A peculiar thread of curiosity began to unravel within Lysander, tugging him towards an unspoken observation. He found himself wondering about Alaric and Elias, how they left the Grand Atelier each day. It was not a simple, passing thought, but a nettle of fascination, prickly with a jealousy he dared not name.
Elias always lingered, a shadow reluctant to move, until Alaric, with his usual forceful strides, was well ahead. Then, Elias would follow, a smaller figure trailing behind the broad shoulders of the other, like a satellite caught in a powerful orbit. An image haunted Lysander: Elias, a boy on the cusp of manhood, chasing Alaric, his gaze fixed on that retreating back.
Indulging this image felt dangerous. A shiver traced its way down Lysander’s spine, a premonition of some forbidden discovery. This was a tiny box, he realized, crafted not for despair, but for a crueler hope that outshone it. Yet, even knowing its peril, he found himself drawn to its latch.
“This is madness,” Lysander whispered to the empty studio.
Indeed, his thoughts were astray. Still, driven by that unwelcome impulse, he trailed Elias after the final bell.
He did not go far.
Cautious steps kept Lysander hidden, ensuring Alaric would not spot him. From behind the crumbling arch of an old merchant’s stall, he watched Elias. Elias’s eyes were locked on Alaric’s back, fixed and intense.
The scene unfolded against the backdrop of Veritas’s forgotten corners. Peeling plaster clung to ancient brickwork, rust gnawed at iron gates, and dust lay thick on the narrow, cobbled alleys. Two young men moved through this tableau of neglect: Alaric leading, Elias following. And Lysander, a silent witness, observing from a shadowed distance.
An overwhelming sense of pity, for himself and for them, washed over him. He felt foolish, a meddler in a story not his own. Lysander turned away, retracing his steps back towards the more polished avenues of the city.
Later, confined to the quiet solitude of his study, its velvet drapes drawn against the encroaching twilight, Lysander considered his retreat. A quiet satisfaction settled within him. He had been curious, yes, but what horrors might he have unearthed had he pressed further? Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to pry open Pandora’s box for a fleeting fascination.
But the knowledge, limited as it was, still burned. Alaric’s possessive gaze upon Elias, Elias’s palpable fear—or was it a deep-seated revulsion?—grew more pronounced each day. Hatred, Lysander concluded. How else could Elias regard someone who had so thoroughly tormented him in the early days of their acquaintance? A flicker of dark satisfaction stirred in Lysander’s chest. He had not intervened then, had allowed Alaric’s cruelty to flourish. Perhaps that, too, had been for the best.
Lysander laced his fingers behind his head, tilting back in his carved oak chair. His gaze drifted to the gilded ceiling, where an ornate fresco depicted the muses of artistry in a celestial dance. The scene reminded him of his own fortunate existence. Born into the highest echelons, cherished as an only child, never denied a whim or desire.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He had once believed himself invincible, capable of achieving anything. Until he had fallen, helplessly, for Alaric. That infuriating man had unveiled the cruel truth: life did not bend to one’s will. And Lysander suspected Alaric, too, was learning this bitter lesson.
The world, indeed, could be merciless.
Lysander had learned to control himself, to conceal the tempestuous currents of his heart. Alaric, conversely, was consumed by his emotions, blind to the intensity of his own gaze upon Elias. That raw, aberrant fixation must be a terror for him.
Lysander understood. He had felt it too, that scorching need. But where Lysander had endured, Alaric faltered. Instead of seeking to win Elias’s favor, Alaric’s actions only stoked Elias’s hatred. And for Lysander, that suited him perfectly.
“Remain oblivious, please,” he murmured to the silent room.
Or better yet, let Elias grow weary and depart Veritas entirely. Lysander did not yearn for Alaric to turn his affections to him. No, this species of devotion terrified him.
He wished for one thing alone: a day when his love for Alaric would wither, and Alaric would find solace elsewhere. That was all. But the world, stubbornly, refused to conform to such simple desires.
---
Another unsettling shift came. Alaric moved his artist’s easel, dragging it across the Grand Atelier’s polished marble floor, directly beside Elias’s. Of all places, he chose the spot closest to the master’s podium, a position that, given Alaric’s considerable height, would obstruct Elias’s view of the demonstration board.
Elias’s original easel-mate, a quiet young man named Matteo, cast a bewildered glance at Lysander and Cassian, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and profound discomfort.
“Sirs,” Matteo offered, a strained greeting.
Cassian and Lysander exchanged a brief, knowing look. Lysander offered a curt nod. Cassian merely arched a brow.
Matteo’s awkward, forced laugh hung in the air, unanswered. Neither Lysander nor Cassian offered comfort. They held no interest in the man’s predicament.
Alaric settled himself next to Elias, silent and watchful. Lysander found himself wishing—no, desperately praying—that they might remain in this frozen, tense tableau for another year, another season. That one day, this unbearable moment would fade into nothing more than a hazy, forgotten dream.
More changes stirred. Alaric, known for his weekend escapades and lavish nocturnal indulgences, seemed to rein in his habits. The whispers among Cassian’s associates suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely. But at least the boastful tales of conquests no longer echoed through the Atelier, nor did the lingering scent of cheap perfume and debauchery cling to his fine garments.
For Lysander, that was a small reprieve. He no longer had to endure the stench of Alaric’s indiscretions at such close proximity.
“Well, Alaric,” Seraphin drawled, swaying suggestively, hands gesturing towards his groin. “No more… private exhibitions, then?”
Alaric’s face twisted in disgust at the vulgar display. He flicked a quick glance at Elias, then erupted. “You lout! I told you to cease that obscenity in public!”
“Why the sudden modesty, my friend?” Seraphin pressed, grinning.
“Mention that again, Seraphin, and you’ll regret it,” Alaric snarled.
“Come now, Alaric—”
“Silence, fool!”
“...As you wish.”
Others gathered nearby looked visibly disappointed. Alaric, with his imposing presence and worldly aura, had been the perfect, titillating diversion for young men brimming with unspent energy. These were not innocent lads; most had already fumbled through awkward experiences. They were easily stirred, and with Alaric’s exploits no longer for public consumption, their attention drifted to Cassian. But Cassian merely bared his teeth, his expression one of unadulterated revulsion.
“Filthy curs.”
“Ah, there he goes! Cassian, with his usual pronouncements.”
“A fanatic, truly. What a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the space, loud and fleeting.
Most within their circle had, at some point, explored the forbidden. But Cassian, for reasons unknown, had not. They teased him good-naturedly, calling him a cloistered saint, yet no one ever truly disrespected him. He was Cassian, after all. His easygoing, almost cavalier attitude about everything softened his often-intimidating demeanor, making his cutting remarks seem casual, his presence approachable. People found it either charming or enigmatic, remarking that his pleasant nature didn’t quite match his severe features.
“Cease that glaring, you ox. You’ll make me soil myself.”
“Truly, that man’s face could curdle milk.”
“Do you imbeciles yearn for an early grave?”
Cassian scowled, and the group erupted into another round of laughter, though little humor prompted it. Some young men loitering at the back of the Atelier, perhaps his friends, perhaps less than that, joined in with their hollow mirth and chatter, adding to the cacophony. Lysander sat among them, staring blankly at the buckle of his breeches, lost in his own reverie.
Lysander’s memory served him well: he had never once felt a stirring for a woman. By default, perhaps, he had been born to love men. He had certainly felt arousal watching crude engravings of men and women together, but never once had his imagination conjured a woman’s form during his private moments. The former felt like the intensity of the scene; the latter, a simple absence of desire.
He had been dragged to a less reputable tavern by Alaric once, but he hadn’t made it past the threshold, lacking the necessary tokens of age. Instead, he had waited outside until Alaric emerged. Brothels? The very thought repulsed him. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would seek such places.
Because of this, his peers jokingly referred to him as “Abstinent Lysander,” yet his abstinence was, more or less, an involuntary state.
A small sigh escaped him.
The others were too engrossed in Cassian’s banter to notice. Seizing the moment, Lysander risked a glance at Alaric, who sat rigidly. Alaric’s gaze was fixed, as always, on the back of Elias’s head, where Elias diligently sketched across the room.
And, as always, Lysander regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he invite that cruel prickle of curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a question to Cassian, almost pointlessly.
“Tell me, Cassian. Do you truly intend to remain celibate until you marry?”
Cassian, lounging in his chair with the casual arrogance of a king on his throne, suddenly fixed his gaze directly on Lysander’s breeches. The intensity of it made Lysander instinctively cross his legs, shielding himself. What in the blazes?
“You are not my spouse, Lysander, so why the concern? Or are you, perhaps, offering your services?”
“...”
Of course. That rogue always delivered such malicious jests. The others roared with laughter, and Lysander delivered a swift, sharp kick to Cassian’s shin.
Such was the relentless rhythm of Lysander’s days—a cyclical repetition, each sunrise mirroring the last.
---
Alone in his chamber, where silence often became a canvas for his wandering thoughts, Lysander frequently found himself lost in imagined scenarios. Inevitably, these musings drifted into stranger, forbidden fantasies.
Today, he wondered what life might have been if he had harbored affection for Cassian instead of Alaric. It seemed a less volatile path. If he had loved Cassian, he would be spared the sharp ache born of Alaric’s tumultuous pursuits of Elias.
Even so, heartbreak would still be his companion.
Neither Alaric nor Cassian would ever return his affections, after all. But at least his heart would not ache because of Elias.
That thought process inevitably spiraled into feelings of deep inferiority and simmering anger. In the end, Lysander only wished for a swift graduation, a future where Alaric would become a distant stranger.
At some point, Lysander had unconsciously begun to rest his hands beneath his study desk whenever he sat. This habit had taken root in his second year at the Academy, and its cause remained constant: men.
Fingers tracing the ornate buckle of his breeches, he fell deep into contemplation. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, metallic click of the buckle against his nail filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb pressed against the clasp, a soft rap echoed on his chamber door.
“Lysander! Are you deep in your studies?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Mother, I am!”
His heart nearly leaped from his chest. This day, clearly, was not auspicious for such private indulgences. Mortified, Lysander buried his face in his arms. Damn it.
---
Lately, Alaric had become a constant source of vexation.
Sometimes, when Elias’s glance drifted towards Lysander, Alaric would deliberately engage him in conversation. Elias, caught between the two, would flicker his eyes towards Lysander, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut. Then, as if acutely aware of Alaric’s possessive presence, he would lower his head, responding in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Y-yes, Sir…”
Just like that.
Elias, with a quiet subtlety, had begun to seek Lysander’s company more, even addressing him as “Lys.” Aside from his closest family, almost no one used that shortened version of his name, making the change strikingly noticeable. Elias seemed to believe he was being discreet, but his efforts were transparent. The most galling part was Alaric’s inability to conceal his profound discomfort whenever Elias dared such an intimacy.
“Elias, cease disturbing Master Lysander while he studies.”
“Pardon, Sir?”
“I said, do not disturb him. Do you not comprehend?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Sir…”
When Elias stammered, avoiding Alaric’s piercing gaze, Alaric immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of his easel beside him. Lysander pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, the clueless Elias seemed to believe that his informal address for Lysander now passed without notice. He grew bolder, using “Lys” with casual ease, as if it were the most natural thing.
“Uh, Lys… my apologies for interrupting your studies.”
Lysander stiffened, staring at Elias in disbelief. Was the man mad? Alaric was sitting right there.
Sure enough, Alaric pounded his fist on the easel again. Damn it.
“Elias!”
“...Sir?”
The air thickened instantly, turning sour.
“I already told you.”
Alaric’s anger was raw, unconcealed.
“I told you not to call him ‘Lys,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“Call him Master Lysander. That is his name—Master Lysander.”
Alaric’s gaze sharpened, almost predatory, as he fixed it on Lysander. Lysander detested that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Cassian, seated beside him, casually draped his arm over Lysander’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Lysander’s ear.
“Alaric, if you persist in this manner, you will truly ruin yourself.”
“What nonsense are you spouting?”
“I say you will live to regret it.”
Cassian smirked, and Lysander felt a sudden flicker of irritation. For one reason alone.
“Alaric, do you not think…”