Chapter Text
The door to Osora’s room burst open.
“Osora!” Vargas’s voice cracked through the quiet like a whip. “This is insanity!”
Osora froze mid-sentence, pencil hovering above parchment. Arias, leaning against the window ledge, went still — eyes flicking toward the door before settling back on the floor.
“Uncle?” Osora said, wary.
“Unbelievable.” Vargas stormed forward, his cloak flaring behind him. His finger stabbed the air toward Arias, eyeing the gold that adorned his neck. “You gave him the Golden Collar?! A military orphan?!”
Arias straightened automatically, shoulders squared, jaw set. He didn’t look away, didn’t move. Don’t talk back. Just take it.
“Yes,” Osora said, standing slowly, voice steady. “I did.”
Vargas’s expression twisted. “Do you even comprehend what that represents? That boy doesn’t know which fork is which! He slouches like a dockhand! You’ve given the royal insignia to a child who—”
“—who is loyal to me,” Osora cut in, eyes flashing.
That made Vargas falter, only for a heartbeat. “Be that as it may, you can’t hand out royal symbols like party favors! You’ll make the crown look ridiculous!”
Arias’s lips twitched. He’s not wrong about the fork thing, though.
Before Osora could speak again, another voice broke the tension — calm, but heavy as iron.
“Vargas.”
King Antonio stood in the doorway.
“I suggest you lower your voice in my son’s chambers.”
Vargas turned, face flushed with fury but posture snapping rigid again. “He doesn’t belong here,” he hissed. “You’re giving him the symbol of the Crown. He has no refinement—he hasn’t earned it like every other official guard, and he has no bloodline!”
Arias’s jaw flexed. “Like I can control that,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.
The silence that followed hit harder than any shout.
Vargas’s gaze whipped toward him, sharp as a blade. “Watch your tongue, boy.”
Osora stepped forward before the words finished leaving his mouth. “You don’t speak to him like that.”
Vargas let out a sharp breath through his nose, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes; he knows how stubborn both Antonio and Osora can be. “Fine. Keep your pet soldier, then. But if you insist on parading him around with royal gold around his neck, he’d better at least act like he belongs.”
Osora narrowed their eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Vargas said, voice turning slick and measured now, “Etiquette. Manners. Posture. He’ll be a proper representative of this family — or he’ll embarrass every one of us.”
He adjusted his cuffs, tone smooth as glass. “And since you’re so determined to keep him near you, perhaps you’ll sit in on the lessons as well. To ensure he learns quickly.”
Osora’s jaw clenched. “That’s ridiculous, it’s a waste of time for me.”
“Oh, I don’t think it will be. You could use some practice with your manners too, Osora.” Vargas smiled thinly, turning toward the door. “I’ll have the instructor here by tomorrow morning.”
The door closed sharply behind him, leaving only silence.
Antonio sighed, “He’s right Osora. It would be good if Arias was taught how these kinds of formalities work.”
Antonio quickly excused himself from the room, leaving Osora and Arias alone again.
Osora exhaled, pinching the bridge of their nose. “He’s the worst.”
Arias let out a low breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “He’s not wrong about me not knowing which fork is which.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know,” Arias said softly. But it’s still true.
Osora looked at him, something tight in their chest. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just angry because he has a stick up his ass.”
Arias huffed out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Great. Etiquette lessons. My life’s officially a royal training montage.”
—––––––––
The first lesson was brutal.
Arias sat ramrod straight at a dining table that looked like a battlefield of silver. Forks on the left, knives on the right, spoons lined up like they’d been drafted.
“Forks. Left. Knives. Right. Cups above. You will not touch anything until instructed.”
The instructor — tall, stiff, and carrying a ruler like a sword — paced the length of the table.
Arias leaned an elbow on the armrest. Because apparently I need military precision to drink water, he thought sarcastically.
“Posture,” the instructor barked, snapping the ruler against the table.
Arias shot upright, shoulders tense. Fantastic. I’d rather be back doing drills in the mud.
The door opened with a soft creak.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
Osora stepped in like they owned the place — which, technically, they did. Red and gold clothes, lazy confidence, and that pissed off face that made the instructor hesitate mid-step.
“Your Highness,” the man stammered. “This lesson is for—”
“I know,” Osora said simply, sliding into the seat across from Arias. “I’m joining.”
“Here to supervise?” Arias murmured, trying not to sound too pleased.
“Here to make sure you don’t become posh,” Osora replied, smirking.
The instructor clapped sharply. “Enough chatter. Forks. Third course of the night. Begin.”
Osora lifted their fork, back straight, looking stiff as a board. Arias mimicked — badly — fork in the wrong hand.
I’ve never seen Osora look this princely in my life. Guess this is what royal training looks like. Poor bastard.
“Wrong side and wrong fork, dumbass,” Osora muttered without looking up.
“I don’t see the difference.”
“Neither do I,” they whispered back, “but if you don’t learn it, Vargas will personally chew you out.”
Arias switched hands, grinning. “Better?”
Osora’s eyes flicked up. “No. Your elbows are still on the table.”
“Where else are they supposed to go?”
“Down.”
He smirked. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Gods, I definitely would. He looks so cute when he’s mad.
Osora shot him a look that said they did not believe him, and Arias fought a laugh, biting the inside of his cheek.
The lesson dragged. Arias dropped his spoon once, then again, earning a sharp “Control!” from the instructor. Osora tried not to snicker — failed — and quickly hid their grin behind a napkin like a proper prince.
“Unbelievable,” the instructor muttered. “You’re eating soup, not wielding a weapon.”
Arias lifted the spoon again, deliberately slow. “Feels like one at this point.”
Osora sighed dramatically, head tipping into one hand. “He’s hopeless.”
“Hey, I’m improving,” Arias said, pointing with the spoon.
“Don’t point with utensils.” The instructor scolded.
He froze mid-gesture. “Right. Sorry, Master of Spoons.”
That earned him a laugh.
Their eyes met for a second too long — Osora’s faint amusement softening something almost… warm. Arias looked away first, heat crawling up his neck.
Stop staring, idiot. You’ll give yourself away.
The instructor cleared his throat. “Let’s review posture. Again.”
Arias groaned quietly. Osora’s smile lingered — small, private, and gone before the man looked up.
—––––––––
A week later, it got worse.
“Dancing,” Osora muttered, staring at the polished ballroom floor like it had personally offended them.
Arias blinked. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Osora’s voice was flat. “We’ve reached the ninth circle of hell.”
Their instructor — a sharp-eyed woman with posture so perfect it hurt to look at — clapped her hands once. “Formal rhythm and presentation. Posture. Etiquette. Positions. Feeling. Emotion. Beauty.”
Arias glanced around the empty ballroom. “Uh… there’s no one else here to dance with.”
Oh god, I don’t have to dance with her do I?! Arias thought, horrified.
“Then you’ll dance together,” she said briskly, adjusting her spectacles.
Osora froze mid-step. “Wait—what?”
“You’ll lead,” she said to Arias, then turned to Osora. “Your Highness, you’ll follow.”
Arias hesitated. “I can take the follow if that makes it less—”
“No.” Osora’s reply was immediate, sharp. “You have to learn the male role. Let’s just—get it over with.”
Their tone was all clipped efficiency, but their hands fidgeted. Arias noticed. He always noticed.
He stepped closer. Osora’s hand came to rest on his shoulder — light, cool, careful. Their other hand slid into his. Arias put his second hand on their waist. The touch sent a bolt of warmth through him so sudden it made him forget how to breathe.
Focus. It’s just a dance. Just a stupid dance.
“One, two, three… one, two, three,” the instructor counted.
Arias stepped wrong. Their feet tangled. Osora stumbled forward, catching themselves against his chest.
“Sorry,” Arias blurted, hands instinctively gripping their waist. Gods, why do they feel warm?
Osora looked up, cheeks faintly pink. “Just—watch your footing.”
“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
They reset. This time Arias was careful — too careful. His steps measured, deliberate, almost military. Slowly, the rhythm started to make sense.
“You’re not bad,” he said after a beat.
“I’ve been doing this since I could walk,” Osora said, then winced. “Ow—! Stop stepping on me!”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder, moron.”
He bit back a grin. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Their eyes flicked up — glare sharp, but mouth twitching.
You’re enjoying this, Arias thought, biting down the smile rising on his lips. And so am I.
The instructor’s voice drifted somewhere in the background, drowned out by the soft scuff of shoes.
Arias looked down at them. Osora’s lashes lowered as they concentrated on the steps, their expression focused — but their hand tightened minutely in his.
They don’t know. They can’t know. If anyone found out… Why do I feel this way? Osora is a boy. What is wrong with me?
“Closer, Mr. Arguitrez,” the instructor called. “The prince doesn’t bite. Formal hold. Precision.”
Arias swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to argue that Osora biting him was a very real possibility, but he thought better of it.
He stepped in, closing the space between them until he could feel the faint warmth of Osora’s breath. Their movements stuttered for half a second.
“One, two, three—” the instructor continued, pacing around them like a hawk.
Osora’s voice was quieter now, almost under their breath. “You still think this is a waste of time?”
“Maybe,” Arias said softly. “Doesn’t feel like it right now, though.”
“Well, I think it’s a waste of time.”
“Liar.”
Their gaze darted up — just for a second — before looking somewhere near his collar, anywhere but his eyes. “Shut up and move.”
He did.
And gods, he could’ve done it forever.
–––-----------------------
Later, when the lesson ended and they stood apart again, Arias couldn’t shake the ghost of their touch — the press of fingers, the rhythm they’d fallen into like it was theirs alone.
I shouldn’t want this. The kingdom forbids people like me from wanting people like him.
But the warmth in his chest didn’t fade.
And Osora… Osora was completely unaware. Oblivious.
At least, for now. I have to hide it.