Nadiaâs temper was like a match â strike her just right and sheâll burst in uncontrolled energy and breaths of phosphorous. When Gabrielle barked at her, with her shoulders straight and teeth showing, his friend responded in a furrowed brow, aggression etched into her face, much like a mirror image to the Princessâ enmity. Her thin lips stretched into a sneer and he didnât have to look to know how Nadiaâs fingers snapped into her palms, as if her body needed the reminder of pain â of her fingernails biting into her skin â to placate the rage, preventing her from leaping upwards and breaking the other girlâs jaw.
But he knew Nadia like some people knew the Bible. He knew how she loathed fistfights, with all the blood and bruises and broken bones, and more importantly he remembered how when they had first arrived in France she had vowed to never hurt another person like that again. He had thought she was admirable then, because his closest friend burned so hot and brightly that there were times where she couldnât help but burn the world down to bone and ash.
âYou keep talkinâ like that and your little prince will be running to that step-sister.â She was growling, eyes narrowed and posture wound and taught, and he knew she would snap sooner than relax, that her insults will blossom into what sailors would consider masterpieces. âDoesnât the school give you lectures on that nasty mouth? Iâm sure theyâre sweating, wishing Sleeping Beauty could be perfect like their Snow White.â From his peripheral vision he saw Nadia smirk, but he had begun to tune out the bickering, allowing it to transform into white noise as he followed Sebastien Beauchene with his eyes, the dark haired prince exiting swiftly from the minefield, holding himself as he always did, as if everything rolled off him. No, it wasnât that simple. Sebastien was untouchable, the academy couldnât scratch him â no one could, and the boy walked around as if he could leave this entire world behind and erase the Prince Charming title from his name. Or at least, this is how it seemed from so far away.
People were more like stars and photographs, from a distance one can only see an afterimage, or an illusion that was stained into their memory. Artem felt something within him writhe. It was that familiar, radiating pain of curiosity, and desire. He wanted to see Sebastien up close, he wanted to peer underneath his aloof visage and dive into a sea of dreams and nightmares. For why? Artem curled his lips inwards and stood, shifting the weight of his backpack on his shoulders and leaving his tray of food. The girls hardly paid his departed any mind as their voices became more irate and louder, and he followed the path Sebastien had taken, walking outside the cafeteria with his eyes squinting from the sunlight.
The sun was warm and the air was cool but he didnât bother unbuttoning his blazer quite yet, and instead he approached Sebastien leisurely. His heart was beginning to pound faster than before, yet on the surface he showed no sign of anxiety. âHey,â He began, confident and at ease, but he didnât stop walking, instead the closer he got to Sebastien the slower his pace became. âIf you need headache medicine, I keep some in my bag. For obvious reasons.â His eyebrows quirked with the confession, because admittedly the arguments became overwhelming for even him at times, although boredom was more often the cause to the migraine than any shrill noises. Once he was only a couple feet away from him Artmen stopped moving and brushed his fringe back, the strands of his hair sticking up haphazardly before settling back into their usual form.
âWalk with me?â Artem asked, quieter, but no less confident.
They were worlds apart, Sebastien and him. The Prince and the Thief, both illustrated as heroes in their own right; one of wealth and the other of poverty, one destined to marry again and again, the other fated to steal until his dying breath. But even without destiny and the past clinging to their souls they were still so different, and he could be too much like a moth attracted to light, enthralled by the unknown and breaching barriers and all he wanted to do was cross this boyâs path, before destiny could sever their connection for good.
Tightness in his lungs â no, thereâs wire wound around his trachea, pressing into the soft flesh and suffocating him. Why did he do this? The other boy was still as he stared, searing holes into his flesh, and his heart pounded once, twice â five times (oh, numbers, count). He tries to overwhelm the noise with the resounding echoes of numbers â one, two, treeâŠthirteen, fourteen â and he felt the dreadful fear creep up his back, as if adrenaline had leaked into his spinal fluid, polluting it and his mind. Each action had a consequence and he could be wandering into an iron trap â he should have been careful. Claude bit his bottom lip to fight off the urge to embrace every little negative thought. He breathed, counted to five, and slowly exhaled.
There was that name, Beauchene. But the given names were different; the student Cecile had warned him of was named Sebastien, describing him like a minor God, a force of nature who could spark destruction with the snap of his fingertips. Were they related, or did they share a surname? Should he be just as wary of Olivier Beauchene as Sebastien? The twists of nerves felt more like birds in his stomach, like canaries had flown down his throat and in their panic, poked holes into the organ to escape.
But his voice. There's no gust of wind or swirl of a hurricane â there's warm cedar, glistening moonlight, pressure building up on the back of his head like he's deep underwater, his body bursting, brain swallowed by euphoria.
ââŠThank you.â Relief ebbed at the panic that had filled his core. It was a kind response, far more than what was expected, and feeling flustered he tugged at the hem of his skirt, before smoothing the material down with his palms and forcing a tiny, embarrassed smile to pull at his lips. Why did he feel the way he did? He saw stars fade from his vision, and the eerie sensation of entering the surreal eased back into reality, his feet on the ground and heart murmuring at its usual lackluster, jittery pace. It must be connected to the side-effects of reincarnation, but he couldnât make sense of it. It was just noise, wavelengths he couldnât understand. Would he ever?
Suppressing the thoughts Claude followed Olivier, peering outside the door before daring to explore, and immediately he breathed in deeply, practically savoring the fresh air. âItâs much nicer out hereâŠâ No â he was muttering himself â he felt his cheeks burn and he tore his eyes away from the boy to look towards the trees, trying to brush his awkwardness off with faux naivety, and he let his head fill with a whirl of thoughts. Olivier didnât introduce himself as a fairytale â what did that mean? Was there bitterness and loathing? Didnât Cecile say that having pride in oneâs fairytale was normal here? He couldnât help himself, the curiosity tugged at him, and carefully he observed him from the corner of his eyes.
âDo you work in the garden yourself?â Yet he couldnât will himself to ask about the fairytale. Let it be. Something in the back of his head told him that, and he couldnât say anything more than that. Let it be.
Was this shock? One way a person develops post-traumatic stress disorder is as a consequence of cortisol flooding into the brain. It's like a dam breaks and the chemical fills into the caverns of emotion and memory, stimulating action, forcing remembrance. Afterwards, right when you think the world can retain its former semblance of balance, it plummets. It leaves the host susceptible to hypervigilance, to having razor sharp nerves, to reacting to similar stimulus with a racing heartbeat, sweating palms, even flashbacks. Was he going to become like this too? He curled his fingers, testing to see if he was still in control, and â right, he already behaved that way, only being overly wary didnât protect him from further trauma.
Heâs wrenched from these pessimistic thoughts by her voice â her quiet voice, he resurfaces to the sound of Cecile and slowly blinks away from his hands and the rose as if on a delay, readjusting to the settings of their world.
Maybe he was being a bit dramatic.
Zhihao balls his hands into fists and nothing within him responds. His heart doesn't clench, there's no looming wall of sorrow and doom, no wildfire of awful, unforgivable rage. Oh the things he had dreamed â no, theyâre the things heâs done. The memories are like rancid fruit, the sweetness that she had gifted him with overwhelmed by the guilt and horror he carried on his shoulders, and theyâre two things he canât help but fear realizing again in this lifetime. âYes, and no.â He responds finally, speaking as if someone carved into him and took out a chunk of his soul. He couldnât muster any of his carefree smiles, couldnât simply shrug his shoulders and brush this one off. The promise had been to no longer hurt people, to not live another life where he holds her back and drags him down with her. And he suddenly wants to scream at her, his face contorting in synchronization with this eruption of emotion. He wants to hurt her with his words, hurt her so horribly that sheâll leave the country and be happy somewhere else, a place where she might write books and do the things sheâs always dreamed of.
He had never felt like that before, like screaming until his throat goes sore or wanting to hurt someone so terribly, and meaning to. Ashamed, Zhihao looks away, swings his legs off the edge of the bed and then grabs the glass case, focuses on studying the rose petals and how many of them were beginning to lose their luster, the red fading â probably day by day.
âDo you think sugar water will help them live longer, like regular flowers?â He asks, forcing himself into his usual personality although it falls short. Now he doesnât want her to leave, and this wasnât the first time he wanted to talk to her, but the curse and his own futile rules had kept him away. However they had moved on past that, he had become cursed, Cecile had found him (like she always did), and he desperately wanted to will her away as much as he wanted to pull her closer. ââŠShe said something had gone wrong. The witch, I mean, she said that. And cursed me, though I have no idea in what way.â Zhihao explains, returning from the distant place he had been cast off to and carefully, as if she could turn him to stone, he turned back to Cecile, searching for something in her face, but he didn't know what he was looking for.
RPG
