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Darkseeker
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By the time second period ended, Johannes’s better mood had completely evaporated. He trudged through the rest of the day, each class dragging him deeper into the pit he’d tried to climb out of. Physics had always been a nightmare for him. No matter how hard he tried to understand the arbitrary rules and laws, they never clicked. His notes were a mess of half-scribbled formulas and absent-minded doodles, his mind perpetually elsewhere. He distracted himself by dismantling his pens, pulling them apart and putting them back together, just to feel like he was doing something. The teacher caught him and shot him a sharp look, making him straighten up, but the damage was done. The mood that had been so easy to build was falling apart again, and he could already feel the weight of the day pressing on him. Physics was never good. Another tedious assignment—full of calculations he’d never make sense of—was added to his already overwhelming to-do list. By the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the class, he felt like a train had run over him. The exhaustion was real, and it wasn’t just physical. His mood had taken a dive again, the fleeting highs of the morning completely forgotten. It always seemed to go this way. One moment he was floating, his mind clear, and the next, he was crashing back to earth, with no control over the descent. The only thing that gave him any hope was that Spanish, his fourth class of the day, was usually a bit of a joke. The problem was, he just didn’t care. His parents had pushed him into learning a third language, and even though he was naturally good at languages, Spanish felt pointless. English, Swedish, Norwegian—those were enough for him. But his mother had insisted, and so he’d picked Spanish, though barely managing to scrape by with help from Isak, the boy who sat next to him. Isak was soft-spoken and kind, always sharing his notes and giving Johannes answers during tests. It made Johannes feel guilty, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to do the work. *Everyone* had at least one class they just coasted through. For him, it was Spanish. Walking into class, he immediately spotted the dreaded game on the board: *Spanish Bingo*. Johannes groaned internally. He wasn’t in the mood for this. And with the way his mood had been lately, there was no way in hell he was about to participate in that mess. With a long-winded excuse to the teacher, who was far too kind and overly enthusiastic about her subject, Johannes bolted from the classroom before the woman could insist on him staying. His feet moved automatically as he made his way down the hall, hearing the faint shuffle of Maciej’s footsteps trailing behind him. He knew his bodyguard would be irritated by the detour, but Johannes didn’t care. The closest bathroom would be full of smoke and gossip, courtesy of some of Johannes's least favourite students. He wasn’t dealing with that today. Instead, he took a turn toward the far bathroom, next to the locker rooms, the one nobody used unless they were really desperate. It was quieter, more isolated. He didn’t need to use the bathroom, but the peace was something he craved. He washed his hands out of habit and splashed cold water on his face, feeling the chill snap him out of the fog in his brain, even if only for a second. The bathroom was mostly empty, save for a few idle echoes of footsteps outside. Johannes leaned back against the cool tile, pulling out his phone. Maciej could wait a little longer. He scrolled through his contacts, stopping on Kyyre's name. His finger hovered over the message icon for a moment, but he didn’t click it. Instead, he stared at the glowing screen, feeling the weight of his own desire to reach out. The ache in his chest tightened. He couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep obsessing over someone he couldn’t even be with, not the way he wanted. He’d already pushed those feelings down before, buried them under layers of distractions and excuses. But every time he let himself think about Kyyre, it was like the world got a little darker, a little emptier without him. Johannes sighed and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He needed to stop this. He needed to move on. |
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Neutral
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Kyyre sat in Advanced Nordic Literature, his fingers drumming against the edge of his desk as Mr. Søndergaard’s voice droned on about the tragic inevitability of fate in Norse sagas. The classroom felt oppressive, the air heavy with the mingling scents of old paper and mildew. His mind, as usual, was elsewhere—on the note, on Johannes, on the endless swirl of questions he couldn’t answer. - He couldn’t take it anymore. - Raising his hand lazily, Kyyre waited for Mr. Søndergaard to pause mid-rant about poetic devices. The teacher arched an eyebrow at him. - “May I go to the bathroom?” Kyyre asked, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. - Mr. Søndergaard sighed theatrically, waving him off. “Make it quick, Mr. Aakre. We wouldn’t want you to miss the climactic revelations about Freyja’s duality, would we?” - Kyyre didn’t respond, already sliding out of his chair and grabbing the hall pass. The halls were quieter now, most students locked away in their respective classes. His footsteps echoed faintly as he headed toward the bathrooms near the locker rooms, his usual spot for escaping when he needed to clear his head. - The moment he turned the corner, however, he froze. - Maciej. - The man loomed near the bathroom door, his broad shoulders and towering frame making him impossible to miss. His usual attir did little to soften his intimidating presence. Maciej was unmistakably out of place in a high school hallway, his piercing gaze scanning the corridor like he was guarding a vault rather than a restroom. - Kyyre’s heart skipped. Why was he here?Kyyre felt rooted to the spot, his brain scrambling for an explanation that didn’t come. - Swallowing hard, Kyyre pushed forward, brushing past Maciej and into the bathroom. - The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow over the tiled space. At first, it seemed empty, the only sounds being the distant hum of the school and the faint drip of a leaky faucet. But then he saw him. - Johannes stood with his back against the wall, his hand pushing something into his pocket. His uniform was impeccable, as always, though he looked slightly disheveled—his hair a little messier than usual, his shoulders tense. - Kyyre’s breath hitched. Of all the scenarios he’d imagined, finding Johannes here, like this, wasn’t one of them. - “Johannes?” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the empty room. - For a moment, the only response was the steady drip of water from the faucet. |
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Darkseeker
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Johannes had been wrapping up his long, drawn-out bathroom escapade, mentally bracing himself for the inevitable lecture from his bodyguard. He could already hear the familiar tone of disapproval, the spiel about public responsibility and how his mother would expect better from him. He wasn’t in any rush to leave. Sliding a pen into his pocket alongside his phone, he sighed and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The sound of footsteps echoing off the tiled walls pulled him out of his thoughts. He tensed, assuming it would be Magnus, always eager to capitalize on a chance encounter for some cousinly antics. Or perhaps Isak, dutifully sent by the Spanish teacher to fetch him after nearly twenty minutes of absence. But when he turned, ready to deliver some half-hearted excuse, he froze. The air seemed to shift, and his chest tightened as his gaze fell on a figure he hadn’t expected to see. Kyyre. The name rang in his mind like a struck bell, reverberating through him. His hand faltered, almost dropping the pen he’d just pocketed. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came. He cleared his throat instead, trying to will the knot in his stomach to untangle itself. He shouldn’t have been surprised—it was just a bathroom, after all—but the sight of Kyyre standing there threw him completely off balance. It was as though the room had shrunk, the walls pressing closer with every second that passed. Johannes leaned against the counter, his fingers curling around the edge for stability. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, his feet, his entire body. His hair was a mess from the way he’d run his fingers through it earlier, and he felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to fix it. “Kyyre,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. The name felt strange on his tongue, like something precious he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold. He’d never said it out loud before, always keeping it tucked away in the back of his mind, where it lingered no matter how much he tried to ignore it. For a moment, Johannes let himself study the boy across from him, his golden-hazel eyes glinting in the muted light. There was a quiet intensity about Kyyre that always left Johannes feeling exposed, like every defense he’d carefully constructed was useless in his presence. He tried to look away but found he couldn’t. The realization struck him like a blow—he probably looked like an idiot standing there, staring. His face burned, and he quickly dropped his gaze to the floor, gripping the counter harder. He could feel his pulse racing in his ears, a steady drumbeat of panic. Say something, he urged himself. Do something. “I didn’t think anyone else would be in here,” he mumbled, his voice uneven. He cringed immediately at the sound of it. Obvious. Stupid. Why was it so hard to say anything normal when Kyyre was around? The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Johannes felt trapped in it, his mind racing for a way to break free. Every potential word that surfaced seemed too clumsy, too revealing. His thoughts spiraled, a chaotic mix of embarrassment and longing. He glanced up briefly, catching Kyyre’s gaze again, and his breath hitched. There was no malice there, no judgment—just quiet observation. That was almost worse. It made Johannes feel like every nerve in his body was on display, raw and unguarded. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair as if that might somehow restore his composure. It didn’t. The boy staring back at him looked just as rattled, his pale complexion now tinged with pink. He didn’t trust himself to speak again, so he focused on busying his hands, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform jacket, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. The tension in his chest refused to ease, no matter how much he tried to ground himself. The air in the room felt heavier now, charged with an energy he didn’t know how to navigate. He wanted to stay, to let the moment stretch on forever, and yet he also wanted to bolt—to escape before he embarrassed himself further. Johannes cast one last glance toward Kyyre, his lips parting as if to say something more, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he offered a fleeting, almost apologetic smile before he turned back to the mirror. He wasn’t sure if it was enough, or if it even mattered, but it was all he could manage. The desire to leave was growing, and he took a step towards the door, but it was as hesitant as ever. What was wrong with him? |
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Neutral
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Kyyre watched him for a moment, listening intently to his words. The way Johannes said his name, almost reverently, as if it were something divine, something celestial—it made Ky feel both self-conscious and inexplicably special. How could anyone say a name like that, as though it held the weight of stars? “Sorry…” Kyyre mumbled, his voice barely audible. He held Johannes’s gaze for a fleeting moment before looking away, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. It was happening again. Every time Johannes looked at him like that, Kyyre felt his composure unraveling, and he hated how obvious it was. His heart raced unbidden, his palms clammy as he struggled to maintain even a shred of dignity. He realized with growing frustration that he couldn’t look at Johannes for long without the telltale warmth creeping up his neck and into his face. And he knew that was exactly what was happening now. God, why couldn’t he just be normal around him? As if the prince of Norway wasn’t intimidating enough, Johannes had this effortless charm about him that made Kyyre’s curiosity burn like a wildfire. Every instinct screamed at him to hold back, but it was almost impossible to stop himself from wanting to barrage Johannes with questions. Who was this boy, really? What did he want? And why, of all people, had he chosen to notice someone like Kyyre? But that curiosity was tangled with something far more unsettling—crippling anxiety. Kyyre’s stomach churned at the thought of saying the wrong thing. How on earth was he supposed to have a conversation with Johannes without making a complete fool of himself? He could barely string a coherent sentence together in his presence. This wasn’t just anyone; this was royalty. He bit his tongue, stopping a hasty "sir" from slipping out. Would that even be correct? Formality seemed safe, but was it too much? Would "your majesty" be better? Or would that make him sound ridiculous? In the end, Kyyre chickened out, opting instead for the familiar: not saying anything at all. He shuffled awkwardly across the room, shrugging his dad’s coat off his shoulders and laying it on the floor before settling onto it with his back against the wall. He fished his phone from his pocket, feigning busyness as he tapped at the screen aimlessly. Anything to keep his hands occupied, anything to avoid meeting Johannes’s gaze again. But his mind was far from still. It raced with thoughts, each one tangling and looping back on itself. The note. The flowers. The way Johannes smiled at him, like he was in on some secret. And then there was… that feeling. Kyyre squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop thinking about it. About him. About the impossible. It was stupid. He was being stupid. The idea that someone like him—a nobody, awkward and unremarkable—could ever have a chance with someone like Johannes was beyond absurd. Johannes was everything Kyyre wasn’t: confident, gorgeous, and so far out of his league it felt laughable to even imagine. Let alone the fact that he was so obviously heterosexual that it hurt Kyyre to think about it. He remembered the rumors about Lotte. And yet, despite the insurmountable gap between them, Kyyre’s heart betrayed him, whispering treacherous what-ifs into his thoughts. No. He couldn’t let himself go there. He wouldn’t. Especially not when Johannes was already sidling toward the door, his tall frame exuding that effortless grace that only seemed to make Kyyre feel more out of place. But as much as he wanted to stay silent, to let the moment pass, he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. The question had been clawing at him all day, and even though he dreaded the answer, he needed to ask. His voice shook as he spoke, barely louder than a whisper. “Why… why did you put flowers in my locker?” |
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Darkseeker
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Johannes’s heart was pounding so loudly that it felt like the sound might escape his chest. He almost didn’t catch the soft words directed at his back, but they landed, gentle as a whisper. He hesitated, gripping the edges of his resolve as he turned back toward Kyyre, stuffing his raw cuticles and trembling hands into his pockets. Kyyre was sat on the floor in a way that seemed to radiate ease, his coat draped beneath him like a makeshift throne. The sight only magnified Johannes’s own discomfort. He felt like a giraffe in a glasshouse, too tall and too awkward to navigate the moment without shattering it. Standing over Kyyre like that felt wrong—intrusive. With a deep breath, he took a cautious step forward and slowly lowered himself onto the floor. He tucked his legs beneath him, wrapping his arms around his knees. He fidgeted absently with a peeling piece of skin on his middle finger, watching the faint bead of blood rise to the surface. His mother would scold him for it later, he knew. She hated signs of nervousness, especially in him. You don’t have anxiety, she would say, her voice brisk and unyielding. You don’t pray enough. That’s all it is. His jaw tightened briefly at the thought, but he forced himself to relax, folding his hands behind his legs as his gaze rose cautiously to Kyyre. There was something about the boy’s pale, delicate presence that made the world feel quieter—less sharp and overwhelming. Johannes let himself breathe, though his chest still felt tight. *Snowflake.* That’s what the other boys called him, their voices laced with cruelty. The nickname had been Magnus’s idea, of course. Magnus always knew how to hurt someone in a way that lingered. Johannes swallowed the lump in his throat. But when *he* thought of snowflakes, the word carried none of the venom Magnus had given it. To Johannes, snow was something magical—delicate, unique, and unapologetically beautiful. Snow wasn’t fragile. It was resilient. He wanted to tell Kyyre that, wanted to reclaim the word for him, but fear held the words back. He wasn’t sure Kyyre would hear them the way he meant them, not yet. Instead, Johannes leaned back slightly, shifting his weight to his heels, and offered a shy, tentative smile. He needed to say *something.* “The flowers?” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat, trying again. “Oh. I, uh, thought it would be nice to send something. You know, to really show I was sorry. For… Magnus.” He could feel the heat rising to his face, but he pressed on, fumbling for the right words. “Was it too much? Or, um, too girly? I didn’t know what else to do. And I wasn’t sure if you were allergic to anything, so I just… went with the national flower.” Johannes shifted again, uncomfortable on the tiles, and cross his legs, leaning back on his hands, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. He wanted to talk for hours with Kyyre, wanted to spend forever listening. But his heart was pounding in his chest, and he also wanted to go hide in the Spanish classroom for the rest of the day, and maybe also never show his face again. |
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Neutral
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Kyyre blinked, Johannes’s words hanging in the air between them like fragile glass, delicate and dangerous to touch. He could barely process them—his mind stuck on the way Johannes had folded himself onto the floor. His movements, usually measured and princely, had been awkward, disarmingly human. For all his composed, untouchable stature, Johannes looked so… uncertain. Vulnerable, even. It was a stark contrast to the gilded image Kyyre had built in his head. The phone in his lap felt heavier than before, the dark screen a silent observer of this moment. Kyyre’s fingers tightened around its edges, as though it might anchor him to something tangible. “The national flower,” he repeated softly, his voice wavering under the weight of the words. He turned them over in his mind, testing their shape, their meaning. Had Johannes really thought about this—about him—with such care? The idea was almost too much to hold onto, an unfamiliar warmth creeping into his chest. For a long, suspended moment, Kyyre didn’t know what to say, the silence between them thick with unspoken things. His chest tightened, a tangled mess of emotions he couldn’t begin to name. Gratitude? Confusion? Fear? They swirled and knotted together, leaving him breathless, as though the room had suddenly shrunk around him. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but steady, the words emerging like tentative steps across a shaky bridge. “It wasn’t too much,” he said, his fingers pressing into the smooth surface of his phone. He wasn’t sure where the courage came from—maybe it was Johannes’s uncertainty mirroring his own—but he clung to it tightly, like a lifeline. “And it wasn’t girly either.” His gaze flickered to Johannes’s face, just for a second, before darting away again. His heart thundered in his chest as he added, “It was… thoughtful.” The words felt honest in a way that left him exposed, like he’d cracked open some long-hidden part of himself. His cheeks burned, the heat creeping up to the tips of his ears. He hated how vulnerable it made him feel but couldn’t bring himself to regret it. When he glanced back at Johannes, he caught the nervous movement of his hands—fingers fidgeting against the edges of his own skin, picking absently at his cuticles until blood rose to the surface. The nervous energy spilled over, a sharp contrast to the image of untouchable grace Johannes usually carried. Kyyre found himself caught in the strange, unexpected humanity of it all. How someone like Johannes—someone who seemed to exist in a world so far removed from his own—could feel so human. He shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. The position felt safer somehow, like it might protect him from the storm of emotions clawing at the edges of his mind. Resting his chin on his knees, he stared at the floor, his voice sharp when it finally broke the silence. “Magnus is an ass,” he blurted out, the words rushing past his lips before he could stop them. The boldness of the statement sent a jolt through him, but he didn’t take it back. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, his fingers gripping his phone tighter. “You didn’t have to apologize for him,” he said, the edge in his voice softening slightly. “It’s not your fault he’s—” He stopped himself, biting down on the word terrible, his teeth pressing into the inside of his cheek. He let the sentence hang unfinished, uncertain if he wanted to say more or if silence was the safer choice. Kyyre exhaled slowly, his breath shaky, like he was releasing something he’d been holding onto for too long. In the stillness that followed, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of everything unsaid, lingering between them like a thread waiting to be pulled. |
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Darkseeker
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Johannes’s face lit up like a child unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. Kyyre hadn’t thought the flowers were too much, or too girly—he might have even liked them. The weight Johannes hadn’t fully realized he’d been carrying seemed to dissolve in an instant, and for the first time in days, he let out a real smile. It wasn’t the restrained, poised expression his mother demanded for public appearances or holiday speeches. This was bright and unguarded, a flash of joy that chased away the stiffness he usually wore like armor. The effort of hiding the gesture from his mother, who would've insisted on all the details, and then forbid it anyways, the awkwardness of calling the florist, the constant overthinking—it all melted into insignificance. Kyyre’s approval made it worthwhile. Johannes leaned forward slightly as Kyyre began to speak again, hanging on every word. He didn’t care what was said—if it came in Kyyre’s voice, Johannes wanted to hear it. But the words caught him off guard. The boys at school could be cruel; that much he knew. But hearing Kyyre speak so plainly about Magnus left him reeling. The bluntness of the statement sparked a reflexive need to defend his cousin, as problematic as Magnus could be. His lips parted automatically, the rehearsed explanations on the tip of his tongue, but the words never came. Kyyre’s pale eyes held his own, steady and searching, and Johannes exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah,” he murmured after a pause, his voice quieter than before. “He is. He’s a jerk.” The admission felt heavy on his tongue, like something he shouldn’t say aloud. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable. “He hasn’t exactly had it easy, though,” Johannes added, his tone thoughtful but hesitant. “Not that it excuses anything. His mum’s really sick, and he never knew his dad. But Magnus…” He trailed off, his fingers picking absently at the hem of his sleeve. “He doesn’t think. That’s his problem. He wants so badly to be liked by the wrong people—he’d do anything to get those guys to invite him to their stupid parties.” Johannes let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Which are awful, by the way. I've only been to a couple, and they're all so heinously loud. No one wants to drink cheap beer and…” He hesitated, the next words tumbling out before he could stop them. “...rub up against girls.” The silence that followed was deafening. Johannes froze, the realization of what he’d said hitting him like a cold wind. He never spoke badly about Magnus in front of others, and he definitely never let himself slip like this—revealing private family struggles or, worse, little pieces of himself. His pulse quickened, half of him hoping Kyyre wouldn’t read into the statement, that it would slip by unnoticed. But another part, a smaller, braver part, dared to hope otherwise. What if Kyyre asked? What if this was his chance to admit that girls didn’t interest him, that they never had? What if, just maybe, he could use this moment to say that someone else had been on his mind? Someone pale and quiet, whose words lingered in his mind more than he had ever noticed before, who was currently sitting so close, that if he lifted his fingers, and so did Hasse, they might brush. |
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Neutral
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Kyyre’s breath hitched, just slightly, at Johannes’s words, though he couldn’t fully place why. It wasn’t the admission about Magnus—it was something in the way Johannes spoke, the hesitation that seeped into his voice, like a leak in a dam that couldn’t quite be sealed. Or maybe it was the genuine smile that crept onto his face—the kind of smile that made Ky want to smile back. Kyyre had expected something more… guarded, more controlled. What he didn’t expect was the faint bitterness behind Johannes’s laugh, a soft edge of vulnerability that cut through the perfect composure he had come to associate with him. It wasn’t just an opinion about Magnus; it felt like an opening, a crack in the façade Johannes usually wore so flawlessly. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment longer than they should have, suspended by the tension that had grown between them. A silence stretched between them, awkward but not uncomfortable. The air felt different now—charged, thick, like the atmosphere right before a storm. Kyyre felt it in the way his heart beat a little faster, in the tightness in his chest. There was something more to Johannes’s words, something Kyyre hadn’t expected to hear from him. “Sorry if I.. um.. stepped out of line. With that comment. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable about Magnus.” Kyyre shifted in his seat, unable to ignore the weight of the room closing in around them. His gaze flickered back to Johannes, but he couldn’t fully look him in the eye. His attention, though, remained fixed on Johannes’s words. He wanted to ask, to prod deeper into what Johannes had just let slip, but the timing felt fragile—so fragile, in fact, that Kyyre wasn’t sure if he dared to disturb it. He wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to ask. What had Johannes meant by “rub up against girls”? The phrase was so casual, yet there was an unspoken layer to it—one that made Kyyre’s heart beat faster and his mind race. "I don’t like that either.." Kyyre mumbled, the words slipping from his mouth before he could think better of it. He immediately felt his face heat up, the flush spreading across his skin like a visible mark of his discomfort. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Um. Like. Publicly. It's weird, you know? Girls, and... rubbing up against them—" He quickly cut himself off, the words trailing off awkwardly in the air as his face flushed a deeper shade of red. There it was again—the familiar feeling of saying something that didn’t quite sound right, of speaking too much too soon. He bit down on his lip, trying to keep the awkwardness from settling too heavily in his chest. His fingers tightened on his phone, the cold glass screen against his thumb grounding him in this strange, uncharted territory. He couldn’t quite shake the sensation that things were shifting in ways he wasn’t prepared for. God, he was so stupidly, obviously gay. The subtle shift in Johannes’s demeanor lingered with Kyyre, that fleeting vulnerability—his usual poise cracking just for a moment—pulling Kyyre in like a quiet invitation to look closer, to see beyond the perfect surface Johannes so often wore. But what would he find if he did? What would it mean for everything else between them? He swallowed, uncertain, his gaze flickering to the floor and then back to Johannes’s face. The tension between them felt like it was suspended in time, fragile and full of possibility, like the space between the moments before a storm, when everything seems suspended in anticipation. Kyyre wasn’t sure if he was ready to breathe it in just yet. There was a certain kind of danger to it, a feeling that he might be walking into something he wouldn’t be able to walk away from. Instead of letting the silence stretch too long, Kyyre spoke carefully, almost hesitantly, as if testing the ground beneath him. “Sounds like you’ve seen more of that than you’d like.” His voice was low, steady—almost too steady, like someone holding back something that might spill over at any second. He glanced at Johannes again, his eyes meeting his for just a moment longer than he intended, before quickly looking away, as if afraid that lingering too long might break the delicate thread they were both holding on to. There was a knot in Kyyre’s stomach, a discomfort he couldn’t quite name, but his voice came out with an unexpected honesty. “I don’t… get it.” He could feel the weight of his own words, the truth of them settling heavy in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he meant the parties, Magnus, or the way everything between them seemed to have shifted so suddenly. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was just this conversation, this quiet connection that was slowly forming in the space between them—fragile, like a secret, like something neither of them had been brave enough to acknowledge until now. "The pretending. The... acting like things matter when they don’t." The honesty in his own voice startled him. There was something about Johannes’s vulnerability, that brief slip of the mask he had grown so accustomed to seeing, that made Kyyre feel like maybe—just maybe—he could do the same. Let down his guard, allow the truth to spill out, even if it left him feeling exposed. It was a strange kind of relief, but also a gnawing fear that came with the possibility of things changing. The kind of change he wasn’t sure he could handle. For a moment, there was nothing but silence again, but it felt different this time. It wasn’t heavy with awkwardness or uncertainty—it was a silence that lingered with a strange kind of understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of the shift between them. Kyyre wasn’t sure where it would lead, but he had the sense that something had been set in motion that neither of them could take back.
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Darkseeker
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Johannes barely registered the discomfort of the cold tile pressing into his palms. The sting had faded into the background, a distant sensation compared to the storm of emotions swirling inside him. He’d been raised to believe that holding someone’s gaze was a mark of confidence, a sign of strength. But as much as he tried to meet Kyyre’s pale, enigmatic eyes, his focus kept slipping—drawn instead to the soft curve of the boy’s lips, the way they formed each vowel with unconscious grace. He felt his chest tighten as Kyyre spoke, his words barely breaking through the haze of Johannes’s thoughts. It was ridiculous, really, how his mind kept circling back to the same dangerous idea. What would it take to pull Kyyre away from here, to whisk him back to the manor and spend hours unraveling the mystery of who he was? Johannes scolded himself silently for the thought. Maciej would have a conniption. Besides, it was impractical. And yet, here he was, sitting on the bathroom floor, letting his mind wander down that very path. He imagined Kyyre at his side, in the quiet spaces of his life that no one else seemed to fill. He imagined their conversations stretching late into the night, his laughter spilling out as easily as it never did at court. His heart ached with the sheer want of it, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this way about anyone before. Kyyre kept talking, his voice steady but introspective, and Johannes melted with every word. Vulnerability was rare in their world, but here it was, offered unguarded. The boy in front of him was doing something Hasse himself had rarely dared: speaking truthfully, without hesitation or polish. It was intoxicating. When Kyyre said something about *acting like things matter when they don’t,* Johannes tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. He repeated the phrase softly, letting it linger on his tongue. “That’s... my whole life,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Acting like things matter when they don’t. And pretending the things that do matter don’t. It’s exhausting.” He let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his already messy blond hair, trying not to pick at his cuticles again. God, the comments people made about his nervous habits—like he didn’t already feel the weight of them every second of every day. Johannes leaned back slightly, his knees drawn close, and smiled faintly. “I want to be like that someday. Carefree. Not let everyone else’s opinions decide who I get to be. Not let the public dictate my life.” His voice grew softer, more wistful. “There are so many things I’d change. God... even who I can date. There's a list, you know. My mother looks it over twice a year” His words hung in the air for a moment, the pause heavy with unspoken thoughts. And then, almost too softly to hear, he whispered, “And it’s all girls. Not really... what I’m going for.” The words left him feeling raw, exposed. It was a gamble, telling Kyyre this. A risk that could unravel everything if it went wrong, and could leave the whole country reeling if it got to the press. But in this quiet, stolen moment, with the boy he couldn’t stop thinking about, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the truth he’d been dying to share, a hand reaching out toward a flame. |
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Kyyre's heart stuttered in his chest, the words sitting between them like fragile glass. For a moment, everything seemed to stop, as if the world outside the bathroom had ceased to exist. The weight of what Johannes had just said settled around Kyyre, heavier than he anticipated. He could feel the tension in the room, the intimacy of the confession reverberating through him, pulling him into something deeper than he was prepared for. Johannes's vulnerability was like a spark in the dark, something bright and raw, exposed for the first time. It made Kyyre’s breath catch, made him feel like he was treading on a precipice, too close to the edge but unable to pull away. What did it mean, what was Johannes really saying? Kyyre’s pulse quickened, unsure if he should press for more answers, or if saying anything at all would destroy this fragile moment between them. He swallowed, his throat dry, unsure how to navigate the sudden shift in the air. The weight of Johannes's honesty left Kyyre speechless, for once at a loss for words. It wasn’t just the idea of Johannes being forced to pretend—there was something else there, a deeper, personal yearning. He wasn’t just talking about the life he had to live in front of others. He was talking about the life he wanted. Kyyre wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that could ease the tension that had clung to the space between them. But his mind raced, the fragments of Johannes’s words spinning around in his thoughts, each piece too sharp to grasp. Not really… what I’m going for. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, his fingers twitched slightly, as though the urge to reach out, to bridge the distance between them, was too overwhelming. But he stayed where he was, unsure if he should let the silence linger or press forward with a question. Something about the way Johannes’s voice had faltered, the way he looked so raw, made Kyyre feel like pushing for more might break something he wasn’t prepared to handle. Instead, he settled for a quiet exhale, his gaze drifting briefly to the floor, before returning to Johannes. The air between them felt thick, laden with all the things they hadn’t said yet. It was a strange sensation, to be in this moment, with all the rawness and the unspoken truths hanging between them. There was a weight to it, but also a kind of warmth—something that made Kyyre want to stay in this space a little longer, to see where this path could lead. “..me.. too.” He swallowed, his chest tightening again. It wasn’t the right thing to say, maybe—certainly not the most profound response. But it was the truth, in the only way he could express it. Kyyre shifted slightly, his fingers drumming lightly on his phone, the screen still cold in his hands. He wanted to ask more, to understand more, but a part of him still hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much he could handle, how much he could dare to peel back before he started to lose his grip on what he knew. Johannes had given him something precious, something fragile. Kyyre didn’t want to break it. The silence stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel oppressive. It was just two people, in a room, sharing something neither of them had expected to find. The vulnerability was still there, raw and powerful, but it didn’t feel like it was pushing them apart. Instead, it felt like it was slowly pulling them closer. And that… that was something Kyyre wasn’t quite ready to face. Not yet. “There’s a list?” he asked, averting his attention from the weight he had just let off of his chest. “That’s.. pretty ridiculous, if you ask me. There shouldn’t be a list of who you can or can’t like. And they shouldn’t just automatically assume that you—that you’re not—” He shut his mouth again. What was with him and almost saying horribly out of line things today? “They shouldn’t be able to do that,” he said instead.
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Fall 
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Clear Moon: 
