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Darkseeker
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Johannes was not pleased with the response he'd gotten, it felt like a harsh slap to the face. It was short and cold, and completely unexpected. He knew he shouldn't have been ready for a message declaring the secret love they shared or anything like that, but all he'd gotten were three small words. He couldn't help the soft sound of irrigation and hurt that slipped from his lips, and he tossed the phone onto his bed. Standing, he began to pace again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Did Kyyre just not trust him? He supposed that would make sense, after everything. And Magnus knew the password to his phone, which wouldn't help his case, especially if Kyyre had ever seen Mag opening his phone. That needed to change. After quickly switching the code to his phone, he sat crosslegged on his bed, staring at the message. No, not really. After a moment, his shoulders slumped. Okay, he responded. Please let me know if there ever is anything I can do He wanted desperately to make everything better, but he had no idea how. His hair fell into his eyes, and he buried his face in his palms, trying to think it all through. Kyyre would probably be at school tomorrow. At least, Hasse certainly hoped so. But he didn't want to force an interaction in the school building. It would look like he was trying to prove to the school that he was sorry, and a good person, and he wanted only Kyyre to care. He wanted to prove that it wasn't just a shallow attempt to salvage his own reputation. So he did the only thing he could think of that felt at all like an apology. After a quick call to the manor's main florist, he was promised that the next morning, when Kyyre opened his locker, there would be a bouquet of purple heather, Norway's national flower, and a touch of baby's breath for filler, and to soften the look. Tucked into that would be a small note, with his own handwriting, reiterating his sentiments, and signed as casually as he could. Hasse. It was an embarrassing nickname, born of childhood struggles to pronounce his own name, but it was all he could think of to prove his genuineness and hope of forgiveness. He went to dinner as was expected of him, but spent the entire meal glowering at Magnus, who sat across from him, apologetic and clearly angling for a small scrap of affection or forgiveness that Johannes would not give. Magnus would not be so easily let off the hook. Not until he was sure that his pale boy was going to be alright. The evening felt slow and dark, and Johannes slogged through the consistent badgering of questions by his mother, who demanded to know why both her nephew and son skipped the last two hours of school, which had Johannes scowling at Magnus, threatening him into silence, and lied through his teeth. Magnus hadn't been feeling well, and Hasse didn't want him going home alone. He knew it was a poor excuse, and the Queen seemed to think so too, with her pursed lips. After promising multiple times that they wouldn't skip anymore school, Johannes went back to his room, and stared at the ceiling. He knew sleep would be elusisive, and was not looking foward to another dark, lonely night. |
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Neutral
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Please let him know? - Why would Kyyre ever reach out? To anyone? - No one would take pity on him for crying about something stupid like being taunted a little. - The sun was dipping lower in the sky by the time Kyyre finally decided to leave the park. He felt heavy, like every step toward home carried the weight of the entire day. His phone remained silent in his pocket, as if the universe had decided to give him a reprieve—or maybe Johannes had realized it was a mistake to text him. Either way, Kyyre wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed. - The closer he got to his house, the more his anxiety swelled. He knew his parents would notice he’d left school early. They always noticed everything, even when he desperately wished they wouldn’t. - He reached the modest, slightly weathered house and paused at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open. The scent of something cooking—a stew, maybe—wafted toward him, mingling with the faint scent of metal and oil that always clung to his father’s work boots. - The door creaked, and Kyyre stepped inside. His mother’s voice called out from the kitchen almost immediately. - “Kyyre? Is that you?” - “Yes, Mamma,” he replied, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his bag. He tried to sound casual, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him. - His mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as they swept over him, taking in his disheveled appearance and the faint redness around his eyes. - “What happened?” she asked, her tone laced with concern and a touch of impatience. “You look like you’ve been running from something.” - “Nothing happened,” Kyyre mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “I just… left school early. I wasn’t feeling well.” - “Left school early?” Her voice rose, and she stepped closer. “Without telling anyone? Without permission?” - “I didn’t need permission,” Kyyre muttered, his shoulders hunching. “It’s allowed if you’re over seventeen.” - “Kyyre Aakre, that is not the point,” she snapped, her hands on her hips now. “You can’t just disappear like that. Do you know how worried I would’ve been if I’d heard from the school? Or if something had happened to you?” - “It’s fine,” Kyyre said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” - The sound of heavy boots thudding against the floor signaled his father’s arrival. He emerged from the workshop, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. His expression was stern but not angry—yet. - “What’s all this yelling about?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling through the small house. - “Kyyre left school early,” his mother said, turning to him. “Without telling anyone. Look at him—he’s a mess.” - His father looked at Kyyre, his brow furrowing. “You sick or something?” - Kyyre shook his head. “No. Just tired.” - His father grunted, his eyes lingering on him for a moment longer before turning to his wife. “He’s eighteen. If he says he’s fine, he’s fine. Let the boy breathe, Inga.” - “Breathe?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “He’s barely eating, barely sleeping, and now he’s skipping school. You want me to just ignore it?” - “I’m not skipping school,” Kyyre said quietly, his voice trembling. “I just… needed to leave.” - His mother opened her mouth to argue, but his father raised a hand, silencing her. “Enough. If he says he’s fine, we let it go for now. But Kyyre,” he added, fixing him with a steady gaze, “if this keeps up, we’re going to talk about it. Understood?” - Kyyre nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Understood.” - His mother huffed, clearly unsatisfied, but she turned and went back to the kitchen, muttering under her breath about stubborn men. His father lingered a moment longer, giving Kyyre a long, searching look before retreating to his workshop. - Kyyre stood alone in the entryway, his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name. His phone buzzed softly in his pocket, and his stomach flipped. - Not here. Not now. - He slipped upstairs to his room, locking the door behind him before pulling out his phone. Another text. - Much to his disappointment, it wasn't from Johannes. - Another picture of Olaf from an unknown number. - Ky sighed and sank into his bed. He wasn't even sure if he wanted dinner. He knew his father wouldn't make him if he wasn't hungry, and all Kyyre wanted to do was.. - ..nothing. - Nothing. Like he always did. - Back into a corner and cry. - Pattern. |
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Darkseeker
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Morning came too slowly, the pale beams finally breaking through the heavy curtains and casting faint streaks of light across the room. Johannes hadn’t slept a wink, and despite hours of effort, he had little to show for the restless night. He’d tried to work on assignments for his more advanced classes, but the words blurred together, and equations seemed meaningless. With a growing sense of futility, he turned to other distractions. Soft classical music played from the small speaker on his bedside table, a feeble attempt to calm his spiraling thoughts. He picked up a knitting project his grandmother had once started teaching him, but his clumsy hands fumbled the stitches. Sketching didn’t fare much better, and the rough lines he managed to produce frustrated him further. Magnus had knocked on his door several times throughout the night, his quiet voice apologizing through the wood, but Johannes hadn’t responded. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did. Deeply. Magnus was his cousin, someone he loved like a brother, even when he made terrible choices. But the anger hadn’t faded yet, and Johannes wasn’t ready to have the conversation. Magnus didn’t realize how cruel he could be. He was too desperate for approval, too addicted to the laughter and attention his antics often earned him. That desperation blinded him to the consequences of his actions, leaving Johannes to pick up the pieces. By the time Johannes finally dragged himself to the bathroom, he looked as bad as he felt. His pale skin seemed even paler against the deep shadows under his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, hoping to look somewhat presentable, but it did little to improve his appearance. Staring into the mirror, he sighed. Insomnia was an old companion, one that had haunted him for as long as he could remember, but last night had been particularly bad. His school uniform lay neatly folded on his bed, freshly washed and pressed. Dressing felt like going through the motions, his hands moving automatically as his mind drifted. Breakfast was a stilted affair, marked by a strained and distant conversation with his mother. Her clipped tone and tense posture suggested another argument with his father, likely about his frequent absences. Johannes had no doubt his father would claim it was all in service of the state—he always did—but his mother rarely believed it. The Range Rover ride to school was equally tense. Magnus sat beside him, unusually quiet, fiddling with the straps of his bag. Johannes didn’t say a word, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery as he tried to mentally prepare for the day ahead. When they arrived, they slipped through the school’s gates, keeping their heads down. It didn’t matter. It never worked. The whispers started almost immediately, spreading like wildfire through the corridors. Students craned their necks to catch a glimpse of them, their voices rising and falling in rapid gossip. Magnus’s friends, always hungry for drama, hovered nearby, their eyes glinting with anticipation. Johannes clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the straps of his bag. He could feel the weight of the stares and hear the snippets of conversation buzzing in the air. “Did you hear what happened yesterday?”
“Magnus got into it with someone again. I think Hasse was involved too.”
“I heard it was about that pale kid—what’s his name?” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep walking. Today had to be better than yesterday. It had to be. He just wasn’t sure how. All he could hope for was Kyyre's acceptance and forgiveness. |
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Neutral
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Kyyre had spent most of the night without sleep, the hours stretching out in a blur of restless thoughts and growing exhaustion. He'd drifted off for about an hour or so, his mind heavy, but was woken abruptly by the gnawing ache in his stomach. The hunger, relentless and insistent, pulled him from the fragile comfort of half-sleep. - He had gotten up then, dragging his feet to the kitchen, where a portion of the stew sat untouched on the table. His father always left it there for him in case he came down in the night. But despite his hunger, Kyyre couldn’t bring himself to eat more than a few spoonfuls. The warmth of the stew felt like it might settle in his stomach, but then the weight of everything he’d experienced earlier – earlier now being yesterday – crushed down on him again. The taunts, the feeling of being small and powerless, the message from Johannes that still stung. He thought he might throw up. So, he set the bowl aside, unable to stomach the rest. - Instead of trying to sleep again, Kyyre spent the long, empty night and early morning immersed in his sketchbook. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel the crushing weight of his emotions, so he poured his mind into the drawings instead. It was mostly just unintelligible shapes. Lines that twisted into dark, jarring forms—something that might have resembled a wolf, something else that looked like a goat, distorted and raw. He drew for hours, his hand moving almost without thought. Eventually, something began to take shape. The image became clearer, though still rough. A young girl, her face obscured in shadow, huddled beneath the oppressive gaze of a million eyes. It wasn’t perfect, but the jagged lines of the drawing felt somehow like a release. A part of him felt proud of it, but another part wondered if he wasn’t just reflecting his own turmoil in his art too much. - The hours passed in a haze. The digital clock on his nightstand flickered to 4:00 AM, and Kyyre decided he’d better try and get ready for the day, even though he didn’t feel at all prepared for it. He hadn’t changed out of his school uniform from the day before, the fabric still clinging uncomfortably to his skin. His body ached for sleep, but there was no chance of that now. A shower might help him shake the fog in his mind. He pushed himself to his feet, the cool tiles of the bathroom comforting against his tired body as the water poured over him, the sound of it almost drowning out the chaotic thoughts in his head. - When he stepped out of the shower, he felt a little more awake, but the knot in his chest remained. His hands still shook slightly as he rummaged through his closet for a clean uniform. He slipped into it, the fabric cool and stiff against his skin, but it didn’t feel any more comforting than his old clothes. He reached for the black jacket his father had left hanging on the back of the door, the familiar scent of oil and metal lingering on the fabric as he pulled it over his shoulders. It was too big for him, the sleeves hanging past his hands, but it was something that made him feel like he was hiding under a shield. - His phone buzzed, and his stomach twisted as he checked it. Of course, there were more taunting messages waiting for him, the familiar cruelty he had become all too accustomed to. He scrolled past them quickly, trying to block out the words, but they burned in the back of his mind. He tried to shake it off, knowing it wouldn’t help to dwell on them now. With a deep breath, he walked to the front door, but then stopped short, realizing he didn’t have his books. - Did you get my books? he texted quickly to Sara, the words typed out automatically as though his fingers knew what to do without him. - A few seconds later, the familiar ping of a response vibrated against his palm. - In your locker. - Thanks. - Yeah. Try not to have another panic attack? - Kyyre stared at her message for a moment. He felt a flash of irritation, but then it faded. Sara didn’t mean it the way it sounded. She was trying to be helpful, even if her words sometimes came out wrong. But still, the comment stung. He chose to leave her on read. It was easier that way. - He stepped outside, the cold morning air biting at his skin as he pulled his hood up over his head. The streets were quiet, the city still half-asleep. It was a short walk to school, only about fifteen minutes, but the closer he got, the more his anxiety flared up. It gnawed at him with each step, making the distance feel like it stretched on for miles. - He made it to the gates of the school and pushed through them, his heart thudding in his chest. The music blaring in his earphones helped, though it didn’t drown out the whispers and giggles that always seemed to follow him. He tried to ignore them, pulling his hood lower over his face, just wanting to get through the day without any more drama. - By the time he reached his locker, the anxiety was almost unbearable. He felt a rush of tension in his chest, but when he opened the door, his eyes stopped on something unexpected. Flowers. Bright, colorful flowers, arranged neatly on top of his books. - And beneath them, a note. - His breath caught in his throat as his mind scrambled to process what he was seeing. He picked up the note, his hands trembling. It wasn’t a prank. The handwriting was neat, not messy or childish, but clear. - Signed by Hasse. - His heart skipped a beat, his face immediately flooding with a deep blush he couldn’t suppress. Johannes had put flowers in his locker? And a note? - He could hardly believe it. His mind spun, trying to make sense of the situation. Why? What did this mean? Why would Johannes do this? His head swirled with confusion, and a rush of warmth spread across his skin. For a moment, he forgot the anxiety, the taunts, everything else. - What was happening? |
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Darkseeker
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Johannes was already exhausted. He'd deflected multiple questions, asked three people to please leave him alone, and asked Magnus to stop talking. He was too scared to go online, because he was sure there would be some article about it, and he couldn't handle the stress of hearing whatever the press decided was his current problem. Last summer it had been that he was too thin, not enough muscle. The summer before that, he'd still had too much of a baby face. His eyes closed for a moment, and heaved a sigh, slowly gathering his books for his Advanced Psychology course. This was another fun little thing his parents wanted for him. Apparently, to be a good ruler, you needed to understand the mind. It might have been a good idea, except that the professor had a droning voice that seemed to never end. Hasse grimaced, and shifted the books to his other arm so that he could grab his pencils from the back corner of his small locker. It only took him a few seconds, but there was already a small crowd gathering behind him. He forced a smile, and carefully moved through the group, trying to keep his eye from twitching. His mind flashed to the flowers that Hans had promised to make sure were set in Kyyre's locker, and he half turned to make sure that Maciej was still behind him.
"Did..."
He trailed off, unsure of how to continue, but thankfully his bodyguard seemed to understand, and gave a curt nod.
"Everything is where it needs to be." Johannes walked into his classroom, tossing his stuff on the desk. The only good thing about this class was that there were only a few students in it, and it was often quiet in the mornings. The big lights were off, and lamps cast a low, soothing glow over the room and Johannes began to feel the lack of sleep that had been plaguing him. He groaned, and dropped his forehead to his arms, trying to rearrange his mind. There was no way he could sleep through this class. His mother would probably throttle him, and he had no desire to have another confrontation with her. Magnus breezed in from the doorway, and Johannes tensed slightly, but Mag only sat down behind him.
"The pale boy? He got flowers," his cousin hissed, clearly keen to share the gossip. "I think he's seeing someone."
Johannes bit his lip, trying to look concerned, in hopes that Magnus wouldn't start making guesses into who sent him. Johannes was the only person he knew that would send the literal national flower to someone as an apology. |
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Kyyre stood frozen in place, staring at the flowers and note in his trembling hands. The soft scent of the blossoms mingled with the sharp smell of the hallway’s industrial cleaner. A few students brushed past him, their chatter muffled by the pounding in his ears. His mind was a mess of questions and disbelief, but the bell’s sharp ring jolted him back to the moment. Art class. First period. He needed to move. He carefully set the flowers back into his locker, their fragile beauty feeling like it might crumble under his clumsy hands. After a moment’s hesitation, he tucked the note into the pocket of his jacket, the weight of it a mix of curiosity and trepidation. Picking up his sketchbook and a few supplies, he closed the locker door and turned toward the stairs. The walk to the art room felt surreal, the air buzzing around him like static. His thoughts kept circling back to the note, the flowers, and the name signed at the bottom. Hasse. It didn’t make sense. They never talked—Johannes was everything Kyyre wasn’t: confident, popular, untouchable. Why would he do this? The thought nagged at him, half-hopeful, half-suspicious. The art room came into view, and the familiar space tugged him back to the present. The tall windows let in streams of pale morning light, illuminating the shelves lined with jars of paint, boxes of charcoal, and stacks of paper. The scent of linseed oil and graphite hung faintly in the air, grounding him. “Kyyre,” Mr. Halverson’s voice called warmly from the front of the room. The teacher, an older man with wild gray curls and paint stains on his sweater, was arranging brushes and small canvases on a table. “You’re cutting it close today, but I’m glad to see you.” Kyyre gave a small nod, avoiding eye contact as he slid into his usual seat near the back. He set his sketchbook down with a soft thud, resting his hands on its worn cover. Around him, other students were chatting and settling into their places. Some greeted friends with loud laughter, while others sat quietly, already starting to work. Mr. Halverson clapped his hands, a habit he used to command attention without being overbearing. “Okay, everyone! Let’s settle in. Today, we’re diving deeper into our exploration of emotion in art. Remember, art is not just about what you see—it’s about what you feel. Your job is to find a way to express that feeling on paper or canvas. Don’t worry about perfection. Focus on capturing the mood, the energy.” As he spoke, Kyyre’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. Art was the one place where he didn’t feel completely out of place. The rules here weren’t the same as everywhere else. He didn’t need to explain himself with words; he could let the lines and colors speak for him. “Let’s warm up,” Mr. Halverson continued, holding up a blank sheet of paper. “Start with some quick sketches—don’t think too much. Let your hand move. You’ll find that sometimes your instincts know what you want to say before you do.” Kyyre flipped open his sketchbook to a fresh page and picked up his pencil. The hum of the room grew quieter as his classmates began sketching. At first, his hand moved without direction, drawing abstract shapes and jagged lines. The earlier feelings—anxiety, confusion, a flicker of hope—spilled out onto the page in chaotic patterns. As he worked, he became dimly aware of someone sitting down next to him. Glancing sideways, he saw Sara dropping her bag onto the floor. She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled out her supplies and started scribbling on her own paper. The silence between them felt heavier than usual. Sara eventually leaned over slightly and muttered, “You okay? You looked off over by the lockers.” Kyyre hesitated, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Just a lot on my mind.” Sara didn’t press, though her brow furrowed as if she wanted to. Instead, she glanced at his sketchbook. “That’s different from what you usually do,” she said, her tone soft. “It’s.. interesting.” Kyyre shrugged, not wanting to dwell on the compliment. He turned back to his sketch, letting the lines take on softer curves. Without realizing it, his mind wandered to the flowers in his locker. The shapes he was drawing began to shift—petals, stems, and an outstretched hand holding them. Around the bouquet, he added swirling colors: pale blues and purples melting into whites and grays, the small, delicate flowers taking shape both on the paper and in his mind. Mr. Halverson moved through the room, stopping briefly at each student’s desk to observe their work. When he reached Kyyre, he paused, tilting his head as he studied the sketch. “Ah, something tender and raw,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “There’s a lot of emotion in those colors. Keep going—you’re onto something.” Kyyre gave a slight nod, his face heating under the attention. As the warm-up sketches gave way to more focused projects, Kyyre found himself sinking deeper into the work. He blocked out the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs against the floor, even Sara’s occasional glances. For a little while, the world outside the art room didn’t exist—just the paper, the pencil, and the quiet release of everything he couldn’t say. But no matter how immersed he became in his drawing, the note in his pocket and the name Johannes lingered in the back of his mind, a quiet mystery waiting to be solved. |
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Darkseeker
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Class was as dull as ever. The professor somehow managed to speak with even less enthusiasm than usual, and the warm, dimly lit classroom made it almost impossible to stay focused. Johannes zoned out entirely, staring out the window at a tree outside. Birds hopped and fluttered through its branches, carefree and blissfully unaware of the monotony inside. He envied them, wishing he could be...well, anywhere else. Home didn’t sound that great—there was no escape from the constant tension there—but school wasn’t cutting it either. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of next period: Physical Education. Normally, P.E. wasn’t his thing. It was all about competing and proving yourself, and Johannes wasn’t exactly an all-star athlete. But today, they’d be running. Running was different. It wasn’t about teams or strategy; it was just him, the trail, and the wind on his face. The school’s running trails were gorgeous, weaving through the woods with bursts of sunlight filtering through the trees. It sounded like exactly what he needed. As his mind wandered, Johannes started folding the edge of his notebook paper into a triangle. Before he knew it, he’d turned it into a paper airplane. He smiled faintly at the memory it brought back: he and Magnus, years ago, sitting through boring royal meetings and launching paper airplanes at foreign diplomats. Their childhood antics had been ridiculous, but it was the kind of chaos he sometimes missed. The bell jolted him out of his thoughts, and Johannes quickly unfolded the airplane. His notes were half-done at best, but he didn’t care enough to fix them. Gathering his stuff, he steeled himself for the awkward shuffle through the hallways to his next class. Right on cue, Magnus burst into the room like an overexcited puppy, his energy completely at odds with the groggy, half-asleep vibe of everyone else. Johannes sighed, not even trying to hide his irritation. "Seriously, Mag? Don’t you have your *own* classes, or do you just live to pester me?” Magnus grinned, completely unfazed. “It’s because I love you so much, obviously. You’re my favorite cousin. Or second cousin. Maybe twice removed? I don’t really know.” Johannes pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.” Magnus laughed, clearly enjoying himself, and Johannes reluctantly followed him toward the locker rooms. As usual, Magnus drew a crowd, effortlessly chatting up anyone who wandered near. Johannes tried to tune them out, but then *she* appeared—the girl Magnus never shut up about. She practically materialized between the two of them, giggling and flipping her hair as she spoke. Johannes half-listened to whatever nonsense she was saying, nodding occasionally to be polite, but all he really cared about was getting to the locker room and out onto the trails. The sooner he could run, the sooner he could leave all this behind—at least for a little while. |
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The bell signaled the end of the period, pulling Kyyre reluctantly from his work. He stared at his sketch for a moment longer, the bouquet on the page still incomplete, before carefully closing his sketchbook. The note in his pocket felt heavier as he packed up his supplies and slung his bag over his shoulder. - The halls were noisy with the usual chaos between classes—students laughing, lockers slamming, footsteps echoing in every direction. Kyyre moved through the crowd on autopilot, his mind still tangled with questions. - Calculus. Second period. No Sara this time. - The classroom was already half-full when he arrived. Rows of desks were arranged in neat lines, and the air smelled faintly of dry erase markers. Mr. Grant, a tall, wiry man with sharp features and glasses that always seemed slightly askew, was scribbling equations on the whiteboard. - Kyyre slipped into his usual seat by the window, setting his bag on the floor. He liked this spot—it let him stare outside when the monotony of numbers became too much. The view wasn’t much, just a stretch of parking lot and a few skeletal trees, but it was enough to give his mind a place to wander. - He pulled out his notebook and calculator, but his attention drifted to the note again. The folded piece of paper sat in his jacket pocket, tempting him to read it again. He hadn’t even finished it earlier, too overwhelmed to take in more than the name at the bottom. - Johannes. - The sound of chairs scraping against the floor snapped him out of his thoughts as the last few students filed in. The chatter subsided when Mr. Grant turned to face the class, marker still in hand. - “Good morning, everyone,” he began, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Let’s get started. Today, we’re diving into related rates. These problems can be tricky, so pay attention.” He turned back to the board, drawing a series of diagrams that were supposed to represent cones and cylinders but looked more like lopsided traffic cones. - Kyyre tried to focus, taking notes and copying the diagrams as Mr. Grant worked through the first example. But his mind kept wandering back to the flowers, the handwriting on the note, and the name. The math felt like static in the background, the words and numbers slipping through his fingers. - By the time the class was halfway through, Kyyre had filled his notebook with half-hearted scribbles and incomplete equations. He glanced around the room. Most of the other students were diligently working, their heads down, calculators clicking. - Leaning back in his chair, Kyyre slid a hand into his pocket and brushed his fingers against the note. He hesitated, then pulled it out, unfolding it carefully under the desk. - The handwriting was neat but slightly slanted, like someone trying to appear more casual than they felt. He read the words again, this time letting them sink in fully. - The words didn’t make sense—Johannes couldn’t have written this. Or, at least, it didn’t fit the version of Johannes he thought everyone knew. - And yet, here it was. - A tap on his desk startled him, and he quickly folded the note back up, shoving it into his pocket. Mr. Grant stood over him, arms crossed. - “Kyyre,” the teacher said, his voice low but firm. “Is something more interesting than calculus happening over there?” - “Sorry,” Kyyre mumbled, his face burning. - “Stay with us,” Mr. Grant said, though his tone softened slightly as he walked back to the front of the room. - Kyyre tried to refocus, but the words of the note echoed in his mind. It wasn’t just the mystery of why Johannes had written it—it was the feeling that came with it, a strange mix of uncertainty, curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite name. - He found himself spacing out again, his eyes drifting out the window without Sara there to ground him. - Was the turn that his life had just taken for the better or for worse? |
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Darkseeker
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The locker room was, as always, a cacophony of chaos—echoing laughter, crude jokes, and the never-ending volley of mock accusations about who might secretly be gay. Johannes kept to the edges, trying to blend into the faded paint of the lockers, far away from the whirlwind of conversations that made his stomach churn. He hunched over, fiddling with the straps on his bag, praying he’d remain invisible. But, as luck would have it, that never worked. A hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him. He flinched, looking up to see Jonas—one of Magnus’s many sidekicks—grinning at him like he’d just found a new toy. Jonas was tall and blond, the kind of guy who always looked like he was just leaving a photoshoot for some overpriced sportswear brand. "And you, Hasse? Which lucky girl’s caught our little prince’s eye? Bet she’d have you anywhere," Jonas jeered, leaning in conspiratorially. "The big stalls, right? Everyone knows about those." Johannes shrugged the hand off, his patience fraying. He wished he’d just left when he’d had the chance instead of waiting around for Magnus like a good cousin. Now, he was stuck, and there was no way out of the trap Jonas had set. Normally, when the conversation shifted to girls, Johannes was an expert at dodging the inevitable interrogation. But that was in mixed company, where the presence of girls offered him a plausible reason to stay silent. Here? It was just the boys. And the boys never let anything slide. "The girls here aren’t good enough for me," Johannes muttered, stepping away. He didn’t wait for their response as he pushed through the door. Behind him, the room erupted in laughter, the kind that made his ears burn. He could practically feel the speculative glances they exchanged, the whispers about his sexuality already beginning to spread like wildfire. He didn’t care. Let them talk. What he cared about was avoiding another Lotte situation. That had been a disaster. Back in year ten, he’d said—offhandedly, stupidly—that Lotte was pretty, hoping it would shut the other boys up. Instead, the rumor that *the Crown Prince himself* fancied her had somehow reached her in record time. That was how he’d ended up in a broom closet at a party, locked in one of the most painfully awkward kisses of his life. To this day, the memory made his stomach twist. He didn’t want another mess like that. Outside, the air was sharper than he’d expected, biting against his exposed skin. Johannes smoothed his shorts, shaking the lingering tension from his shoulders. Running would fix this. Running always fixed everything. He set off, his strides steady as he left the school building behind and hit the trails that wound through the training grounds. The chill faded as he picked up speed, his body warming with each step. The frost crunched beneath his shoes, the trees blurring past him in streaks of muted green and brown. For the first time all day, his mind began to clear, the noise fading until it was just him, the trail, and his own heartbeat. He pressed harder, faster. Not even Magnus—who lived for running almost as much as he did for making people laugh—could keep up with Johannes when he was like this. And then, his thoughts drifted. Kyyre. The name came to him like a warm ember, settling in his chest. His boy. Johannes let the fantasy take hold, his feet moving on autopilot as the images filled his mind. A house in the mountains, quiet and secluded. A pack of dogs sprawled across the floor, their tails wagging lazily. Kyyre, sitting across from him at a small kitchen table, his laughter warm and easy. The smell of fresh pastries in the air. Hot milk, shared late at night under a heavy blanket. The ache in his chest swelled, sharp and insistent. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. A life that felt *real,* simple, and safe. When was the last time he’d let himself imagine something like that? Something that wasn’t tied to duty or expectations? For a moment, he stumbled, his rhythm breaking. He recovered quickly, shaking his head as if that could dispel the longing clawing at his heart. He pushed forward, running faster. If he ran hard enough, maybe he could outrun the ache. |
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The bell echoed through the room, its sharp tone signaling the start of Kyyre’s least favorite part of the day. With a resigned sigh, he stuffed his half-finished calculus notes into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. The note stayed tucked safely in his pocket, but its presence felt more obvious now, weighing on his thoughts. - As he made his way to his locker, the hallways were still buzzing with life, though Kyyre barely noticed. He swapped his calculus notebook for the dreaded Language Arts and Literature texts. The books themselves seemed to mock him—the spines worn from years of use, the covers faded and uninspiring. It wasn’t just the classes he hated; it was the idea of spending hours dissecting languages and stories he already understood. - Nordic Language Arts was first. The classroom smelled like it always did—a strange blend of spinach and industrial cleaner. Kyyre wrinkled his nose as he walked in, his mood souring further. The room itself was uninviting, with its pale beige walls and fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly. - The teacher, Ms. Halverson, stood at the front of the room, arranging papers on her desk with the precision of someone who took their job far too seriously. She was a short, wiry woman with a severe expression that rarely softened. Her monotone voice and penchant for overexplaining simple concepts made the class feel twice as long as it actually was. - Kyyre slipped into his usual seat in the back corner, hoping to avoid her gaze. He pulled out his notebook and pen, though he knew he wouldn’t be using them much. Ms. Halverson didn’t tolerate daydreaming or distractions, but Kyyre had mastered the art of looking busy while his mind wandered elsewhere. - The lesson began, as it always did, with Ms. Halverson launching into a dry lecture about syntax and verb conjugations. Kyyre stared at the notes she scribbled on the whiteboard, the letters blurring together as his thoughts drifted. - Why had Johannes written that note? The question gnawed at him, more pressing than any discussion about linguistic nuances. Johannes was the last person Kyyre expected to reach out to, especially in such a cryptic way. - A sharp knock on his desk startled him out of his reverie. Ms. Halverson was glaring at him, her eyes narrowing behind her thick glasses. - “Mr. Amundsen,” she said, her tone clipped. “Would you care to share your thoughts on the proper usage of the subjunctive mood in Old Nordic?” - “Uh…” Kyyre scrambled for a response, his mind racing. “It’s… used for hypotheticals?” - Ms. Halverson’s expression didn’t soften, but she gave a curt nod before turning back to the board. Kyyre exhaled slowly, relieved but annoyed. He hated being called out, especially when the subject matter was so mind-numbingly dull. - The period dragged on, every minute feeling like an eternity. Kyyre glanced at the clock repeatedly, willing the hands to move faster. When the bell finally rang, he packed up his things with uncharacteristic speed and bolted for the door, desperate for fresh air. - But there was no relief. Next up was Advanced Nordic Literature, a class he loathed even more. The classroom was slightly larger, with rows of mismatched desks and shelves overflowing with dusty books. The air smelled faintly of mildew, and the teacher, Mr. Søndergaard, was already waiting with a stack of essays in his hand. - Mr. Søndergaard was the opposite of Ms. Halverson—loud, theatrical, and prone to dramatic readings of ancient sagas. Some students found him entertaining, but Kyyre found him exhausting. The man seemed to thrive on making students analyze every word of every text, as if the fate of the world depended on their interpretations. He both drained Ky, and gave extra anxiety that he certainly did not need. - Kyyre slumped into his seat, pulling out the battered copy of Hrafnkels Saga they were supposed to be discussing. He flipped through the pages half-heartedly, his mind still on the note. - Johannes. What did he mean? - As Mr. Søndergaard launched into a passionate monologue about the symbolism of ravens, Kyyre found himself staring out the window again. The skeletal trees swayed slightly in the wind, their bare branches casting long shadows on the parking lot below. - The note burned in his pocket like a secret he wasn’t ready to face. But he knew he’d have to, eventually. |
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Fall 
Night 
Hurricane Moon: 
