuuri is not Shinou and never will be.

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. Past lives are in the past, life in the present. Who Ken loved all those lives ago makes little difference to Yozak when it’s his bed Murata crawls in now, late at night when the rest of the castle sleeps. It is to Yozak that Murata directs his whispers in the dark, Yozak who he loves, Yozak who he trusts with his life.

Yozak loves the way Ken smells in his arms in the morning.

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