Chapter Text
Bout: a contest in its entirety between two fencers.
January 20
Rainy days always left a weight on my chest, but if Charles hadn't dragged me to fencing class, maybe I'd find a way to feel better.
"Are you listening? Edgar?"
"...Yes."
"Then go ahead and find a partner before you end up alone again."
Edgar sighed. A sword in his hand, thin yet heavy, glistened under the muddy morning sky.
Raise your arm. Keep the posture, control your breathing, and successfully rattle the air with the swing of your sword. What it takes to live up to the 'noble child' name, supposedly. I see no veritable purpose.
Regardless, being left by myself would be the most likely outcome, because, truth is, I am no proper swordsman. Of course not. My mind always wanders off in the middle of it, to the warm mellow sunrise, gray clouds, to the feeling of a heavy rapier in my hand. Things that are somehow enthralling in their simplicity.
What I am capable of, I know, is observing. Transcripting vision into art.
Charles cannot seem to understand, neither does my father.
Any duel ends up with my opponent prevailing, whoever that could be. I seek out those like myself, among the dozen men on this field who aren't willing to be there. Bored and lost and exhausted.
I don't believe I am going to forget today, because despite my search I only managed to notice my polar opposite. Or, rather, he noticed me.
"Would you allow me to join?" The stranger reached out his hand.
That young fellow fencer, dark hair in a ponytail unkempt and dishevelled.
"Luca Balsa." He said. "And you?"
Edgar sighed, feeling his eyelids drifting shut. "And I'd rather be left alone."
The man's stretched out hand calmly returned to his side. "...I apologize."
I found it amusing how quickly his face lost its color.
Edgar looked around briefly: everyone was in pairs, and the glare of their teacher was drilling holes in his skull. Between getting scolded and dealing with people he didn't know Edgar would usually pick the former. Usually.
"Listen, I'll settle for one match. Just to get it over with." He said, turning back to his new acquaintance. "Be quick."
"...Very well, then. Whenever you're ready." The man smiled, unbothered by Edgar's difficulty.
And at the sight of that smile something in my chest shifted, like a gale that changed its course. He was rather nice to me. His eyes, I noticed, outshone nature's timid green. I somehow failed to pay attention before, but his eyes were truly beautiful.
"En garde!"
With a few strokes evaded, Edgar ultimately lost to his new opponent with a blade's rounded tip plunged against his shirt.
"Touché." Edgar said.
The stranger bowed. At least he wasn't much of a disrespectful showoff.
A loss, a five second embarrassment – nothing new, and he was too good with his sword, so I had no other expectations. It didn't matter in the end.
"Revanche?" He asked.
Still, I struggled to keep my face neutral .
"It's break time." Edgar shrugged. "And we agreed on a single match."
The stranger nodded, but kept his eyes on Edgar's face. As if neither could manage to break eye contact, and it was a weird feeling. To be studied so intently, that is. Edgar did not understand.
Why me?
Out of everyone he picked me. Was it pity, did I look that miserable? I was simply tired. What makes you choose the weakest duelist, one with no persistence at all? It did feel as if I was in the middle of a sick joke.
But it seems he didn't mean anything like that. At all.
I admit there was something about that man, too. Maybe it's his curiosity in me that peaked my own within him.
Maybe he was simply enthralling.
Edgar chose a little solitary corner for himself by the roots of a large oak tree. Its branches were broad enough to shield against the midday sun's swelter, now freed from the morning's gray embrace. Some spots of yellow light still sought their way through the leaves. Something Edgar found himself admiring endlessly.
It wasn't so private for long, though.
He measured a good few feet between us before he leaned against the tree on the opposite side. And yet it felt as if we sat shoulder to shoulder.
The short silence was awkward. But comfortable, I felt. Can it be both?
"You look exhausted." The man spoke suddenly.
Edgar sighed, arms wrapped around his knees. "Why do you care?"
His peripheral caught a brief shrug.
"I am." Edgar confirmed. "Does it look like I want to be here? There's nothing more dull than fencing."
"There's… knitting. And embroidery."
Edgar blinked. "It's calming, at least."
"Right. Puts you straight to sleep."
Nobody else seemed to care enough to speak to me, granted I didn't get as little as a look in my direction.
And I could understand that.
But this kind of curiosity, or obstinacy, was beyond my comprehension.
It wasn't a bad thing, exactly. It's interesting.
"So you seem to be fond of this." Edgar said after a moment of silence.
"Me?" The man sounded surprised. As if there was anyone else around. "Do I look like I'm having fun?"
"You're good at it."
"I've had my fair share of swinging sticks around a long while ago. Had enough of it."
"Why are you here, then?"
"Same reason as you, I'd guess. I have to be." He rested against the trunk. "But it's not too bad, is it? There's fresh air. New people. Something I don't get while holed up in my workshop. Y'know?"
Edgar's head perked up the words. It's the tiniest crumb, but a hint nonetheless. Workshop. Was he a mechanic? Or an artist, like himself?
"I'd rather work than waste time."
"What do you do, if I may pry?
Edgar felt his heart start to flutter against his ribs. He blamed it on the heat wave. " Figure it out."
"...Shall I figure out your name as well?" Smiling, the man leaned over and their eyes finally met.
Something to have fun with.
"You can try."
"One more match. Would you grant me that?"
Edgar scoffed.
Allez: A command to commence action between fencers.
They picked up their needle swords.
With an impressive amount of speed the man evaded each and every strike Edgar attempted to land. Worse, his mind only focused on something entirely else in the middle of it.
"Law?"
"No."
"Right. Philosophy, maybe?"
"Next one." Edgar plunged forward and missed.
"Medicine?"
"Again."
"Do you… paint then? Some sort of art?"
Oh. Already.
"Wait." Edgar stopped, so did his opponent. "What makes you think that?"
The man hesitated. "Your hands." He looked down at Edgar's arm. "I noticed, um. I think, such delicate hands belong to people of art. Usually. It's a hypothesis."
Delicate.
Delicate.
He said my hands are delicate.
Edgar stared at his partner's own hands. Maybe it was a fitting word for him as well. Apart from the few black ink smudges on the sides of his palms.
"Then you must be an artist too. Or a writer."
"Hm." He stared at his hands with the look of someone who'd just discovered he had them. Bit of a humorous sight, Edgar thought. "Well, not really. I mean, I do write. For what I do. And as a hobby."
"Not a dancer, then. I thought you would be."
A smile slowly spread on the fencer's face. "Is that… You know, I think I'll take it as a compliment."
"Take it however you want."
He definitely did. Edgar smirked at the peachy blush on his cheeks.
"No, I'm an inventor. Herrman Balsa's son… You may know that name."
"Never heard it." Side-eyeing their referee, Edgar raised his rapier yet again. "You're only some rich kid as it turns out."
"So now you're trying to offend me, instead?" He smiled.
"No. Take this as a compliment as well. And this." Edgar poked his opponent's shirt with the tip of his sword. "Hit. You let your guard down. We're being watched, so let's get back to it."
"Ouch." He jokingly pressed a palm against his chest as if he was struck with a real blade in a real match. "Between the ribs, huh?"
"I do aim to kill."
"Remind me to never lose to you."
"Because that is possible, of course."
"There were a few close calls." He countered. "You're very distracting. Even if you're not trying to be."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Before Edgar could be given an elaboration, if there was going to be one, their teacher gestured to stop messing around.
I don't remember how many matches we ended up having. I can only recall the slight pain from the pricks, as the bruises remind me of my losses this evening.
He stopped me from leaving that day, suddenly. Suspicious shine in his eyes, yet all my attention was completely at his disposal.
Had a proposition, he'd said.
"You're stuck here, I'm stuck here." The man shrugged. "Why not make it a better pastime for the both of us?"
Glare piercing yet warm.
"How?"
"Whoever loses the next match has to fulfill the winner's wish." He grinned.
It felt weird. Wrong, even, as I knew my opponent was aware of my fencing skills. Hand only stable when holding a brush, nothing else.
"That seems a little one-sided." Edgar's brows furrowed.
"Is there nothing you'd like to wish for me to do?"
"I'm saying it's unfair. You're going to win."
"I won't. Well. Not every time, that is."
The brief silent moment they looked each other in the eye with Edgar considering, he couldn't help but notice how nicely light reflected off his partner's hair.
No, Luca's hair.
Afraid to think of his name until that moment, afraid he'd get attached only to never see him again.
But this deal would settle it, right? They'd have to meet tomorrow, and the day after that.
My own wish. I can't think of anything other than capturing him on a canvas.
Fluid, collected, surely with a great deal of confidence in both his charms and rapier. A perfect model.
I retrieved my fleeting muse.
"Fine."
"...You agree?"
"I do. Because you simply have to lose to me at some point."
"I like that approach." Luca smiled. "Last one for today, then? On three." He raised his arm, ready.
One, his delicate figure.
Two, a pair of emerald eyes.
Three, tender, kind smile. All belong on my canvas.
…Three. Edgar's hand barely moved when he felt something sharp jab at his shoulder. Lost, already.
"...Touché." He muttered. "See? I told you I don't stand a chance."
"Revanche?"
"No. No, it's a fair win." Edgar stood bewildered. "Just… go on already with whatever you wanted from me."
I didn't mean to make myself sound so docile, almost eager to lose. What else could I do, put up defense and say I was distracted? By what, exactly? Nothing before me but him.
I admit I was afraid to hear it, to find out what kind of wish was on this man's mind.
"Your name."
"Excuse me?"
"I wish, as the victor, for you to tell me your name."
Unless Edgar was imagining things, there was something shy about the way Luca rubbed at his neck. And it seemed, maybe, Edgar had imagined a lot. What else would Luca ask for but a name Edgar denied him earlier?
"Valden. Edgar Valden." He awkwardly reached his hand out. Luca's own hand, rather cold, gripped firmly as if it was his sword's handle.
"It's a pleasure, Valden."
"Likewise…Balsa."
"Will I see you tomorrow?"
"Just how many more wishes are there prepared?"
"Plenty." Luca smiled. Nothing but mischief on that face of his. "I hope you have some as well."
"You will. See me, that is." Edgar sighed. He'd come. Promised himself.
"I'm glad. It's better with you around." Luca's eyes met Edgar's own, his words making heat coat the painter's skin. "Until next time, Valden."
Edgar thought, no, he was certain — Luca winked at him, and before Edgar could return to his senses, left the field.
It's amazing what difference a new person in one's life makes. He's amusing, I think, and smart in his own weird yet undoubtedly incredible way. I could admire him had he not been such an obnoxious figure. But perhaps even that is special.
Nonetheless, I can barely lift my hand anymore. From both the cursed fatigue this sport has inflicted me with, and the lack of inspiration.
My inspiration…
I have to come here tomorrow again. And the day after that. No matter how taxing this practice will be on my health, there's still something…Something about him. In all the years of my life I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like Luca Balsa before. And I can't understand what makes him worthy of being my muse, but I feel it.
That's why I have to see him.
That's why I have to win. For the sake of the wish I've prepared.
And I'm going to.