Lucas’ POV
I waited till noon when the joint activities were scheduled before I went to the training hall.
I changed into the provided training gear, the fabric stiff against my skin. “Pair off,” Instructor Rafi ordered.
Romeo walked in then. I shouldn’t have known because I wasn’t looking, but I never really did need to look at him to know what he did. He was always so predictable, so how did I miss it?
“Keep it controlled. Focus on technique, not force,” Instructor Rafi continued.
“Pair with someone else today,” I said as he approached me, not letting him do or say whatever he wanted. I moved further away from him. He caught my elbow. “Can I see you after this?”
“I don’t want to see you,” I said flat enough to erase meaning.
I left him standing there.
It was not like I had anyone else I wanted to pair with. Not that I didn’t know people, I knew almost everyone. Being a representative meant that much. But knowing them didn’t make them people I wanted to have anything to do with. And in that moment, I was completely... Romeoless.
He was a prince, and I held him on the tip of my fingers, on my right hand. I couldn’t afford to blow it. Could I?
I watched people pair off. Observing was always my triumph card. But I didn’t seem to notice what was going on with the person closest to me.
Why did everything still have to get back to him when all I wanted in that moment was to not think about him?
And what came next helped. “Pair with me, Luca,” the rasp of the new voice knocked me out of whatever was going through me.
It didn’t take much to know who it was, Nicholas. I turned, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. Thin-lidded eyes, not sharp enough to seem cruel, the green of them clear and unflinching.
He was taller, broader than I remembered. Not that I was short, but next to him, I felt smaller than I’d ever allowed anyone to make me feel.
I should’ve been ecstatic from getting the prince’s attention. I would be if a certain occurrence didn’t affect my mental scope. I needed a drink, but I said, “Alright.”
He smiled, which made me ask why.
“Hmm, spar first.” He placed his arm on my shoulder and gave it a little tap. “Questions later.”
Orders were what he was giving. Expected from an heir, but it itched my brain how willing I was to let him call the shots.
I took a step back, leading his hand away. It had no business on me since we hadn’t started sparring.
And what we eventually started with were warm-ups, as instructed. Stretches, lunges, arm swings, shadow kicks, which felt like sparring with a ghost that didn’t hit back, just made your thighs ache. Ah yes, my thighs’ favourite pastime.
Partner drills came next, counters and feints. My shoulders tightened as he guided my arm into a block, fingers firm, precise, correcting without hurting. The drills moved fast, deflections, jabs, low kicks. Each strike tested reaction and control. Every block had to be perfect or risk overbalancing.
He was faster than I expected, heavier in his strikes, and it took every ounce of concentration not to stumble. He shifted the drill, a push on my shoulder, a pivot of my hips, forcing my stance wider. Torso rotated, arms lifted, back straightened.
Slowly, deliberately, he guided me into positions I didn’t know I could reach. Exhausting but exhilarating. By the time we hit throws, my body trembled. He made me pivot, twist, sink into low stances, every shift of weight testing my balance. Then, with a subtle grip on my waist and a controlled bend of my knees, he lifted me effortlessly during a routine throw. The landing stung sharp up my back.
When it was my turn, I barely tried. My strikes softened, movements dulled, footwork sloppy. Enough to satisfy the rules, not enough to show my hand. Following my mother’s words.
Act weak, keep the rest hidden.
“You volunteered to hurt me?” I taunted.
“Not exactly,” he said. “But I won’t stop just because it hurts.” His smirk deepened. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out. Something about the colour refused to leave my mind.
“I think that’s enough for today.” I was trying to build a companionship. I didn’t care for the pain games. Though, truth be told, the idea of it sounded… fun.
“I guess that’s that,” he said, then stalked away to his private changing room. The fact that it was his alone didn’t escape me. A space off-limits, a silent declaration of power.
The declaration of authority in an academy for authority.
Honestly speaking, I hated royals, and he, a perfect example of what one was. Never really a person, just a sentient form of power and authority.
He was gone. He didn’t answer my question. Or more accurately, I forgot to ask again.
Still, I made progress, as little as it seemed. I was probably one of the people he talked to the most in the academy, even with two short conversations.
He was that closed off. Patience. Next week, I would try to actually have a conversation with him and not be bent however he wanted.
I took my bath in the locker room, then changed into the academy’s attire, not in the best form.
My shirt untucked, tie around my neck, too loose to be called a tie, buttons undone. I sighed before going to get the drink I’d been craving. Alcohol was conveniently in a vending machine in the academy.
One can, that was the plan.
By the time I was done with my break and stepped back into the corridors, my skin still buzzed, every nerve still raw.
Everywhere I looked, I remembered Romeo and I walking together. Hallway conversations where I paid little to no attention to what he said.
I couldn’t keep my mind on one thing but wanted to control everything. How fucking hypocritical could I be?
Finland, that was the goal.
And another can found its way to me.
The burn steadied me. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t stop myself. Time blurred since nothing else really mattered.
A week of drinking came next, not necessarily intense drinking, but drinking while waiting for the next joint activity. The only time I could get with Nicholas.
A week beautifully spent is what I’d have said to make myself believe I was myself.
Noon again, the smell of sweat in the training halls made me realise I was actually there. I went further in, late and trying not to look ill. Every thud of a kick or stomp of a foot made my nerves tighten.
But no one really did notice I was drunk or call me out on it.
And in the midst of people who started training, there stood Nicholas, alone. Just standing there and eyeing me. Nicholas, Nicholas. Who was Nicholas again? My mind was still a bit hazy, but I remembered what I named him as, ‘My ticket into Finland’s bureaucracy.’
Was he really just standing there, doing nothing while looking, or was I just drunk? Under normal circumstances, which I called Romeo circumstances, I wouldn’t have been standing in the training hall looking dead. I wouldn’t have bothered drinking at all. He’d probably have said something stupid and I’d distract myself with that.
As the drunk haze began to leave, I asked myself again why I was there. I wanted to get the prince’s attention, I wanted to get close to him, I wanted to get close to him to get close to Finland. Who in their right mind decides to do that drunk?
A week of waiting, and all I wanted to do was escape the situation. And right when I almost did, I was ambushed. Attacked from behind, quite literally, with a proposition to be Nicholas’ partner.
Do I stay or run away faster?
“Do you like seeing people hurt, or is that just a me thing?” I asked.
Maybe stay.
“Could be a you thing. So, will you be my partner?”
“Sure, why not?”
Instructor Rafi ordered the same set of instructions he did from the last session, then added a few more things. None of which I heard.
We started off with warm-ups before the drills. We went through the motions like last time, though a few things had changed.
Warm-ups felt like a countdown, partner drills felt like a play test. His jabs and kicks were not as strong as I remembered them to be. His hold on me was longer than necessary, in whatever position I found myself, down, up, or in a chokehold.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing and pinned me just as easily. At one point, he kept me down with his full weight. His chest on my back and mine to the floor. His hands slid from my thigh to my waist, like he was taking notes on me instead of following the instructor’s orders.
And with a few seconds of no resistance or reaction from me, his fingers twitched slightly.
He liked it.
I might’ve too.
My pulse spiked, heat crept up my neck. I was just drunk, that’s what I told myself.
One second, both his hands were pressing me to the mat; the next, only one. The other spread across my stomach like he was testing for air. His hands touched all the places that still hurt from my father’s intervention. It made me feel better about it.
And honestly, if I had someone touch them like he was doing, I might consider going back every day to get more bruises.
“You’re holding back,” he said calmly.
“How?” I asked while I was still below him, while he was still touching me.
“You know.”
“Know what?”
“How you’re holding yourself back.”
“The same way you’re holding me now?”
His hand left then, slow like it didn’t want to go.
“Pretty much,” he said, then got off me. He sat up on the mat, and I did the same.
A minute later, he stood to leave in the direction of his changing room.
I was sober enough to go to mine after. The walls didn’t have the spinning edge anymore.
So, that was that. I completely forgot to have a conversation. Maybe one more week of drinking and waiting?
When I was done with getting changed, I decided to go back to my condo. Spend the rest of the week looking at the roof while doing whatever called me.
The corridor stretched ahead, harsh under the fluorescent lights. My footsteps echoed, my throat dried, my eyes burned, clothes itched.
That’s when I heard it, a voice, distinct but familiar.
“Lucas.” There he was, again.
“Nico.” I’d only spoken to him thrice, and I was already so fond of him.
“Can I have your number?” he asked.
“Uhh,” I said, not really answering. If I did give it to him, he’d just end up like everyone else I had on delivered.
“Coffee,” he said.
“Coffee?”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have coffee with me later today.”
“Where?”
“The café near the palace,” he said. “There’s only one.” I was morbidly aware of everything around that palace.
“You go there a lot?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“When should I be there?”
“Three hours from now.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
A pat on my shoulder, and he was gone.
Three hours. A smile formed across my lips. Three hours to test a different kind of drink.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.