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“The warmest nights are the most miserable ones for the wretched.” —or something of the like. The young Marquis hadn’t actually paid enough attention during his latest literature lesson to properly remember the quote. The tutor had lost him somewhere after about 30 minutes of explaining the novel’s relevance in suidelasian literature; and had him almost asleep by the time he started monologuing about how the writer’s brilliance had only been recognised after his tragic death in exile. The author of the very book and quote in question had lost him somewhere in chapter four after about ten pages of describing the beauty of a damned cornfield he had the privilege to gaze upon during his carriage ride. The entire section could have been cut down to one singular paragraph, generously noting nature’s beauty, instead of boring the interest out of the reader and wasting ten sheets of perfectly good paper to essentially say nothing at all. Of course, that was only Rochalízo’s personal and unprofessional opinion, but he really fails to see the ‘brilliance’ in that.
He never missed literature lessons after they were over, but right now he really wishes to be at least a little bit more like his eldest brother when it comes to paying attention while there. Each lesson, Anticheiras would hang onto every word their tutor said like he was the one who personally hung the stars and the moon into the sky, and he would certainly remember that cursed quote in its entirety. Rochalízo, for once, would certainly like to remember it right now, since he cannot help but find it to ring true for himself at this very moment.
Even the fairytale-like light reflections dancing in the crystal droplets of the ballroom’s chandelier cannot seem to appease him tonight. A sight universally beautiful soured for the young Lord by the irritating habits of people. Loud coughing, idle chatter, spilling sticky wine, and worst of all: obnoxious flirting —all of it is getting on his last nerve. He is the ‘wretched’ and the celebrating crowd is the searing warmth turning his blood into thick syrup with all their sugary sweetness and joy.
He knows that he shouldn’t feel this way. After all, celebrations hosted by the amonlogian family had become a rare thing over the years —excitement should be due, not sulking— but he simply cannot help it. He simply feels like he’d be more of use doing something else. Here, he only takes up space and shares the sides of the room with the other wallflowers. Speaking of which, it’s not like many are present today anyways, which makes him standing alone and lacking a dance or conversation partner even more pathetic. Aside from him, only two young ladies seem to share his low mood, both of them he would guess to be around his age. One blonde, the other brunette. The latter seems to be more bored than bothered by the lack of entertainment, while the other looks visibly close to tears due to being ignored. Rochalízo takes a sip from his champagne flute as he continues to eye her.
At least I am not the only one with a rough night, he thinks to himself.
“Do you fancy her?”
Rochalízo nearly drops his glass out of shock. He hadn't even noticed someone joining his side, that's how much he had zoned out. He whips around and locks eyes with a familiar, but currently unwelcome face.
Deiktis stands there in all his glory: hair tucked into an immaculate queue, face powdered, clothes ironed and starched. He even wears a proper tie tonight, not forgoing it like he usually does in order to leave the top part of his shirt unbuttoned. Something which makes the ladies swoon and Anticheiras and Paramesos roll their eyes. Rochalízo shares his brothers’ sentiment, especially when Deiktis refuses to cover up even when the aftermath of his little rendezvous are very much visible. He doesn’t wish to stare at his brother’s love-bite covered neck during dinner.. Seems like their father exploding at them earlier to ‘behave’ and ‘to not be an embarrassment to this family’ had at least accomplished that Deiktis wears proper attire for once, aside from only further dampening Rochalízo’s already melancholic mood.
“Hmmm?” Deiktis presses again, visibly irritated by his brother’s lack of response.
Rochalízo shakes the thoughts from his head. “Apologies, what was the question?”
His brother rolls his eyes and inclines his head towards where the young lady stands leaned against the wall.
“You think her pretty?”
Rochalízo’s eyes widen. “Huh, what? No.” He shakes his head.
Deiktis raises his left eyebrow, either expressing scepticism or judging him. Most likely both, if Rochalízo stops kidding himself.
“Her father is the Count of Nýchia. Curious man, likes to collect dice—“
“Didn’t I just say that I’m not interested?” Rochalízo stresses. Nothing against the girl, really. Quite frankly, he doesn’t know why the other gentlemen keep ignoring her. There is nothing damning about her. She actually is pretty by Suidelasian standards. Dressed well too, form fitting bodice and lace hugging her shapely figure. Yet, despite that, he doesn’t feel the ‘heat of desire’ Deiktis so likes to talk about when he looks at her. She is a pretty girl, but not an object of his desires.
“Alright, alright,” Deiktis holds up his hands in surrender. “Forget I asked,” he mutters. “At least stop staring at her then, you might cause a scandal or give the poor girl false hope.”
“Why don’t you ask her to dance then?” Rochalízo shoots back.
Deiktis scrunches up his nose. “Maybe I will! Better than talking to you!” He takes an angry sip from his champagne flute while Rochalízo shrinks in on himself. The older one doesn't notice. “Why are you like this anyways? You don’t look like someone who is attending the ball of the season.”
“Not sure if I would call it that,” the younger says under his breath. That comment Deiktis does seem to hear, as he replies: “Well, for everyone else…”
Rochalízo stares at the last few drops remaining in his glass. The champagne shimmers like liquid gold, it’s clear their father hadn’t spared any expense.
“Why are you here, Deiktis? You and I both know you’d rather spend your time in another way.”
Deiktis, unlike Rochalízo, doesn’t seem to struggle at all with charming a crowd. He always knows how to talk, always manages to keep himself interesting, and despite his oftentimes obnoxious behaviour or love for flirting with women, he somehow still manages to keep many friends both in Amonlogia and overseas.
The two brothers are exact opposites like that.
Deiktis whistles through his teeth. “Anticheiras sends me,” he explains.
Rochalízo looks up from his glass, brows furrowed in irritation. His eyes wander over to the opposite side of the room where he knows their eldest brother is speaking to some nobles.
“Don’t look!” Deiktis scolds. “He made me promise not to tell you.”
“Yet you crossed your fingers behind your back?” Rochalízo questions, trying to not let that uncomfortable squeezing feeling crawl into his chest as he thinks about his brothers talking about him. “Anyways, tell him to come to me himself if he wants to ask me something.”
Deiktis chews at his lower lip and swirls the champagne in his glass until the liquid forms a small vortex. The brothers watch it dissipate together in silence.
“He is just worried,” Deiktis says.
Rochalízo looks at the tip of his shoes, like seeing anything else might be physically painful.
“He should worry about himself and go to sleep before 5 a.m. for once. I am tired of him wandering the castle like a ghost only to complain about a headache at noon because of his lack of sleep.”
“I did tell him to leave you alone to sulk instead of worrying too much about it.”
“I am not sulking.”
“Right.”
The music changes tune, the indication another dance is about to start, and the very moment Rochalízo decides he’s had enough of the night. He downs the rest of his champagne and inelegantly slams the empty flute onto the next best table.
“Enjoy your night.” He says dryly and starts to leave.
“W— Hey! Wait a second!” Deiktis calls after him. “Why are you leaving? Come on, don’t be so sensitive—“
Rochalízo blocks out the rest of the sentence. He doesn’t want to hear it. Deiktis could go and find some girl to snog or get chewed out by Anticheiras for all he cares.
Because of his hurry to leave the room, Rochalízo grows rather careless of his surroundings. He ignorantly rushes past the stage hosting the musicians hired for the evening and only stops when he feels someone bump against his shoulder and the sound of something wooden clattering to the ground.
His eyes go wide, he turns around and scrambles to apologise, hoping the person who he had almost run over isn’t someone that would warrant his father’s wrath later.
“Oh, apologies!” He stammers and takes a step back.
A lanky young man stands in front of him. His attire is mostly black and much simpler looking compared to what the noble guests are wearing. A simple uniform, up to court standards, but the dress of an employee. It seems like luck is on Rochalízo’s side after all, for this means he doesn't have to suffer any consequences for his carelessness. Aside from personally feeling bad for bumping into a stranger and making him drop something. He makes haste and starts searching the ground for the something that had slipped from the young man’s grasp. He doesn’t have to look for it long, the object not having slid very far from them despite how squeaky clean the floor is. It’s a violin bow. It makes sense in retrospect, he had fled towards the stage after all, but he hadn’t expected to run into anyone, hearing that another tune had just started to play. If he had been more attentive, he might not have missed the new melody being played only by the pianoforte. It’s embarrassing he missed that, especially since he actually pays attention during music lessons. He reaches for the bow and hurries to hand it to the musician.
“I apologize again. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Well, aren’t you a mooncalf, my Lord,” the musician says as he accepts the violin bow. He speaks with an accent Rochalízo doesn’t recognise. It’s sharp and clipped, and would be almost scary sounding if it weren’t for the nice baritone of his voice.
“You’re not the first one to call me such, so I suppose I am.” He tries to sound equally cheerful, but that just results in an awkward smile. “Though I regret it caused you to lose your instrument.”
The musician shrugs and waves his hand in a dismissing manner. “I am the last to judge a little daydreaming. I believe it to be healthy.”
At that, the corners of Rochalízo’s mouth curl up with genuine mirth. There is something infectious about the young man’s attitude. “Would you have experience as an artist?”
The musician smiles “Certainly.” He looks Rochalízo up and down, then offers his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Sir. Please call me Aoidé.”
Though hesitating a little, Rochalízo accepts the other one’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Lord Rochalízo.” He decides to spare Aoidé his full title. The man probably knows it anyway, if he is hired by Rochalízo’s father.
Aoidé nods. “Ah! So my assumption was correct then! I already knew which one of you was Sir Deiktis, but I admit I wasn’t quite sure about the rest.”
Rochalízo’s smile is a little strained when he answers. “My older brother really is known in all of Suidelasia.”
Aoidé laughs loudly. A few people turn their heads towards them at the sudden sound and the attention makes the back of Rochalízo’s neck itch. Aoidé quiets down quickly upon noticing his discomfort, covering his mouth with his hand to hide the last remains of giggles. “Apologies,” he says after calming down. “In any way, your brother is certainly charming, but I don’t actually know much of him. He just stands out between you four with those dark curls.”
“He bears a resemblance to our father,” Rochalízo agrees. People had always pointed this fact out to them ever since they were little. Deiktis certainly got lucky when it came to inheriting features. Rochalízo himself, well, he is certainly nothing to write home about.
“Sir?”
“Uh— yes?” Rochalízo answers clumsily
“I don’t mean to be impolite,” despite claiming such, Aoidé wears a cheeky grin while speaking, “but I was wondering if there is a quiet place around here where a poor artist like me could indulge in smoking?” He mimes placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.
“Oh!” Rochalízo isn’t much of a smoker himself, but that doesn’t stop him from knowing every balcony in this castle. They have always been his favourite places of refuge. “I do. Allow me to lead the way.”
“Oh! I’m being spoiled! The Duke’s son himself is showing me around the castle.” Rochalízo rolls his eyes. Normally, he would be put-off by people with an attitude like Aoidé’s, but for some reason the young man manages to remain rather likeable. It’s strange, but the young Lord decides not to question it too much, rather grateful that at least someone in this castle isn’t on a secret mission to sour his mood.
The cold air wrapping around his body the second they exit the ballroom comes as an instant relief. Aoidé seems to share the sentiment, as he sighs loudly, spreads his arms and spins for a few seconds to cool off even quicker. He looks a bit silly, but wears an expression of genuine happiness while doing so that the smile growing on Rochalízo’s face doesn’t stem from amusement.
He leads them to a small, but lovely, balcony, close enough to the festivities for the music and chatter to still be heard. Rochalízo can smell the scent of expensive alcohol too, but isn’t quite sure if it’s the wind carrying it over, or if either of them had brought it with due to the scent sticking to their clothes and skin. He can’t quite tell if Aoidé is drunk, or if he is always this way. The man in question had begun rummaging in his coat pockets the second they had stepped outside. Now that they are standing still, he finally succeeds in pulling out a rather grubby looking cigarette packet. It’s made of simple, red paper, its edges worn from handling it too much and a bit scrunched together like a fan from carelessly stuffing it into a too small pocket. It’s a far cry from the integrate, metal cigar boxes Rochalízo is used to. Though, it’s not like he sees those in use much either, as amonlogian men prefer to smoke pipes, but they seem to be popular in the north of Suidelasia. Cigarettes like the ones Aoidé is currently placing in-between his lips are something most nobles wouldn’t be caught dead with. They are the peasants’ way of getting a daily dose of tobacco. The first cigarettes were allegedly made by pub owners picking up cigar buds rich clients had disregarded, crushing up the remaining tobacco, rolling it in cheap paper and smoking it like that. The little crooked paper roll Aoidé is attempting to light certainly looks like he might have done just that. They look painfully self made. Suddenly, Rochalízo wonders how much his father is paying these musicians for the evening.
Said musician curses under his breath as another one of his matches breaks instead of sparking into a little flame. Maybe they had gotten wet, or the wood had simply gotten brittle and dry with age, it doesn’t really matter to Rochalízo, he only knows that he is not watching this struggle any longer. He fishes out the mechanical lighter from his pocket and, without thinking, lights the cigarette for Aoidé. Their eyes meet as the flame licks the end of the roll. Aoidé’s are a brilliant green —the colour of emeralds— Rochalízo notices. They shine elegantly on the pale canvas of his face, and for a few seconds Rochalízo just stares. Suddenly, his mouth goes dry and he pulls away quickly. The worst part: Aoidé seems to have noticed his strange staring, as the man stays quiet for far too long before he speaks again.
“That thing…it’s pretty fancy.”
Rochalízo swallows and hopes his voice won’t crack when he opens his mouth to answer. “Oh? Uh—you mean the lighter? It’s a pretty new amonlogian invention.”
“Ah…that’s what it’s called.” Aoidé hums. “I have never seen one before. A lighter…” The word seems to be harder for him to pronounce than the rest. He says it slowly, like trying to discern its taste on his tongue. Another reminder that he isn’t really from here.
“Where are you from anyways, Aoidé?” Rochalízo asks.
Aoidé hesitates a little before taking the next draw from his cigarette, then he laughs.
“I am afraid I don’t remember anymore. Every place on earth can be a home for me if I want it to be.”
Rochalízo hums and leans against the column behind him.
“What a strange answer.”
“I’m a strange man. If I didn’t say strange things wouldn’t that be far stranger?”
Now it’s Rochalízo’s turn to laugh.
“That—“ he breaks off and shakes his head. “You are a strange man indeed. Are you certain you are a violinist and not a fool?”
Aoidé shrugs. “As long as I entertain, I shall be happy with both titles.”
“Entertain you do.” Rochalízo releases a drawn out breath through his lips, as if he is the one indulging in smoking, not Aoidé. Though, he cannot help but feel like he is the one being indulged. Talking to Aoidé is enjoyable. He is sweet where the rest of tonight’s crowd is sour; refreshing where they are dry and judgemental. Well, it makes sense he is not like them. Even with his perfectly starched dress-shirt, it’s obvious he has little. And Rochalízo is not just saying this because of the man’s profession or the cigarettes, the biggest clues lie in his behaviour.
Aoidé brushes some loose hair out of his face. Long, overgrown, pitch black hair devoid of any kind of powder or product. It spills down his back just as it is, somewhat frizzy and wild despite it being pin straight. It reminds Rochalízo of how he’s seen nymphs depicted in paintings. Naked maidens clad in nothing but their hair, emerging from a river or sitting by a forest creek completely undisturbed in their beauty and freedom. Now, Aoidé is neither unclothed or a maiden, but there is something undeniably wild in his appearance. He stands leaned against the railing, carefree and beautiful, in a way Rochalízo wishes he could be. Bitter tasting jealously curls at the back of his throat, but there is something else too, something aching to longing.
“And I succeeded in entertaining you at last.” Aoidé sings and puts out the last remaining bit of cigarette on the back of his hand.
Rochalízo frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You laughed just now.” He explains. “You seemed gloomy before. At first, I thought you might just be a spacey man, but now that we’re talking you seem very,“ he makes a vague circling motion in front of Rochalízo’s face, “here.”
“Oh,” Rochalízo breathes. He feels suddenly embarrassed that his low mood seems to have been this obvious even to people who didn’t know him. He thought himself to be decent at hiding his true feelings up until now; at least people rarely pointed it out to him. Maybe Aoidé is just very bold. That, or incredibly observant. Most likely both.
“In any way,” the musician interrupts Rochalízo’s thoughts. “You seem to be in a far better mood now.” He smiles triumphantly. “So I must have done my duty as an entertainer well.”
The young Marquis hums. “Indeed. I’ll talk my father into raising your payment for tonight.” He half jokes, half sighs.
“That wasn’t my objective, but I do appreciate it. I’d like a new coat, winter isn’t far.”
He was joking before, but Rochalízo decides that he might actually do something about raising the musician’s payment now. Aoidé is a skinny guy, he could surely use the additional layer of protection from the elements.
“Why did you make it your mission to cheer me up then?” Rochalízo asks while looking at the tip of his boots. They are dirty, he’s lucky Deiktis hadn’t seen the state of them. “You are here to play music to the guests, not cheer up the Duke’s sulking son.”
“ Sulking son, huh?” Aoidé chuckles. “Well, you bumped into me and made me drop my violin.” He says and watches with amusement as Rochalízo turns a dark shade of pink. “No, but aside from that,” Aoidé starts more seriously this time, “you intrigued me in a way, Sir.” He folds his arms on top of the railing and rests his head on them. It makes him move a little bit closer to the other man.
“Intrigued?” The young Marquis asks.
“Well, yes, you don't often see young men like you standing sullenly at the edge of the dance floor.”
Rochalízo winches. “You’re beginning to sound like my brother.”
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to sound like I’m criticising you.” And Aoidé seems genuine as he says it, eyes soft and eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s alright…”
Aoidé hums. They stay silent for a while, only the sound of sandy waves crashing against sharp rocks down below hanging between them. “I was just wondering why a perfectly handsome young man would stand around all alone, that’s all.” Aoidé says after a peaceful moment, his voice deeper and more velvety sounding in a way Rochalizo must definitely have imagined.
He doesn’t mean to physically stumble as a reaction. It’s one thing for his mind to stutter, but to expose himself like this, it makes him want to haul himself over the balcony railing.
“Now don’t go flying away! Please, my Lord!” Aoidé exclaims and grabs Rochalízo’s sleeve to steady him. “Why so shocked?”
Rochalizo runs a hand over his face, like wiping away the embarrassment. “I merely slipped, that’s all.”
Aoidé looks at him skeptically, but then he smiles. “Perhaps the reason the young Lord wasn’t dancing earlier is because he has two left feet?” He suggests cheekily.
Rochalízo laughs self-deprecatingly. “I am indeed not the finest dancer,” he lies. His dancing was alright, actually. However, he never did enjoy doing so in front of people, it always made his stomach tie itself up in knots.
Aoidé chuckles. “You can’t be any worse than me, my Lord.”
“Hm? Not a dancer? I thought as a musician you would know how to sway to music,” Rochalizo teases.
The other nods his head from side to side. “Sway I can, but not dance. You see, not everyone enjoys lessons teaching them the ways of courtly dance.”
That makes Rochalízo halt. “Right…” He had forgotten that dancing lessons aren’t something everyone could enjoy. Perhaps because he always finds them so dreadful.
Aoidé glances at him through the thick curtain that is his black hair. Like this he bears resemblance to a cat with his large emerald eyes. “So, how does one do it?”
“Do what?”
“Dance!”
“Ah.” What a difficult question to answer. Rochalízo chews at his bottom lip while in thought. “I suppose they always start with teaching you the simple waltz?” He says uncertainly.
“Ah! I do know what a waltz is!” Aoidé nods along. “Some gentleman at a bar tried to explain it to me once. He told me I must simply imagine stepping around a soap box, like so:” Aoidé starts moving in an oblong shape, and while strangely graceful, it’s entirely wrong.
“Not quite how you would do it.” Rochalízo says kindly, despite the amused smirk he wears.
Aoidé only smiles, not paying mind to Rochalízo’s passive mockery. He knows he’s a bad dancer. “Well,” he smooths some loose strands of hair behind his ear. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done then?”
Rochalízo looks at Aoidé’s extended hand and shuffles. “That’s a bit silly…” he trails off.
“Nonsense!” Aoidé tries to encourage, but seeing at Rochalízo still doesn’t seem convinced he tries another way. “I would love to learn. I’ll consider this my additional payment, no need for his excellency to spend any more money.”
The young Marquis doesn’t know why he takes his hand, but once he does it feels warm and not silly at all. Yet, when Aoidé places hand on his shoulder, he visibly tenses.
“There is none here but us.” Aoidé hums reassuringly and it makes the ice in Rochalízo’s joints melt.
“…Just follow my lead.” He says quietly, and the pair sets in motion.
It takes a few rounds of clumsy swaying around —and about a dozen apologies from Aoidé for stepping on Rochalízo’s feet— before they fall into a smooth and proper rhythm. However, once they do, awkward laughs are replaced with genuine ones.
They turn in circles on the tiny balcony until their noses are reddened from the cold and the movement has them out of breath. It’s Aoidé that stops the dance, huffing and puffing from the exertion. Clearly, he isn’t quite used to it.
“That was—“ the musician is interrupted by his own panting “ —a lot more taxing than I thought it would be. You people always make it look like effortless floating.”
“Oh, it isn’t!” Rochalízo confirms, also catching his breath.
They both laugh and then fall silent. Aoidé smiles sweetly and sniffs, his nose runny. The cold seems to be getting to him. Rochalízo can feel the slight ache of his cheeks too, but unlike Aoidé there is no small tremor running through his shoulders. He would suggest going back inside and warming up, but Aoidé’s hand is still resting on his shoulders —cold and frozen through, yet oh, so soft— and it keeps him glued to the spot. It’s unclear who leaned in first —perhaps both did at the same time?— but suddenly Aoidé's hot breath mixes with his own as they crash their lips together. For some reason, Rochalízo finds himself leaning in, chasing that warmth and the slight taste of cigarettes. His hand tangles in the musician’s hair as Rochalízo attempts to circle his back. Aoidé might be taller than him, but he is significantly skinnier, so he maps out the small of his back with ease. Shoulder blades and spine feel soft under his touch despite being sharp and pronounced, and when Aoidé starts to run his hands through Rochalízo’s own hair, he lets him.
Unfortunately, good things can’t last forever, so, just as Rochalízo is about to close his eyes and forget about everything wrong in the world, awareness strikes him brutally over the head.
Something aching to an electric shock runs through his body and he quickly parts from their kiss. The warmth leaves with Aoidé’s lips and Rochalízo curses the little part of him that mourns the loss of contact. Aoidé pulls away, looking puzzled at first, but with every additional moment they spend in silence that confused expression morphs into something Rochalízo knows all too well: fear. It stirs something within the Marquis.
“I— I’m not—“ Rochalízo stutters, but he doesn’t even have to finish the sentence and Aoidé is already moving past him.
“Please accept my sincerest apologies. I will take my leave,” the musician says quickly. He doesn’t even look at the other as he says it. It hurts and Rochalízo hates that it does. He hates how he doesn’t actually want to be alone, he hates how this stranger has somehow made him feel something which should have stayed buried, and most of all he hates how he doesn’t want to let it go. His heart speaks before his brain can and before he knows it, he is right next to Aoidé and reaching for his arm.
“Wait!”
Aoidé stops in his tracks and turns around. Rochalízo is relieved to see that most of the fear in his eyes is gone. Not like he can blame him for it. While being like Aoidé isn’t punishable by death anymore, it certainly isn’t normal. Though, he wouldn’t be worried about that, would he? There is no name for him to ruin, he barely has one. Maybe the fear in his eyes really had been because of something else. After all, the musician hadn’t actually told him where he was from. Maybe he’d be forced to hang in the place where they speak sharply and laugh loudly just like he does. How someone could be this utterly foolish and kiss another man if such is the case is beyond the young Marquis. One day, it would be the death of Aoidé the violinist. Rochalízo’s throat closes at that. What does he say? What does he do? How could he possibly know when he can’t even put into words what his heart has been screaming at him for far too long? He had always ignored it. The way he never felt drawn in by any of the amonlogian girls he talked to. How he’d feel uneasy at the thought of kissing any of them. How long he stared at the white marble statues lining the edges of the castle garden, depicting strong, muscled heroes from stories he never even bothered to read.
“What?” Aoidé asks, his green eyes almost piercing through him with how intense his stare is.
“I—“ Rochalízo breaks off again. Instead he just clutches the fabric of Aoidé’s sleeve tighter.
“What do you want to tell me, Sir?” Aoidé asks. Calmly or coldly, Rochalizo can’t quite tell.
He bites his lip so hard he draws blood. “I don’t know.” It finally breaks out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets go of the other’s sleeve. “I don’t know what I want.”
Silence. Long and heavy. Rochalízo doesn’t dare to look up during the entirety of it, scared of what he might see, scared of what he might say. Turns out that he doesn’t have to say anything because suddenly, Aoidé’s warm voice fills the air.
“I understand.”
Rochalízo looks up abruptly at those words. Aoidé only smiles back. He understands.
The musician takes a step forward and reaches for the other’s hand. Rochalízo lets him. His hands are cold, just like ice, and it makes Rochalízo wonder if he has any feeling left in them. The thing he places on the middle of his palm is just as cold, but much lighter in weight. It’s the grubby little box of cigarettes from before. He stares at the pitiful thing, yet he holds it gently like something precious.
“This isn’t the place to smoke more than one cigarette,“ Aoidé starts. “I should like to smoke more of it in a place more befitting, like a pub along the port,” he muses. Not for one second does he take his eyes off of Rochalízo, but he does turn his head to the side when he speaks his next sentence. “Unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten my pack of cigarettes on a railing somewhere in a castle. It would be very kind if some young man returned it to me before I leave port in two days.” He licks his lips. “Maybe we could share a smoke and talk. That young man might appreciate it.”
It’s not hard to understand what Aoidé wants. Though his way of suggesting seeing each other again is odd —Why not say it directly? Why speak like he is narrating a possible ‘what if’?— Rochalízo takes comfort in it. It leaves him with a certain amount of deniability. If he were to pretend to misunderstand Aoidé’s words and abandon the cigarette box on the railing, then all this might as well never have happened. No smoking, no conversation, no kiss. No proof that he was ever anything other than a respectable gentleman.
At least to everyone else. He would know that damned red box was there, he would know what it means. He would know and always remember how cold cigarette smoke tastes on another man’s lips, but it would remain a secret. A secret he had been carrying for far too long by now, one he would carry all his life no matter how much he himself wants it to not be true.
If, however, he chooses to follow Aoidé’s invitation, he has to face a fact, face himself. Everyone knows Rochalízo has always been good at running. Especially from himself. Though, when he looks at Aoidé, his firm but kind stare, it almost feels like finally someone believes in him. Like he isn’t being looked at with disappointment or pity. Like for once he hadn’t done something wrong, or if he did then he’d be allowed the opportunity to fix it. He isn’t strong enough to deny how good it feels.
Aoidé hums at his silence. He tucks his hands into his pockets —cold hands, cold as ice— and looks up at the starry sky.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to see the stars in a city as bright and loud as Amonlogia.” He shrugs and looks back at Rochalízo. “The world is full of surprises. They shine almost as brightly as they used to when I was a child.” One last smile from the violinist and he is walking away. With him leaves warmth and longing stays in its stead. “I enjoyed your company, my Lord.” It’s the last thing he says before he completely disappears. Back into the bustling ballroom. Back into the raging waters of high society. Rochalízo stays behind with a pack of cigarettes and the feeling of regret in his heart. For what he doesn’t quite know. The stars tonight really are bright, he remembers the light reflecting in Aoidé’s eyes as he leaned in. He slips one of the thin cigarettes from the package. Unsurprisingly, it lays lightly in his hand. He doesn’t know why he lights the little roll, after all he is not a smoker, but he inhales deeply once he brings it to his mouth. The hot smoke filling his lungs tastes just like Aoidé.
It’s much later in the night when he finally decides to re-enter the ballroom. His frozen through fingers start to slowly thaw from the warm, oxygen-poor air and Rochalízo can’t help but sigh in relief. He somehow managed to re-join the festivities just at the end of another dance. The music slows and he watches couples part and the dance floor slowly emptying. He goes to stand in the spot where he had abandoned Deiktis earlier. There is no trace of said man, but Rochalízo isn’t all too surprised about that, as brother is one to grow bored quickly. One wouldn’t typically find him playing live decoration if it wasn’t to appear handsome and mysterious for some lady we were planning to woo later. In fact, it seems like he had chosen the exact opposite approach tonight, as Rochalízo spots him bowing to a young woman, thanking her for their shared dance. She doesn’t blush and giggle as Rochalízo would have expected her to, no, she only smiles warmly, gratitude shining in her eyes as she mouths a quiet ‘thank you’ towards his brother. It’s only then that Rochalízo realises that this isn’t just any girl. Traces of the tears she had shed earlier are still visible where they carved a path for themselves through rouge and face powder. He hadn’t expected Deiktis to actually go dance with her. He is known for many things, but not for picking wallflowers. He can’t quite tell what his brother responds, but it causes the girl to smile and look to the ground. They part shortly after, following suit with the other couples. Deiktis doesn’t spot him immediately, his eyes trailing the floor in an uncharacteristic way, but once he does his eyes widen just a fraction.
“I didn’t think you would actually dance with her.” Says Rochalízo once Deiktis is in earshot. It really is strange, he wouldn’t really call Deiktis petty.
“Oh? Ah, yes…” He trails off and snatches a champagne flute from the table near them. The same table Rochalízo had disregarded his own glass on earlier, but that one is gone, cleared away by some diligent servant. “I did ask her for one dance. She looked like she appreciated it, no?” His brother hums against the rim of his glass.
“Yes, I believe so.” She really did seem grateful. “I just didn’t think you would actually ask her. She doesn’t really seem like the type of girl you usually go for.”
Deiktis smirks. “Has a type ever held me back?”
“That’s…surprisingly self ironic.”
“I have my moments.” He shrugs. “No, really, I’m just repeating what Paramesos tells me.”
“Ah.” That makes more sense, Rochalízo supposes.
“Not like he is entirely wrong. I mean, how could I resist the many beauties this world has to offer. Life is too short to settle on just one ‘type’ of woman.” And that is Deiktis as Rochalízo knows him: a ladies’ man through and through. Yet, it seems as if something more serious reflects in his brother’s eyes.
“You seem…weird,” Rochalízo points out. He doesn’t know where the sudden surge of boldness came from, but maybe tonight is the night of unusual things.
“What?” Deiktis asks dumbly. “What do you mean?”
“It could just be me, but it seems like you’re actually using your brain for once. Are you thinking about something specific?”
Deiktis looks at him strangely then, like he is waiting for something more to come from his brother’s mouth. After a few more seconds of silence, his eyebrows shoot up to form a surprised expression.
“Oh, you’re not joking?”
“Why would I be joking? And about what?” Rochalízo is beginning to feel irritated. He is beginning to wonder if Deiktis and him are able to hold a conversation without him being belittled in the process, but when he looks at his brother he sees a genuine expression, not a mean one and it makes him halt.
Deiktis hums at Rochalízo’s reaction. “You really don’t know.”
“Spirits, just tell me what this is about and stop speaking in riddles. It doesn’t suit you and it’s beginning to unsettle me.”
Deiktis raises his free hand in surrender. “Alright.” He takes another sip from his glass before he starts to explain. “I’d forgotten you aren’t well versed in gossip and drama, so let me enlighten you: she was involved in quite the scandal a while ago.”
“Oh.”
“She got caught being a married man’s lover, allegedly even expecting his child. This is her first time back in society after everything, her father shipped her off somewhere more rural until most of the commotion surrounding the incident died off.”
Rochalízo bites his lip. This kind of story isn’t as rare as one might think, everyone just pretends it is. Gasping and shaking their heads when another young woman loses her high name to some badly thought through acquaintance with a man. Sometimes, Rochalízo has to admit that he joins the other nobles in their judgement. After all, how could someone be this careless when doing something forbidden? Better yet, why do it at all, it saves a lot of people pain in the end. No matter the instant gnawing in your heart that something is missing. The cigarette box feels heavy in his breast pocket.
“Looks like that didn’t work,” Rochalízo mutters, referring to her earlier solitude.
“Not as well as it could have, no.” Deiktis agrees. “Though, it could have been worse, too. Maybe she’ll find a willing gentleman to marry her and help wash away the rest of the scandal. Perhaps a kind natured widower.”
“Perhaps.” Rochalízo repeats. He sniffs and looks to where the young woman had disappeared into the crowd. “And what of the child?”
“Hm?” Deiktis asks, then he shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, it might have only been a rumour, I don’t really know.”
“Didn’t you two talk while dancing?”
“We did, just not about the scandal. I didn’t ask her.”
“And you told me I was acting strange tonight. Look at you: foregoing gossip.”
“I don’t see why I should keep flogging a dead horse. There would be no excitement in that.”
Rochalízo doesn’t respond to that anymore. He turns to look at his brother, properly look at him, not the side glance he’d been giving him until now. There is nothing strange about his face, unlike what the young Marquis had expected. There is no reason for Deiktis not to look down upon this woman like everyone else probably is. So why doesn’t he? Why does he seem almost kind when talking about her situation? Is it perhaps that he feels guilty about him possibly having put a woman in a similar situation in the past —it wouldn't be a surprise with how many he has probably slept with. Though the man doesn’t seem remorseful either, he looks infuriatingly neutral. What is this strange kind of bravery that his brother possesses?
“You know, I was surprised you didn’t know about this. I assumed your refusal to dance with her earlier was because of it.”
“Huh?” Rochalízo sounds far more shocked than he would have liked to be. “I— no. No, that wasn’t the reason.”
“As I know now.”
“Father won’t be pleased when he finds out.” That gets a reaction out of the older; a sharp intake of breath that ends in a bored sounding sigh.
“I have to live up to my name, dear brother,” he says.
It’s astonishing how little Deiktis could care sometimes. Rochalízo, for one, couldn’t get away with the same thing. Granted, their father thought of Deiktis as less of an overall disappointment than Rochalízo, but even the times the older did get chewed out, his recovery from it had always been swift. Rochalízo just struggles to wrap his head around it. Paramesos would say that it’s his stupidity that blesses him with ignorance, and while Rochalízo doesn’t doubt that Deikti's obliviousness certainly helps, he firmly believes it to be his brother’s confidence that seems to make him so indestructible.
“Aren’t you worried at all for your own name?” The question breaks out before he is able to stop himself, fuelled by jealousy but also the foolish desire to hope for something.
Deiktis looks at him strangely and huffs. “What did you do out there? Meditate? You’ve suddenly become awfully chatty.”
Rochalízo bites his tongue, he’s threading dangerous waters far too comfortably. He waits for mockery or some kind of mean comment while staring at the tip of his —still dirty— boots. It doesn’t come. Instead, Deiktis is strangely quiet before he finally says: “My name can take one dance.” It’s only a few simple words, but they lie heavily between them. It’s also about the most sincere thing he’s heard Deiktis say all night, or perhaps ever, and he doesn’t quite know how to react. “I can’t deny that I too like to talk —you were right earlier,” the older one confesses, “but after a certain point I fail to see the gain. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart, don’t you think?”
’You’re only saying this because you enjoy sleeping around.’ Is something Rochalízo could answer, but he doesn’t. Because, truly, it’s not about winning this argument. It also isn’t about himself or Aoidé, nor the little red packet of cigarettes resting against his heart. So instead he says: “I suppose you’ve always been a romantic.”
Deiktis smiles triumphantly, then sighs dramatically. “Perhaps, the reason why people keep caring about scandals such as these is because there is something inherently poetic about tribulation. I myself certainly understand the fascination. ” He pauses, brows furrowing slightly as he reflects on what he just said. “Well, I mean— ” he backtracks, “I don’t mean to say that I wish it on anyone just for the sake of my entertainment, but there isn’t any way to fully prevent heartbreak, is there? People will cheat, fuck or kiss as they please anyways —desire is a hard thing to control after all. If the pair is unlucky and their love is uncovered to the public, well, they must be prepared for scrutiny and eventually heartbreak should they choose to separate from each other.”
Rochalízo doesn’t cut in to say that most of the time the decision to separate isn’t a choice, but a necessity. In this world of powder and lace, keeping the honour and dignity to your name is what keeps one safe. He could say this, but he doesn’t. Seeing Deiktis monologue like this is far too interesting…and strangely enchanting? At least, he feels himself following along with genuine interest.
His brother continues: “Yet, let’s say desire is something the pair can control, thus they forgo any sort of intimacy. The heartbreak happens regardless! Knowing that just one touch from a person could break you is a painful thing to live with. They would be forced to separate before ever getting together.”
“So what you’re saying is that there is no way of winning this game of love?”
“I suppose that depends what one defines as ‘loosing.’”
Rochalízo averts his eyes, suddenly he cannot bear to look at Deiktis anymore.
“When did you become so wise?”
“I’m not wise.” His brother says simply. Unbothered, casual, truthful. “I just observe and tell you what I see.”
Rochalízo bites his lip. The air in here had become entirely too hot again. The heat breaks through the wonderfully cool sensation that had clung to him from outside, slides down his back, wraps around his lungs, chokes him like shame. Are all of these things that Deiktis can see as well? Does he see the trembling of his shoulders anytime father speaks? Does he see the longing way he looks at the sea every noon during class? Does Deiktis see how his brother hesitates every time they ask him to define this thing they call ‘romance’? And if he does, why doesn’t he care?
“And what would you do? In what way could one ‘win’ in this situation?”
Deiktis hesitates for a few seconds before answering his brother’s question. “I think I would have rather lived the passion, even if there is an unfortunate end to it.” The older one looks down at him, smirking. “And I do! I live the passion! I know what kind of game I am playing, but even if one day it causes uproar I wouldn’t be ashamed. What do I gain from shame?”
Nothing, isn’t that the point? —Rochalízo thinks angrily. One is not meant to gain anything from shame. Shame is there to torture, to make sure you’ve learned your lesson and fix your addled mind. What does Deiktis know anyway? Even if caught in a scandal he would be the first one to recover. Never in his life had he ever been the vulnerable party in anything. No wonder he’s a careless man when he never had to take a risk before. One takes no risks when loving right. Shame will never be his teacher and Deiktis never its pupil.
“You disagree.” Deiktis states —yes, states, not a question, not an assumption, a statement— and it makes Rochalízo want to take the cigarette box and hit his brother in the head with it. He doesn’t, of course. He never could’ve. Instead, he walks away from him for the second time tonight. Again, he hears him shout something after him and again Rochalizo doesn’t care. The scene is familiar, except this time he doesn’t bump into anyone. This time, he cannot flee to a balcony no matter how much he wants to. He knows the smoke would taste just as sickeningly sweet.