A peculiar, insidious tendril of curiosity began to coil around Caelum Lysander’s thoughts. He found himself idly wondering about the journey Rhys Atheria and Lysander Thorne undertook each afternoon, after the final bell chimed through the Ascendant Lyceum’s vaulted halls.
It was a simple intrigue, one might dismiss as a fleeting shadow of envy, yet it clung with an unnerving persistence. From his vantage, Rhys always trailed a respectful distance behind Lysander, never quite abreast. Still, the image festered: Rhys, a youth nearing full stature, following with a quiet intensity that hinted at an insatiable yearning.
Even as Caelum entertained this intrusive thought, a chill settled in his gut. A familiar unease. It felt akin to contemplating Pandora’s Box, that mythic vessel of despair and, more cruelly, of the hope that outlived it all.
An exquisite torture, to know the peril, yet be compelled to peer inside. A soft, self-deprecating laugh escaped Caelum’s lips.
“...This is madness,” he whispered.
Indeed, his composure, usually so unyielding, wavered. Despite the internal alarm, he found himself following Rhys after classes, a phantom in the Lyceum’s dignified twilight.
He did not travel far.
Moving with a hunter’s caution, lest Lysander catch his pursuit, Caelum watched Rhys’s steady gaze fixed on the broad expanse of Lysander’s back. They walked through the Lyceum’s service passages, usually shunned by the scions of the great houses. Here, ancient flagstones showed hairline cracks, and the ornate wrought-iron gates bore a dull, rusted sheen.
Dust motes danced in the last slanting rays of sunlight, illuminating forgotten alcoves and scarred stone. A scene utterly devoid of the Lyceum’s usual splendor. Two figures traversing such a desolate landscape: Lysander in the lead, Rhys a silent echo. And Caelum, a distant, clandestine witness.
Every element of the tableau struck him as profoundly undignified, almost pathetic. A bitter taste coated his tongue. He turned away, his footsteps barely disturbing the quiet.
---
Later, ensconced in the opulent gloom of his private study, Caelum considered his retreat. He felt a cool satisfaction. His decision had been sound. Curiosity, while a potent intoxicant, could lead to sights best left unseen. He had not been so foolish as to pry open Pandora’s Box for a mere whim.
Lysander Thorne’s obsession with Rhys Atheria had deepened into something palpable, a suffocating presence. Rhys, in turn, bore a look of quiet dread, if not outright aversion, toward Lysander.
No, it was definitely aversion. Hatred, perhaps. How else could one feel toward a person who had, for a significant period, made their existence a living torment within the Lyceum’s walls? A faint, sharp edge of smugness pricked Caelum’s internal landscape. At least he had not interfered with Lysander’s early cruelties. Perhaps, in its own twisted way, that had been for the best.
Caelum laced his fingers behind his head, tilting his gaze upward. His eyes settled on the elaborate, gilded ceiling, a testament to generations of Lysander wealth. A quiet reminder of his birthright, of a life where desires, save one, had always bent to his will.
“…Damn it all.”
He had once believed himself invincible, capable of conquering any ambition. Then he had fallen in love with Lysander Thorne. That callous individual had been the cruel instructor, revealing the bitter truth: some desires remained forever out of reach. And Caelum was certain Lysander, too, was learning that same unforgiving lesson.
Ah, the world could be mercilessly cruel.
At least Caelum had mastered the art of self-command, the subtle alchemy of concealing his true affections. Lysander, conversely, was a raw nerve, so consumed by his tempestuous emotions that he remained oblivious to the overt intensity of his regard for Rhys. Such abrupt, unsettling passion must have been a bewildering torment for Lysander.
Caelum understood that turmoil with an unnerving clarity; he had endured its precise agony himself. Yet, where Caelum had disciplined his spirit, Lysander seemed incapable. He resorted to acts of possessive aggression, alienating the very object of his affection, rather than cultivating a genuine connection. For Caelum, in his hidden machinations, this suited his purposes perfectly.
“Please, remain so deliciously oblivious,” Caelum murmured into the stillness.
Or, better still, let Rhys grow weary and vanish from the Lyceum altogether. Caelum harbored no illusions of Lysander turning his affections. If anything, the sheer, visceral force of Lysander’s love terrified him.
Caelum desired only one impossible thing: for the day to arrive when his own love for Lysander finally withered, and for Lysander, somehow, to discover love in a different, less destructive form. That was all. But, of course, the world rarely bowed to such elegant wishes.
---
Then came another shift. Lysander Thorne, with a blatant disregard for decorum, rearranged his study desk. He relocated it to sit directly in front of Rhys Atheria, a placement shockingly inconvenient given Rhys’s stature. The new configuration entirely obscured the instruction board from Rhys’s view. Acheron, Rhys’s original desk-mate, offered Caelum and Hadrian a strained greeting, his face a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Greetings, Caelum, Hadrian.”
Caelum and Hadrian exchanged a swift, knowing glance, responding with curt nods.
“Hah…” Acheron’s awkward laugh hung in the air, a fragile thing. Neither Caelum nor Hadrian offered a reply. They were not interested in platitudes.
Lysander sat beside Rhys, a silent, imposing figure. Caelum felt the heavy quiet settle, a pervasive tension that clung like damp air. He hoped—no, he desperately willed—that this precise moment of awkward stasis could endure for another year and a half. That someday, this fraught tableau would recede into nothing more than a faint, half-remembered dream.
---
Another change rippled through the Lyceum’s undercurrents. Lysander, notorious for his weekend escapades into the city’s more decadent establishments, seemed to have curtailed his infamous hobby. So the whispers claimed. From the fragmented gossip Hadrian’s circle conveyed, it wasn’t a complete cessation. Yet, the public boasting of conquests had ceased, and the cloying scent of late-night debauchery no longer clung to him during morning classes.
For Caelum, this was a small, blessed relief. He no longer had to endure the pervasive odor of Lysander’s indiscretions from such proximity.
“Lysander, not indulging tonight? No more… like this?” Cassian Holt swayed his hips suggestively, cupping his hands near his groin, a vulgar pantomime. Lysander’s face twisted in a snarl at the crude display.
He shot a quick, furtive glance toward Rhys Atheria, then erupted, his voice sharp with anger. “You imbecile! I forbade that filth in public!”
“Why the sudden modesty, then?”
“Mention it again, Cassian Holt, and you’ll regret it.”
“But Lysander—”
“I said silence!”
“…Fine. As you wish.”
The others in the group visibly deflated. Lysander, with his commanding presence and mature aura, had once been the primary conduit for the burgeoning curiosities of highborn youths brimming with untamed instincts. These scions, more seasoned than naive novices, were easily incited. With Lysander’s exploits no longer for public consumption, their restless attention began to drift toward Hadrian Vance.
But Hadrian merely bared his teeth, an expression of pure disdain twisting his features. “Filthy sycophants.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Hadrian, with his sanctimonious pronouncements.”
“He’s just a zealous prude. A waste, truly.”
Laughter, loud and fleeting, echoed through the chamber.
Most of the young men in their circle had, at one point or another, ventured into the forbidden territories of passion. Hadrian Vance, however, remained an enigma. They teased him with the moniker ‘the Celibate Lord,’ yet no one truly disrespected him. He was Hadrian Vance, after all. At the same time, Hadrian possessed a certain lighthearted indifference, which made his casual actions and blunt words easily absorbed. Some found it charming, others approachable, often remarking on the stark contrast between his formidable countenance and his easy manner.
“You oaf, cease glaring. You’ll make me lose my composure.”
“Indeed, that one possesses a most unsettling visage.”
“Do you curmudgeons harbor a death wish?”
Hadrian scowled, and the group erupted into another round of laughter, though the jest itself held little humor. A few youths loitering at the back of the chamber, perhaps friends, perhaps lesser acquaintances, joined in with their hollow mirth, adding to the cacophony. Caelum sat among them, staring blankly at his lap, lost in a private reverie.
…
His memory served him well: he had never once felt the stirrings of desire for a woman. By default, perhaps, that rendered him queer from birth. Certainly, he had experienced arousal witnessing intimate acts between men and women, yet he had never once fantasized about a woman’s form during solitary moments. The former felt like a response to the raw intensity of the act itself, the latter a stark absence of genuine yearning.
He had attended a covert gathering once, dragged along by Lysander, but had not even progressed beyond the shadowed entrance. He lacked the forged identification necessary for such illicit venues. Instead, he had waited, a patiently suffering sentinel, until Lysander reemerged. Brothels? The very thought curdled his stomach. He found the concept repulsive, an alien practice he could not comprehend.
Due to this singular disinclination, the young men in their group sometimes jestingly referred to him as “Abstinent Lysander,” but in truth, his abstinence was less a choice, more a deeply ingrained reality.
He let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
The others, engrossed in Hadrian’s tales and their own raucous laughter, remained oblivious. Capitalizing on the momentary distraction, Caelum’s gaze drifted to Lysander, who sat in an uncharacteristic silence. Lysander’s eyes were, as always, fixed on the back of Rhys Atheria’s head, Rhys diligently studying across the room.
And, as always, Caelum regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he allow such destructive curiosity? To sever the thread of thought, he addressed Hadrian with a seemingly frivolous question.
“So, do you genuinely intend to remain celibate until the day of your betrothal?”
Hadrian, lounging in his chair with an almost regal nonchalance, swiveled his head. His gaze, unnervingly direct, settled on Caelum’s lap. It was so intense, so pointed, that Caelum instinctively crossed his legs, a protective gesture. What in the blazes?
“You are not my betrothed, Caelum, so why the fervent inquiry? What, are you offering yourself?”
…
Of course. This wretched man always delivered such malicious jests. The others roared with laughter, and Caelum, with a swift, silent motion, kicked Hadrian sharply in the shin.
Such was the rhythm of Caelum’s days—an endless cycle, each moment a replication of the last.
---
Within the sanctuary of his personal chambers, Caelum often found himself alone. This solitude frequently led to a labyrinth of thought, where scenarios both mundane and fantastical played out in his mind. Inevitably, those contemplations would sometimes veer into strange, unsettling fantasies.
Today, he pondered what his existence might be like had he fallen in love with Hadrian Vance instead of Lysander Thorne. It seemed a far more agreeable predicament. Had his affections settled on Hadrian, he would have been spared the exquisite agony inflicted by Lysander’s tumultuous relationships with women.
Even so, his heart would still ache.
Neither Lysander Thorne nor Hadrian Vance would ever reciprocate his devotion, after all. But at least his heart would not suffer for Rhys Atheria. That train of thought inevitably spiraled into feelings of deep-seated inferiority and a simmering resentment. In the end, Caelum simply yearned for swift graduation, for the sweet release of becoming a mere stranger to Lysander Thorne.
---
At some indeterminate point, Caelum had begun to unconsciously slide his hands beneath the desk whenever he settled into a chair. This habit, a silent, furtive ritual, had truly begun in his second year of middle school, and the catalyst was always the same: men.
As his fingers idly toyed with the ornate buckle of his breeches, Caelum’s thoughts wandered. Should he? Or should he not? A faint, metallic click, the sound of silver tapping against his nail, filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb applied a decisive pressure to undo the fastening, a gentle knock echoed from the door.
“Cael? Are you engaged in your studies?”
“…Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. Today was unequivocally not the day for such indulgence. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms, the blush searing his skin. Damn it all.
---
Lately, Lysander Thorne had become a constant irritant.
Sometimes, when Rhys Atheria’s gaze drifted toward Caelum, Lysander would deliberately interject, initiating a conversation with Rhys. Rhys, caught between them, would flick his eyes toward Caelum, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut once more. Then, as if keenly aware of Lysander’s oppressive presence, he would lower his head, offering the faintest whisper of an answer.
“Y-yes…”
Just like that. A stifled interaction.
Rhys, however, had subtly begun to seek out Caelum more, and had started addressing him as “Cael.” Aside from close family, almost no one used that familiar appellation, making the shift profoundly noticeable. Rhys seemed to believe he was being discreet, but his attempts were transparent. The most grating aspect was Lysander’s utter inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Rhys made even the slightest overture of familiarity.
“Rhys Atheria, cease distracting Caelum while he is engaged in his studies.”
“What?”
“Stop bothering him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Rhys stammered and averted his gaze, Lysander, with an almost childish petulance, slammed his fist against the leg of the adjacent desk. Caelum feigned complete obliviousness. Annoyingly, Rhys, with a staggering lack of awareness, seemed to think that no one truly cared about him using the familiar “Cael” anymore. He grew bold, using it casually, as if it were entirely normal.
“Uh, Cael… forgive me for disturbing your studies.”
Caelum stiffened, staring at Rhys in utter disbelief. Was he entirely devoid of sense? Lysander sat right there, a simmering cauldron of possessiveness.
Sure enough, Lysander’s fist slammed against the desk leg again. Damn him.
“Hey! Rhys Atheria!”
“…Huh?”
The atmosphere curdled instantly, turning thick and acrid.
“I instructed you.” Lysander’s anger was raw, unconcealed. “I instructed you not to address him as ‘Cael,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“Call him Caelum Lysander. That is his full designation—Caelum Lysander.”
Lysander’s gaze turned unnervingly sharp, almost predatory, as he fixed it upon Caelum. Caelum despised that look, and instinctively, he lowered his head, seeking refuge from its intensity. At that precise moment, Hadrian Vance, seated casually beside him, draped an arm over Caelum’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Caelum’s ear.
“Lysander Thorne, continue this charade, and you will assuredly unravel yourself.”
“What nonsense do you utter?”
“I merely suggest you will come to regret this.”
Hadrian’s lips curved into a subtle, knowing smirk. Caelum felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only: the timing of Hadrian’s intervention, the calculated weight of his words upon Lysander’s volatile temper.