#anyway i think this is a true rarepair this is literally the second azama/subaki fic on ao3

[legault]

Perfect (Rarepair Week Day 3, Azama/Subaki, Curious)

Title: Perfect

Author: legault/pinksnowboots (fic blog)

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood, vague kink-related content, intentional self-injury (but not in the way that self-harm typically implies), generally unhealthy relationship, non-explicit mentions of sex

Words: 4,665

Summary: Every time Azama catches so much as a glimpse of Subaki, his fingers itch with the desire to take him apart, piece by camellia-scented piece.

An incredibly late contribution for Day 3 of @ferarepair-week2k17-I’m very glad to see that y’all are going to keep reblogging for a week or so because I still am trying to finish out all 7 days but I’m several days behind...whoops.

AO3 Link

Whenever people ask Azama why he decided to become a monk and devote his life to healing others, he tells them it’s because people say the most fascinating things when they think they’re about to die. Most people think it’s a dark joke and laugh uncomfortably, not realizing til much later that he’s entirely serious.

When he first meets Subaki, Subaki doesn’t laugh, just looks at him quizzically, like Azama is an animal that he’s seen before but he just can’t remember the name of.

“This is where most people laugh.” Azama supplies helpfully.

“Why would I laugh?” Subaki says, voice polished smooth as rocks in a stream and flowing like honey. “I didn’t think it was funny.”

Azama’s grin grows even wider. “Oh, it’s going to be very fun to know you.”

“I’m assuming you’re trying to say that it’s nice to meet me,” Subaki’s voice is the epitome of polite disinterest and Azama can’t wait to change that. “And for politeness’ sake, I say likewise to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be off.”

Subaki retreats without so much as a glance back at Azama, leaving the scent of camellia blossoms in his wake.

Azama’s mother had been a basara and his father had been a clockmaker; their marriage was peaceful but not particularly joyful and Azama figured out from a young age that they stayed together because it was easier than starting over.

From his mother, Azama had inherited his mild talent for magic and his mild talent for lances. She tried to teach him both and he took to neither, remaining just mediocre enough that she eventually gave up on trying to make him care. His becoming a monk had been as much teenage rebellion against her idea of what he should be able to do as it had been anything else.

Azama had also inherited his father’s insatiable curiosity and propensity for taking things apart to see what makes them tick, the only difference being that Azama found humans infinitely more fascinating than clocks.

Getting under people’s skin in order to get to the machinery underneath was his dearest hobby, nay, his calling, and he never met someone who’s mind he wanted to get into more than Subaki. Every time Azama catches so much as a glimpse of Subaki, his fingers itch with the desire to take him apart, piece by camellia-scented piece.

“You’ve really got the perfect situation figures out with this whole perfection deal.” Azama says conversationally, without preamble. “If anyone ever points out your imperfections, you can brush them off because they are imperfect by sheer virtue of not being you. It’s quite clever, really.”

Subaki looks up from grooming his pegasus, annoyed. “Do you have a point, Azama?”

“Just making conversation. Since you’re perfect, I figured you would be a great conversation partner.”

“I am.” Subaki says. “Perhaps you’re just not cultured enough to appreciate it.”

“Arrogant and rude?” Azama tries to feign shock, but he’s enjoying himself too much. “Doesn’t sound very perfect to me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with confidence and a desire to be treated with respect.” Subaki says, brows furrowed.

“Ah ah, careful! If you leave your face like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” Azama warns gleefully.

Subaki’s face twitches as his desire to maintain his looks conflicts with his absolute annoyance with the entire situation and Azama can’t help laughing out loud.

“Well, I’m off to minister to the weary and cure the sick, but this has been lovely.” He says, giving Subaki a jaunty wave. “I’m still not convinced of the perfection of your conversational skills, so I hope we can chat again later.”

Azama asks almost every member of the Hoshidan court about Subaki. It’s a mixed bag in terms of results; Saizo looks at him as if he’s insane and also potentially suicidal, Oboro sneers and insults his hair, and Hana almost decks him, but he scrapes together some information from Hinata and Orochi.

Hinoka calls him in to ask him about it, looking weary as a mother with too many disobedient children. It is one of Azama’s favorite expressions, second only to her defiant rage.

“Why are you interrogating the whole court about Subaki?” She asks, face pinched in anticipation of the answer.

“I’m providing him with spiritual counseling.” Azama says. The more blatant the lie, the more likely it is to be believed. “The more I know about him, the better I can help him.”

Hinoka looks at him with a face that is part-reproach, part-disbelief, part-throwing her hands up and ridding herself of any responsibility for the situation. It is Azama’s fifth favorite Hinoka expression.

“Did anyone believe that load of pegasus shit?”

“Hinata.” Azama says, and Hinoka rolls her eyes because of course he did. “And Setsuna, of course. Sakura probably would have but I didn’t bother her out of respect for you, and Oboro might have believed me but she didn’t listen to me long enough to find out.”

“If you talked to all the retainers, you’re lucky you got out unscathed. I wouldn’t be responsible for your recovery if Hana put a hole in you.”

“Ah, but then you’d have to find a new retainer,” Azama says. “And I’m irreplaceable.”

“Unfortunately.” Hinoka mumbles, under her breath.

Azama finds out that Subaki had a younger sister who had thought that he could do no wrong, that he was perfect. They had been very close, but she had been killed along with his parents when their village was attacked by bandits. Subaki was the only one who survived long enough to be rescued by the Hoshidan sky knights. Without a home to go back to, he decided to join the sky knights and eventually worked his way up to being a royal retainer.

“You don’t have to worry about being perfect for your sister, you know.” Azama tells Subaki. He’s found that starting conversations with pleasantries does nothing but waste valuable time before Subaki storms off, annoyed.

His words have the desired effect. Subaki stiffens instantly, tension filling his frame.

“What are you talking about?” Subaki asks, voice low and dangerous.

“Your sister. I’m guessing your little perfection thing comes from her idolizing you when she was alive. You feel guilty that you couldn’t protect her and so you strive for perfection to live up to her expectations and to avoid the same thing happening to Lady Sakura, who you view as a proxy for your dead sister.” Azama says, breezily as if he were discussing the weather. “You shouldn’t worry about it though, since you’re sister’s dead and couldn’t care less about whether you’re perfect or not.”

“I prefer to think that my sister is still with me.” Subaki says, body still on high alert.

“You can prefer to think anything you want, but it won’t change the reality of the situation.” Azama says. “Dead is dead is dead. No point moping about it.”

“Aren’t you a monk?” Subaki asks, incredulous. “You’re supposed to believe in the afterlife and bringing peace into people’s lives, not taking it away.”

“Well, the church and I have a few fundamental disagreements, but that’s ok.” Azama says. “I took the job anyway because I look good in the robes.”

Subaki looks at him incredulously. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.” Azama replies cheerfully.

“I hate you.” Subaki says, voice much more emotional than his normal smooth baritone.

“I think I can live with that. It means that you’re thinking about me.” Azama says, and leaves Subaki glaring and clenching his fists.

Azama has always known how to wield a lance, having been taught by his mother at an early age. But he finds inflicting violence much more boring than watching others do it and then healing them so they can inflict more violence, so when he becomes a monk he embraces the nonviolent lifestyle and pretends to be completely inept with weapons.

“Which end is the stabby end?” He asks Hinoka, holding one of her javelins upside down and tilting it like he would a staff.

“Don’t play dumb.” Hinoka rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen you cleaning my weapons, I can tell you know how to fight.”

“Perhaps.” Azama admits, thrusting with the blunt end of the javelin. “But I’ve taken a solemn vow of nonviolence, so cleaning lances is all I will do.”

“So you’re saying you’d prefer to let people die protecting you rather than fight alongside them?”

“You could interpret it that way, I suppose.” Azama says. “Ideally, they won’t die because I’ll heal them.”

He extends the javelin like he would a heal staff, but the javelin is much longer and the sharp end nicks his leg.

“Whoops.” Azama looks completely unconcerned that he’s bleeding onto his robes. Hinoka has that dumbfounded look on again, the one that she wears whenever she’s asking herself why the hell she choose such worthless retainers.

It’s an expression Azama sees a lot.

“Fine, have it your way.” She says, giving up. “But if we ever get into a situation where things are so dire that we need every last man, I want you to pick up a lance right side up and fight by my side.”

“Sure.” Azama agrees. “But only if I get to pretend that I’ve suddenly learned how to use lances thanks to the magic of master seals. I don’t get many chances to show off my theatrical ability.”

“Whatever.” Hinoka says. “As long as you fight with us afterwards, I couldn’t care less how you reveal it.”

Subaki hasn’t been talking to him lately, and Azama is mildly put out, even though he most likely deserves it. Luckily, Azama doesn’t believe in absolute morality; he also doesn’t believe in fate, which means that he has no problem tracking Subaki down instead of leaving it up to chance.

“Let’s spar.” Azama says as he walks up behind Subaki, who is grooming his pegasus.

Subaki jumps in surprise, turns around to glare at Azama. “What, are you going to hit me with a bloom festal?”

“No, with lances.” Azama says.

Subaki stares at him incredulously, a look that Azama has grown quite familiar with. Luckily, he likes it. “You don’t use lances.” He says, talking slowly like Azama is a child, or a very, very stupid adult.

“Then it should be easy for you to win.”

Subaki hesitates, thinking it over. “Fine.” He eventually agrees. “But only because I need to blow off steam, and you can’t get mad if I hurt you.”

"Same to you.” Azama shoots back.

Subaki leaves his pegasus behind as they head to the training grounds, because even though he is willing to fight someone who doesn’t know how to use a lance, he’s not willing to do so on a pegasus, because that would just be unfair. They both select practice lances and square off against each other, Subaki holding his lance fiercely with perfect form, while Azama waves it around like a flag.

“Ready?” Azama calls out.

“If you are.” Subaki says, and charges.

Much to Subaki’s surprise, Azama blocks his thrust, although he looks like he barely moved. Taking advantage of Subaki’s confusion, he counterstrikes, pushes him backwards. Subaki does not stay stunned for long but the few minutes for which he is are incredibly satisfying.

They trade blows back and forth; it is a good fight, but once Subaki recovers from the shock that Azama does know his way around a lance after all, it becomes clear that Subaki is still the more skilled of the two. He pushes Azama back until his back touches the wall, disarms him with a quick twist of his lance, and presses the end of his lance to Azama’s throat.

“I win.” Subaki says, breathing a little hard.

“Well,” Azama says, pushing the lance away with his hand as casually as if he were swatting a fly. “I suppose you had to at least once.”

“I’m surprised you’re not secretly an archer.” Subaki grumbles as he puts away his lance. “It would be just like you to want to bring me down to your level.”

Azama smiles, showing all his teeth. “I don’t need arrows to do that.”

Every few days, Azama gets bored and bugs Subaki about his perfection, listing ridiculous things upon ridiculous things in an attempt to make Subaki admit that he’s not perfect. Azama has little hope of succeeding, but the game itself is quite fun.

“We know that you take meticulous care of your hair and body.” Azama says. “And we know that you are a first-class Hoshidan Sky Knight. But there’s still so much about you that we don’t know.”

"What’s your point?” Subaki says curtly, unsure where this is going but sure that he is not going to like it.

“I just think it’s interesting that you claim to be perfect, but don’t give us any proof other than that you think you are, and since you’re perfect you can’t be wrong.” Azama shrugs. “It’s a little thing called circular logic, but since you’re perfect, I’m guessing you already know that.”

“Ok, name one flaw of mine.” Subaki challenges.

“That’s not really a fair challenge, because I haven’t gotten the chance to verify your qualities firsthand.” Azama says, voice deceptively light. “I know that you’re a skilled fighter, because we’ve sparred. I know that you have impressive social skills because I’ve observed you talking with others. I know that you have a beautiful face and a very attractive body, because I have eyes. But I don’t know whether you know how to use that body, so it wouldn’t really be fair to call you perfect, now would it?”

“What are you saying?” Subaki grits out, voice strained. “That you won’t admit that I’m perfect unless I fuck you?”

“Well, I’d personally prefer that I be the one to fuck you.” Azama says, casually as if he were discussing the weather. “But in essence, yes.”

“You’re crazy.” Subaki says.

Azama flashes a smile at him. “So I’ve been told.”

“Why do you think,” Subaki says desperately. “That I care what you think about me at all?”

“Maybe you don’t.” Azama shrugs again. “It’s just an offer.”

Subaki stares at him, fists clenched, thinking so hard that Azama can picture his brain working, gears whirring like the insides of a beautiful, beautiful clock that’s been wound much too tight. He doesn’t seem to be sure who he’s more concerned about arguing with, Azama or himself.

“Fine.” Subaki finally says, looking at Azama defiantly.

“What what that?”

“Fine.” Subaki repeats. “I’ll do it. But only to prove you wrong.”

To his surprise, Azama bursts out laughing, loud peals of laughter ringing out through the camp. Subaki looks around frantically, hoping that Azama’s cackling has not drawn the attention of anyone nearby.

“What’s so funny?” Subaki hisses.

“You never stop surprising me.” Azama replies. “I didn’t think you’d actually be willing to let me fuck you just to prove a point.”

“Maybe that shows that you should stop underestimating me.”

“Maybe. Well, this has been fun, but you can stop with the false bravado, I’m not going to call your bluff today.” Azama says. “I wouldn’t fuck someone who’s only agreed because he feels like he was cornered.”

“So you were the one bluffing!” Subaki exclaims, stuck somewhere between frustration and mad, wild relief.

“I wouldn’t say that. I’d be happy to carry through on my end of the deal, but as a man of the cloth, I do have a moral code to uphold, and consent is a very important part of that.” Azama grins toothily. “If you ever decide you want to take me up on the offer of your own free will, you know where I live.”

“Your morals force you to respect consent when it comes to sex, but they don’t prevent you from trying to psychologically torture everyone you meet?”

“What can I say?” Azama says. “The gods move in mysterious ways, and I am but their humble servant.”  

Their battles grow fiercer and more frequent and Hinoka tells Azama that it is time for him to start pulling his weight and using an actual weapon like any other decent retainer, tossing a master seal at him and warning him not to make too big of a scene.

Azama takes full advantage of his fake class change, casting a faulty heal staff to create a burst of light as he pretends to activate the master seal. Before the light subsides, he slips the master seal into his robe and grabs a lance he’d stashed nearby.

“Oh my, I suddenly know how to use a lance!” Azama exclaims, making a few experimental thrusts. “How lovely!”

Subaki peers at him suspiciously from his position nearby. Azama may have chosen this location strategically, knowing that Subaki always cleans his lance hear at this time of day, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Why didn’t your clothes change when you used the master seal?” Subaki asks loudly.

Azama flashes Subaki a bright smile. “Maybe it’s because I’m already perfect, just the way I am.”

“Help me practice.” Azama tells Subaki, interrupting an incredibly boring conversation he and Hana were having about the merits of different types of metal used in forging weapons.

“You do realize that it’s considered good manners to greet someone before launching into a conversation?” Subaki says dryly, unamused. Hana glares at him.

“Manners are a construct created by humans attempting to bring order into a chaotic world by imposing arbitrary moral values onto it.” Azama replies. “But if it makes you feel better, good afternoon Subaki, I hope that you are faring well on this lovely wartime day. If it pleases you, I would greatly appreciate your help in practicing for the next battle.”

Hana looks like she is about to yell at him for deliberately ignoring her, but Subaki puts a hand on her shoulder and instead of yelling, she turns her glare onto Subaki, shrugs his hand off her shoulder, and flounces away.

Subaki looks at Hana’s retreating back, looks back at Azama, looks at Hana again. Azama figures there’s about a 50% chance that he can goad Subaki into doing what he wants, but that might get lower if Subaki’s chivalry thing kicks in.

“Fine.” Subaki says. “Let me go get my lance.”

“Only,” He adds quickly. “Because I’m angry at you and trying to stab you in the name of sparring sounds quite appealing right now.”

Azama follows Subaki to his tent and then to the clearing that the troops like to spar in, letting Subaki get out his lance and drop into fighting stance before saying. “Actually, I didn’t need your help with lances. I need your help to practice healing.”

Subaki looks like he wants to hurl his lance at Azama like a javelin. “What.” He says, intonation more like a threat than a question.

“Healing takes practice too, in case you didn’t realize.” Azama says. “A lot of non-healers think that the rod does all the work, but that’s not true. It takes concentration for the wielder to effectively channel his or her magic through the rod.”

“That doesn’t explain why you need me.”

“I can’t practice healing without wounds, and I can’t heal myself. It’s the rule, you know.” Azama says.

“What rule?” Subaki asks, suspicious.

“The rule of magic, of course.” Azama says. His moral code does not forbid lying, as long as the lies are so blatant that the listener is shocked into believing them.

“The rule of magic...” Subaki repeats incredulously, then shakes his head, deciding that it is not worth it. “So let me get this straight. You want me to injure myself so you can practice healing? Why on earth would I agree to this?”

“Because without practice, I cannot learn to heal more effectively. And my healing skills could make the difference between life and death on the battlefield. Your death, perhaps. Or even the death of Lady Sakura.” Azama says. “If you’d prefer, I can be the one to injure you.”

“No, I’ll do it myself.” Subaki replies quickly, then realizes what he has just said. “Wait, I never said I would do this at all!”

“I believe you just did. You can back out if you want, but I don’t know if that would be very perfect of you.”

Subaki is far too easy to back into a corner, and Azama loves it about him.

Subaki inspects his lance, as if trying to figure out the easiest way to cause an injury without it being too painful.

Azama hands him a knife. “Try this, it might be easier.”

Subaki takes it without meeting Azama’s eyes, holds it over his left forearm and after a moment’s hesitation, draws a shallow gash down his arm, wincing as the knife touches his skin.

Subaki stares at the thin red line as blood begins to well up, barely acknowledging Azama until he murmurs a few words and waves his bloom festal, making the wound close up before Subaki’s eyes, blood seeming to evaporate into thin air.

“This is wrong.” Subaki says, voice sounding far away. “This is not normal.”

“Sure it is.” Azama says. “All you have to do is redefine what you think is normal. Now, again.”

Subaki repeats the motion on the other arm this time, and Azama heals him so quickly that Subaki barely sees any red.

“That was too easy. Do another spot this time, and try to make it deeper.”

Subaki obeys as if entranced, rolling up one leg of his light cotton trousers to reveal the skin of his calf. He brings the knife to his skin again, and Azama can tell by the twitching in his face that he is pushing harder.

Azama heals him again, and Subaki moves onto the other leg without prompting, looking only at the wounds as they open and close without sparing a glance for Azama.

They continue the pattern of harming and healing several times, Subaki creating wounds and Azama making them disappear.

How symbolic. Azama thinks. Or maybe ironic.

With every glow of the bloom festal Subaki looks more and more distant, and Azama thinks that although his experiment has been quite fruitful, it may be time to bring Subaki back to earth.

“Only one more.” Azama says, and Subaki starts at the sound of his voice. “Let me do it this time.”

Wordlessly, Subaki hands him the knife.

Subaki’s shirt has a lower neckline than he usually wears, leaving his collarbone exposed. Azama chooses that spot to place the knife and Subaki shivers when he feels it touch his skin, then grows deathly still as Azama opens up a new wound, longer and deeper than the previous ones.

He puts down the knife and picks up the bloom festal, but pauses before casting the spell, gazing at Subaki as an artist might gaze at their work. Subaki does not shirk from his gaze this time, closes his eyes and runs his fingers along the wound as it closes.

Subaki does not open his eyes until the entire gash is healed.

“Will that leave a scar?” He asks, trying to get a good look at the skin that was just healed.

“No. For a wound that minor, an experienced healer like myself should have to problem healing without leaving a scar.”

“Good.” Subaki says, rubbing his fingers over his collarbone and looking disappointed.

“What do you think love is?” Azama asks Subaki, without preamble. It is a trite question with many stupid answers and few good ones, but Azama finds it interesting to hear which stupid answer people choose.

“Love is when you care for someone despite their flaws.” Subaki answers almost instantly.

It is a trite answer, but it is delicious anyways, and Azama savors it.

“But then, if you have no flaws, how will you ever know if anyone truly loves you?” Azama asks.

Subaki does not answer, and Azama reflects that Subaki’s flaws are what he likes the best.

The battles grow harsher and Azama’s hands become more accustomed to the feel of his lance than of his rod, although they certainly have need of both. Everyone is weary, and when Azama tries to goad Subaki into bickering with him, Subaki only glares.

“Be careful, you’ll get wrinkles!” Azama calls to him, enjoying the sight of Subaki’s furrowed brow.

But Subaki doesn't respond, just turns away in the direction of his tent, and Azama is much more bothered than he has any right to be.

During their next battle, Subaki is struck across the cheek with a shuriken coated with some kind of poison. The shuriken itself barely hurts him, but the poison makes his muscles seize up, and only the combination of Azura’s song and Azama’s staff restore him to a somewhat normal condition.

After the battle, Subaki glances into the reflection of Benny’s armor by accident and sees that the shuriken left a scar. He makes a strangled sound as his hand flies to his cheek, ignoring Benny’s concern.

Stunned, Subaki stables his pegasus, sheds half his armor, stares at himself in the small mirror he keeps in his tent, sheds the other half of his armor, breaks the mirror and does not clean up the pieces, and marches angrily to Azama’s tent.

Azama opens the tent flap before Subaki reaches it and for once, neither of them say anything as Subaki storms in, grabs Azama’s forearms, digging his nails in much too hard, and puts his mouth over Azama’s like a plea.

Even now, Subaki kisses gently and with refinement, the very epitome of a gentleman. It would be perfect for some youngest daughter of a noble family wanting to swept off her feet by a dashing night, but Azama is no blushing maiden. He does not like the way that Subaki kisses and so he does not let Subaki kiss him for long, choosing instead to move his mouth to Subaki’s neck and bite down, hard.

Subaki gasps breathlessly and his entire body shivers, and he lets Azama bite him again, lets Azama draw him down onto his tiny cot and undress him, lets Azama lay him bare and fuck him.

Azama peels off Subaki’s clothes meticulously and with mechanical precision, and Subaki feels his layers removed one by one until all that remains is the clockwork within, whirring madly as his heartbeat quickens every time Azama touches him.

Azama takes him apart with every touch, with deft fingers and chapped lips and sharp teeth unraveling more and more of the identity that Subaki has spent years weaving, and Subaki cannot help but cry out for more.

As he fucks Subaki, Azama caresses his face, surprisingly gentle, and whispers that he is so good, that he is perfect, and Subaki shudders under his touch because he knows that it is a lie.

“What about you? What do you think love is?” Subaki asks out of the blue one day, picking up a thread of conversation that has been hanging loose for weeks.

“If you even believe in love, that is.” He adds.

Azama considers it. “I believe in love, I’m just not sure it’s a concept that applies to me.”

Subaki’s face is contemplative, free of relief or disappointment.

“But if I did want to engage in the silly practice of defining abstract concepts.” Azama adds. “I think I’d say that love is when you never get bored.”

Subaki is naked when they next hear the horns that signal an ambush; he grabs his pants and Azama tosses him a shirt and they rush out of the tent, weapons in hand. Even disheveled and disoriented and pegasus-less, Subaki rushes to the front lines, recklessly brave and bravely reckless.

Azama hangs back and watches him charge into the fray, hair full of tangles, neck covered in bite marks, and mind full of Azama.

Perfect. He thinks.