Meddie sat down in the quiet library and pulled out his history textbook. There was an essay due tomorrow that he had half written. He pulled out the paper he had it written on, and started writing with the book open to cite his sources. He was well aware that his eyes were still red, but he was hidden in the back of the library, and no one would probably approach to get a good look at him, so it was fine. His pen scratched out his words, and he desperately missed having a laptop. He had to stop yesterday because his hand started cramping.

For a while, he worked in complete silence. Entirely immersed in his work, he didn’t notice the passing time. He simply worked through the first essay, and then he started on his math homework. After  that was literature, and then art history, and then modern politics. He wanted to get all his homework for the week done today. His schedule was jam packed, and he was already exhausted. He knew freshman year was the hardest. Once you got used to the workload, it wasn’t so bad. He just had to get used to the workload.

He was halfway through his literature analysis of the text when someone sat down opposite of him. He looked up and blinked, and there was Michael. Again.

“You and Tristan left quickly last night,” Michael said dispassionately, and Meddie looked back down at his essay.

“Sorry. I needed a little space,” he replied, and Michael studied him in silence.

“I was in the war for several years,” he said, and Meddie swallowed. Right. He would have stopped to attend school. He was a year older than Meddie, and he must have served from age sixteen to eighteen. So, two years. There was an overlap of one year when they were serving at the same time.

“Where did you serve? The army or…?”

“The army, yes. I was a lieutenant,” Michael said, and Meddie nodded. “I think I was too young.”

“All of us were too young,” Meddie murmured, and Michael looked down at his book.

“I don’t… hate you,” he said, and Meddie looked up again. “I just think the prince is being selfish. He shouldn’t have asked for you.”

Meddie didn’t say anything in response to that, and Michael brushed some hair out of his eyes as he focused on his literature homework.

“Falling in love in war is no small feat,” he murmured, and Meddie swallowed.

“He’s not in love with me,” Meddie said, even though Tristan was, but it was easier to just deny it.

“He’s not?” Michael asked, and Meddie stared down at his homework. “You think?”

“He’s not,” Meddie said firmly. “I humiliated him, and he just wants revenge.”

That was a lie, too, but it was easier to lie to himself. He didn’t… He couldn’t afford to fall in love with Tristan. Couldn’t afford to trust him, because if he did, he couldn’t take the heartbreak of if he was sent back to the Demonias Empire just because Tristan was bored of him. He wasn’t stupid. This was a fairytale, yes, but after the story of falling in love was over, then you had to face life.

And life was a lot more harsh and unforgiving.

“Mmm,” Michael said, and tilted his head. “But, do you really believe that?”

“... I don’t have a choice in not believing it,” Meddie murmured, and Michael was quiet.

“I’m sorry for our first meeting,” he apologized, and Meddie stiffened up. “I was… frustrated with the situation.”

“You barged into my room, chained me to my bed, and forced a healing on me I didn’t want,” Meddie said, and Michael pursed his lips.

“In my defense, I was trying to prevent another war.”

“My father doesn’t care about me that much,” Meddie murmured, and Michael breathed out.

“He doesn’t write you?” he asked, and Meddie thought about the two letters he had yet to open. He was on track to receive them once a week, and he didn’t…

“No. He doesn’t,” he said shortly, and then he looked back down at his essay. “I should finish this.”

Michael studied him in silence, and Meddie returned to his essay, writing out his thoughts and points in a neat, compelling argument. Michael opened his book, and for about thirty minutes, the two of them sat there quietly, working on their homework and studying. It was not entirely unwanted, but Meddie had no idea what Michael was doing here. He clearly didn’t like Meddie. He didn’t hate him, but he obviously disliked his presence here at the school. Even so, he still stuck with him.

It was fine, Meddie told himself. It was fine. At least he wasn’t clawing all over him for his attention. It could be worse. Tristan could be here, and the two of them could be arguing. They seemed to butt heads every time they saw each other. It was a problem.

Meddie continued scratching out his work, and Michael continued to read, and they sat in silence for a solid hour before Michael spoke again.

“Do you miss Demonias?” he asked, and Meddie paused.

“I barely got to experience it,” he murmured. “I was just stuck at court all the time. Or at war.”

“What about the coastline?” Michael asked, and Meddie swallowed, thinking about blood soaked into the sand.

“No,” he replied. “There was… I just…”

He trailed off, and Michael seemed to take that as something of an answer. Meddie continued to work on his homework, and Michael continued to work on his own assignments, and they just sat like that for a while. Michael seemed content to leave it as is, but Meddie felt uncomfortable. His skin was prickling, and his scales felt itchy.

“Your serpents… I heard they regenerate,” Michael said, and Meddie nodded.

“They do,” he confirmed, and Michael stared at them for a moment.

“May I?” he asked, and it took Meddie a moment to realize he was asking to touch them. Seriously, what?

“Sure,” Meddie said, and Michael reached out to gently smooth his hand over Ada’s head. A shiver traveled down Meddie’s spine at the contact, and he focused back on his homework as Michael gently scratched her under the chin.

“Thank you,” Michael said and withdrew his hand, and Ada looked back at Meddie, like he could somehow order Michael to just pet her again.

“Mm,” Meddie replied, and Michael studied him for a moment.

“Are you happy to be here?” he asked finally, and Meddie paused. Happy? Was he happy?

“I…” he trailed off, and Michael tilted his head as he studied him in silence. “I think…”

What did he think? Was he happy? Was he…

“It’s probably safer here than in Demonias,” he settled with, and Michael stared at him with knowing blue eyes.

“But, are you happy?”

“I didn’t draw the straw of a happy life,” Meddie said, and Michael pursed his lips.

“I see,” he murmured, and Meddie looked down at his homework. “That’s a bleak outlook.”

“Well, what else do you want me to say?” Meddie asked. “I was born cursed, of no fault of my own, my brothers kept trying to kill me, I was ripped away from my mother, and my father hates me even as he keeps me at his side. This is the first bit of freedom I’ve ever received, and I can’t even leave school grounds without an Imperial escort.”

“... That doesn’t mean you can’t find happiness,” Michael murmured, and Meddie smiled bitterly.

“As soon as Tristan is bored of me, I’ll be shipped back to my death in the Demonias Empire,” he said flatly, and Michael blinked. “If my brother is Emperor, he’ll order me killed before I can even take over the duchy.”

“What makes you think Tristan will grow bored of you?” Michael asked, and Meddie huffed out a laugh.

“He’s eighteen. Love doesn’t last forever, especially when you’re eighteen. He didn’t think this through,” he said, and Michael’s eyes drifted past him to look over his shoulder. Meddie saw the horror in his eyes and immediately turned, and there was Tristan, standing there with a blank expression on his face.

“Oh,” Meddie said, flat, and Tristan looked at him. Something flickered in his eyes, something dangerous, and he tilted his head.

“Are you two ever planning on going to eat?” he asked, and Meddie swallowed. Eat. Right. It was lunch time already, and he skipped breakfast in favor of studying.

“Yes,” Meddie said, and packed up his books and papers in his bag. Was Tristan going to say anything? Why was he looking at Meddie like that?

“I’ll stay behind,” Michael said, and oh, so he wouldn’t be useful. Again.

“Then, Meduso and I will go together,” Tristan said, and Meddie shrugged his bag onto his shoulder.

“I can go by mysel---”

“No,” Tristan said sharply, his voice ringing with condemnation, and Meddie internally winced. “You will go with me.”

“... Alright,” Meddie agreed quietly, and then he stepped after Tristan. The two of them walked through the stacks as Tristan strode forward with a stony expression on his face, and then, before Meddie even realized what was happening, Tristan’s hands were on his hips. Meddie was backed in between two shelves and slammed into the wall, and Tristan braced his hand over his head as he leaned in very, very close, his other hand splayed across Meddie’s stomach.

“What is wrong with you?” Tristan demanded, and Meddie stared at him blankly.

“Many things…?”

“What on earth happened to you that you don’t think someone could fall in love with you and love you for the rest of your life?” Tristan asked, and Meddie blinked.

“Because that’s not realistic…?”

“You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?”

“Why should I? Romantic people are naive,” Meddie said, and Tristan stared at him blankly. “They are people that have never learned the reality of trust: that it’s easily broken.”

“You think I would be so shallow as to see your soul, and want to leave you alone?” Tristan asked, and Meddie blinked. His soul? What the fuck? “Let me make something clear, Meduso. You will be here for the rest of your life.”

Meddie leaned back, but didn’t get very far, and Tristan leaned in closer.

“You will be here for the rest of your life, and I will not be letting you go,” he hissed, and Meddie swallowed.

“Stop threatening me,” he said, and Tristan smiled wolfishly.

“I don’t threaten,” he said, and Meddie tried to breathe through his nose. Tristan’s hand was burning hot on his stomach, and Ada and Gladys twisted in anxiety.

“I’m hungry,” Meddie finally said and put his hand on Tristan’s chest, pushing him back a step. “Let me go.”

Tristan took a step back and stared down at Meddie, anger flickering in his eyes. There was real rage there, and Meddie could not deal with this right now.

“I’m leaving,” Meddie announced and pushed past Tristan, taking a deep breath the second Tristan couldn’t see.

MLs were hot when they weren’t in your face and you had to actually deal with them. This was not hot. This was terrifying. That had to be that feeling in his gut. It was twisted and light at the same time. There was something there, and he didn’t know what it was.

… Shit.

Were those butterflies??

What the actual fuck was wrong with him?