A curious, insidious notion began to coil within Lysander, a subtle poison that urged him to observe Lord Valerius and Jasper after their Academy lessons. It was a base, almost childish envy, yet it gnawed at him with the sharp teeth of a much deeper, unacknowledged yearning. From the hushed whispers he’d gathered, Jasper followed Valerius like a shadow. Not side-by-side, no, never that casual familiarity, but always a respectful distance behind. Still, the image lingered: Jasper, a young man of respectable stature, trailing Valerius as if tethered by an invisible, unbreakable thread. Indulging this private speculation felt like prying open a forbidden box, one whispered to hold not only despair but a far crueler, more potent hope. A truth that, once glimpsed, could never be forgotten. He truly was losing his mind. The thought was a cold prickle at the back of his neck. Despite the self-admonishment, Lysander found himself slipping away after the final bell. He navigated the bustling corridors, past the hurried footmen and chattering minor gentry, careful to remain unseen. Valerius’s carriage, a sleek, sable behemoth, already waited at the main gates. A few paces ahead, Valerius paused, turning his head slightly, a gesture that might have been a search, or merely impatience. Jasper emerged from the Academy’s heavy oak doors, his satchel clutched tight. His gaze, distant and strangely vacant, fixed on Valerius’s retreating back. The fading afternoon light painted the cobbled street in dull ochres and grays. Cracked flagstones, ancient ivy clinging to the stone walls, the faint scent of damp earth and horses. It was a scene devoid of grandeur, utterly mundane. Valerius, tall and imposing, then Jasper, small and uncertain in his wake. And Lysander, concealed behind a sprawling laurel bush, a silent, pathetic spectator. An acute wave of self-loathing washed over him. He felt utterly foolish, a character in some poorly written play. He turned, the gravel crunching softly beneath his polished boots, retreating into the Academy’s deserted quadrangle. Later, in the cloistered darkness of his study, illuminated only by the dying embers in the hearth, Lysander found a hollow satisfaction in his choice. Curiosity was a dangerous mistress. Had he pressed on, what wretched sight might have burned itself into his memory? Better this way. Far better to remain ignorant of the full extent of their twisted dynamic. He was no fool to open Pandora’s box for a fleeting, petty curiosity. Yet the days that followed brought an undeniable shift. Valerius’s fixation on Jasper grew sharper, more predatory. Jasper, in turn, seemed to shrink further into himself, his fear of the elder Lord a palpable thing. Lysander saw it in the way Jasper flinched, the slight tremble in his hand when Valerius’s shadow fell over him. A dark, unwelcome satisfaction bloomed in Lysander’s chest. He had not intervened, had not sought to ease Jasper’s burden when Valerius first singled him out. Perhaps, in some twisted way, that too had been for the best. Lysander laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling of his gilded chamber. The intricate plasterwork, carved with cherubs and floral motifs, mocked him with its perfection. He had been born into this world of gilded cages and silken comforts, an only child, every whim indulged. There had been nothing he couldn’t achieve. Until, that is, he had met Lord Valerius. That man had shown him the brutal reality: some desires remained forever out of reach. He suspected Valerius, for all his bluster, was learning that bitter truth too. The world, Lysander mused, could be a mercilessly cruel place. At least Lysander had mastered the art of control, the intricate dance of concealing his deepest emotions. Valerius, however, was a storm without a master. His burgeoning obsession with Jasper was an uncontrolled blaze, searingly evident in his every glance, his every possessive gesture. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been profoundly unsettling for Jasper. Lysander knew the feeling intimately. He had tasted that same acrid despair, that same consuming fire. But where Lysander had endured, Valerius could not. He stalked and intimidated, earning not affection, but resentment. A grim smile touched Lysander’s lips. For him, this was a most convenient turn of events. “Please, just remain so blissfully unaware,” he murmured, the words lost in the silence of his room. Or better yet, let Valerius’s interest wane, let Jasper find release from his grip. Lysander did not desire Valerius’s attention for himself. This particular brand of desire, he admitted, terrified him. He yearned only for the day he no longer harbored these wretched feelings, and for Valerius to turn his affections elsewhere. But such simple hopes rarely found purchase in this intricate world. Another unsettling shift came to the Academy. Valerius, with an audacious disregard for decorum, moved his desk. He repositioned it directly beside Jasper’s, directly in front of the tutor’s lectern, a baffling choice given his considerable height. He entirely obstructed the tutor’s view of the chalk-board. Jasper’s former seatmate, a nervous young Baronet, offered Lysander and Lord Kaelen a strained, awkward greeting, his expression caught between embarrassment and discomfort. “Good day, Lords.” Kaelen and Lysander exchanged a brief glance. They offered only the curt, almost imperceptible nod expected of their station. “Haha…” The Baronet’s strained laugh hung in the air, unanswered. Neither Lysander nor Kaelen were inclined to engage. They had no interest in such trivialities. Valerius settled himself beside Jasper without a word, a silent, imposing presence. Lysander found himself wishing—no, desperately pleading—for this tense, unnatural equilibrium to hold, frozen in amber, for the remaining year and a half of their studies. Perhaps, one day, it would all fade into a vague, forgotten dream. Days melted into weeks. Valerius, known for his scandalous escapades in the city’s taverns and clandestine parlors, seemed to curtail his dissolute habits. Or so it appeared. Whispers from Kaelen’s coterie suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely, but the blatant boasting of his conquests had vanished. The cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale wine no longer clung to him during morning lessons. For Lysander, it was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the tangible proof of Valerius’s debauchery from close quarters. Lord Alaric, a boisterous youth with a penchant for crude jests, swaggered before Valerius’s desk. He swayed his hips suggestively, mimicking a lewd dance, his hands gesturing obscenely. Valerius’s face twisted into a mask of pure disgust. He shot a quick, furtive glance towards Jasper, who had visibly stiffened. “You oaf! I told you not to flaunt such filth in public!” “Why the sudden prudishness, eh?” Alaric taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. “If you breathe another word of that, Lord Alaric, you will regret it.” Valerius’s voice was a low growl. “Come now, Valerius—” “I said, silence!” “...Very well, your Lordship.” Alaric retreated, a sneer marring his features. His companions, a gaggle of minor Lords, exchanged disappointed looks. Valerius, with his imposing stature and air of dangerous experience, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosity of young men brimming with unchecked desires. The youths in Valerius’s and Kaelen’s social circles were no innocents; most had already fumbled through their own clumsy experiences. Compared to those of untainted virtue, they were more easily titillated. With Valerius no longer recounting his exploits, their attention drifted to Kaelen. But Kaelen merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain. “You loathsome perverts,” Kaelen muttered, his voice a low rumble. “Ah, there he goes! Kaelen with his usual sermon!” “He’s utterly absurd. Honestly, what a waste.” Laughter rippled through the classroom, loud and fleeting. Most of the young Lords present had ventured into forbidden territories at least once, but for some inscrutable reason, Lord Kaelen had not. While they teased him as a joke, calling him ‘The Unblemished,’ no one actually dared disrespect him. He was Lord Kaelen, after all. At the same time, Kaelen possessed a carefree, almost insolent air that made his actions seem casual and his blunt words easier to bear. People often found this either charming or surprisingly approachable, frequently remarking that his demeanor belied his intimidating features. “Cease your crude staring, you buffoons. You’ll have me quite unnerved.” “Indeed, Kaelen’s countenance can be rather frightful.” “Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?” Kaelen scowled, and the group burst into fresh laughter, though there was nothing amusing about the exchange. Some of the youths lounging at the back of the chamber, perhaps his friends, perhaps less, joined in with their forced chuckles and idle chatter, adding to the cacophony. Lysander sat amidst them, his gaze unfocused, lost in thought. If memory served, he had never felt a flicker of desire for a woman. By default, he supposed, he was simply… built differently. Yes, he had felt a vague stirring while observing certain illicit illustrations, depicting both men and women, but it was the intensity of the scene, not the allure of the female form, that captivated. He had never once fantasized about a woman’s body during his private moments. The desire was simply absent. He had been dragged to a clandestine gambling den once by Valerius, but he hadn’t made it past the concealed entrance. He lacked the appropriate identification. Instead, he had waited outside until Valerius emerged. Brothels? The very thought curdled his stomach. He could not comprehend the appeal. Why would anyone subject themselves to such squalor? Because of all this, the youths in their circle jokingly referred to him as “Abstinent Thorne,” though in truth, his abstinence felt less a choice and more a predestined state. Lysander exhaled a small, almost imperceptible sigh. The others were too engrossed in Kaelen’s latest cynical anecdote to notice. Seizing the moment, he risked a glance at Valerius, who sat in silent, brooding intensity. Valerius’s eyes were fixed, as always, on the back of Jasper’s head, where Jasper diligently studied. And, as always, Lysander regretted it. Why had he looked? Why had the curiosity become an addiction? To distract himself, he posed a question to Kaelen, one he knew would elicit a sharp response. “So, Lord Kaelen, do you genuinely intend to remain celibate until the altar?” Kaelen, sprawled in his chair with an air of careless abandon, suddenly fixed his gaze directly on Lysander’s lower half. The intensity of his stare was so unsettling that Lysander instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the blazes? “You are not my betrothed, Thorne, so why the impertinent inquiry? What, are you offering your services?” “…” Lysander’s jaw tightened. Of course. Kaelen always had a malicious jibe ready. The others laughed, and Lysander, despite his usual restraint, delivered a swift, hard kick to Kaelen’s shin beneath the desk. Such were Lysander’s days—an endless, repetitive loop of subtle tension and psychological torment. --- Alone in his chamber, where silence was his most frequent companion, Lysander often found his thoughts drifting, contemplating endless scenarios. Inevitably, those contemplations veered into strange, unsettling fantasies. Today, he wondered what it would have been like if his affections had settled upon Lord Kaelen instead of Valerius. It seemed, in the cold light of reason, a far less painful prospect. If he loved Kaelen, he would not endure the sharp ache caused by Valerius’s volatile possessiveness over Jasper. Even so, the outcome would likely be the same heartbreak. Neither Valerius nor Kaelen, after all, would ever return his feelings. But at least his heart would not ache because of Jasper. The thought spiraled, leading him down paths of profound inferiority and a simmering anger. In the end, he simply wished for the swift passage of time, for graduation, for the sweet anonymity of being a stranger to Valerius. At some point, the habit began. He found himself unconsciously placing his hands beneath the desk whenever he sat, his fingers often finding the intricate buckle of his breeches. It was a compulsion born in his youth, always tied to the same source: men. As his fingers traced the cool metal, he lost himself in thought. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint, almost inaudible click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a hesitant pressure with his thumb, about to undo the clasp, a soft knock rattled his door. “Lysander? Are you diligently studying, dear?” Lady Thorne’s voice, bright and solicitous. “...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed, I am!” He nearly leaped out of his skin. The moment was utterly ruined. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it all. --- Lately, Valerius had grown infuriatingly deliberate. Sometimes, when Jasper’s eyes flickered towards Lysander across the classroom, Valerius would instantly, pointedly, strike up a conversation with him. Jasper, caught in the middle, would avert his gaze from Lysander, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Valerius’s oppressive presence, he would lower his head and offer an almost inaudible response. “Y-yes, Lord Valerius…” Just like that. Jasper, bless his naivete, began to subtly seek Lysander out more often, tentatively addressing him as “Thorne.” Aside from close family, almost no one called Lysander simply “Thorne,” without the honorific. The change was painfully noticeable. Jasper seemed to think he was being careful, but he was not. The worst part was how Valerius failed entirely to conceal his discomfort, his barely contained fury, whenever Jasper dared such a slight familiarity. “Jasper, desist from disturbing Lord Thorne’s studies.” Valerius’s voice, a deceptively soft warning. “What…?” Jasper mumbled, confused. “I said, cease your interruption. Do you comprehend?” “Oh… uh, y-yes, Lord Valerius…” Jasper stammered, avoiding Valerius’s piercing gaze. In an immature display of temper, Valerius slammed his fist against the desk leg beside him. Lysander pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, clueless Jasper seemed to believe no one cared about his use of “Thorne” anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were now normal. “Uh, Thorne… forgive me for bothering your studies.” Lysander stiffened, staring at Jasper in disbelief. Was he mad? Valerius was seated directly beside him. Sure enough, Valerius pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn it all. “You! Jasper!” Valerius roared. “...Huh?” Jasper flinched. The atmosphere curdled instantly. “I warned you.” Valerius’s anger was blatant, unapologetic. “I told you not to address him as ‘Thorne,’ did I not?” “...W-well…” “His name is Lord Lysander Thorne. You will address him as such.” His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swiveled to Lysander. Lysander hated that look. He instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Lord Kaelen, seated beside Lysander, casually draped an arm over his shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Lysander’s ear. “Lord Valerius, if you continue this charade, you will truly undo yourself.” “What in the blazes are you implying?” Valerius’s voice was a snarl. “I’m implying you will live to regret this.” Kaelen smirked, and Lysander felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only. Valerius’s eyes, full of venom, were now fixed on Kaelen, a dangerous gleam in their depths. The game, it seemed, had just grown infinitely more perilous for all involved.

A Fool's Gaze and a Serpent's Tongue