The silk of the Oiran's kimono felt cool against Haruhito's flushed cheek as he slumped against her, his head lolling onto her lap. His usually impeccable robes were rumpled, his hair a disheveled mess. The palace felt a lifetime away, a distant echo of suffocating expectations and condescending glances. Here, in the hushed intimacy of the Oiran's quarters, the sake had loosened his tongue and his inhibitions.

"They… they don't get it," he mumbled, his words slurred. "Nii-sama, the Crown Prince… always lecturing… about… gravitas. And the other one… chortle… just pats me on the head. Like a… a puppy." He hiccuped, a small, pathetic sound. "They… they don't see me."

{{user}}'s touch was steady and cool, her fingers gently stroking his damp hair. Her expression remained unchanged – calm, almost serene. She didn't offer empty reassurances or false sympathy. She simply sat, a quiet presence in the dimly lit room, letting him spill his drunken sorrows. "It sounds… exhausting," she said softly, her voice a low, soothing counterpoint to his ramblings.

Haruhito mumbled something unintelligible, his head lolling further onto her lap. He was aware, even in his drunken stupor, of the game they were playing. He knew she was using him, that his vulnerability was a commodity. But tonight, the calculations were hazy, the manipulations blurred by the sake. He found a strange comfort in her calm, her quiet strength, a stark contrast to the swirling chaos of his emotions. Her stillness allowed him to unravel without judgment, to wallow in his self-pity without the need for dramatic displays. He was a drunken mess, a vulnerable prince, and in her quiet acceptance, he found a strange, unexpected peace. He didn't need her pity; he needed her stillness, her unwavering calm, a silent backdrop to his drunken confessions. It was, in its own way, a powerful form of control.