Chapter Text
The crisp morning air clung to the pale stone walls of École Saint-Laurent, an elite academy nestled on the outskirts of Paris. A weak sun filtered through the skeletal branches of the leafless oak trees that lined the schoolyard. The ring of chaotic laughter and playing filled the air, voices loud and bright with chatter. Niccolò Oscuro sat alone on the edge of a stone bench, his small frame hunched over a thick book that rested precariously on his lap.
His hair fell lazily over his eyes, his thick bangs obscuring his face as his hazel eyes avoided any contact with anything—or anyone—around. His uniform, pristine as always, looked too stiff on his lanky frame. The collar was buttoned high and the navy coat rested too sharp around his shoulders. The discomfort went unnoticed for the most part. He had better things to focus on.
His favorite anatomy textbook rested in his lap..
Far too enticing for a blossoming medical man.
The cover was a deep green, with pristine gold lettering on the front. It was flicked open on his lap, opened somewhere around the middle of the text. On the page, a diagram of a human skull stared up at him, perfectly symmetrical, its teeth clean and white.
Niccolò ran a fingertip over the illustration as though tracing the curve of a real jaw. There was something calming about it—about the way the parts fit together, orderly and controlled, unlike everything else around him. Unlike the chaos of his father’s voice booming through empty halls or his mother’s cold silences. It was always the same. A jaw didn't change— a jaws a jaw. Once it's set, it's set.
A shrill whistle pulled his attention away from the diagrams before him. Across the yard, a group of boys were shouting, jeering in a way Niccolò had learned to ignore over the years. He tucked himself deeper into the bench he sat upon, clutching the edges of the book as though it might vanish if he let go. His hands snapped the book shut, holding it firmly against his lap as he slowly lifted his head.
“Still staring at dead things, Oscuro?”
The voice startled him even though he was expecting a remark. He was met with the sneering face of one of the older school boys— Louis if Niccolò recalled correctly. The others in his group snickered, huddled together like wolves circling a piece of meat.
Niccolò blinked once, deliberately, before looking back down at his book. Responding only made things worse. Here—home—didn't matter. Responding to taunts.. it only got him taunted more.
“Don’t you ever get tired of being a creep?” Louis continued, stepping closer. He gestured mockingly at the book. “What’s that? Planning to dig up corpses and kiss them? Bet you practice on cadavers.” He said, cocking his head sharply as he flashed a mocking grin at the hunched boy before him. The others laughed louder as Niccolò hunched further.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his fingers curling into the edge of the paper. It had to be over eventually. It always was. He just had to wait.
“Leave me alone,”
That was the only phrase he could muster. The words came out so softly though.. he wasn’t even sure they heard it. Even if they did, Niccolò guessed they wouldn't have cared.
Louis crouched down suddenly, close enough for Niccolò to smell the mint gum on his breath. “What did you say?” He cooed, gaze flicking down to the book Niccolò was clutching almost painfully now. "Move your hair when I'm talking to you. It's disrespectful to look away when you're being addressed."
With that a hand shot up, tangling within the bangs obscuring Niccolòs face. Suddenly he was jolted back, yelping as his eyes shot open, landing on Louis. His hands clutched the edges of the bench below, legs sticking out stiffly as his head was given a few rough shakes before being released. He immediately hunched down again, hands clutching at the book once again.
“You heard me,” he barked suddenly, eyes narrowing at Louis.
Louis’ grin faltered for a moment, but it returned—sharper this time. He grabbed the book from Niccolò’s lap with a swift motion and held it high in the air, out of reach.
“Give it back!” Niccolò’s voice cracked, panic bubbling up. He stood abruptly, reaching for it, but Louis kept it just beyond his fingertips.
“What’s so special about this?” Louis teased, flipping through the pages. “You can’t even read half of these words. No wonder no one talks to you, you little freak.”
The word—freak—hit like a slap.
“Give it back!” Niccolò shouted this time, desperation turning sharp in his voice. One of his hands shot up, crapping Louis arm in an attempt to pull it down. His fingernails dug painfully into his arm, eyes wide. He'd hurt this kid if he had to. He didn't care. He needed that book.
His normally pale face growing flushed from anger. For a moment, his thin frame seemed to tremble with suppressed energy. He took a step forward but stopped himself, his free fist clenched at his side. A familiar burn started in his eyes, but he refused to let himself cry.
“Oh, look, he’s going to fight!” Louis mocked, taking a step back in mock fear as he wretched his arm free of Niccolòs bruising grip. He looked at the book one last time before tossing it on the ground, discarding it like yesterday's trash. “Careful, he might pull out some pliers!”
The laughter started again, but Niccolò was already moving. He stooped to pick up his book, cradling it against his chest as though it were a wounded animal. Without a word, he turned and walked away, his head bowed. Only then did a few tears fall from his eyes, and even then they were quickly wiped away on his navy blue sleeve.
---
Niccolò eventually sat himself on the ground underneath a large oak tree, far away from the bench and the lingering group of boys. His heart pounding in his chest from the confrontation, his mind spinning. He wasn't built for confrontation. He was too skittish for it, too.. weak, as his father would put it.
He opened the book again, but the words blurred on the page as he stared down at them. It wasn't sadness or fear he was feeling, no—hes been tormented like this countless times before. Right now it was pure anger. Pure hate. It wasn't his fault he was different. Why should he be mocked for it? It was fair. He should knock some sense into those kids, show them just how strong Niccolò Oscuro was..
His thoughts were cut short as a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see a teacher standing a few feet away, their expression unreadable.
“Niccolò.” The voice was clipped, formal. Too formal. “Your father is here.”
Niccolò froze. The book slipped from his hands and fell into his lap. For a moment, he thought he had misheard. His father? He never showed up to the school, never! It was his mother who always did if something was wrong, never his father.
So if it was his father then..
“My… my father?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for you at the gates. Come with me.”
Niccolò’s legs felt like jelly as he stood. He clutched the textbook to his chest, its familiar weight doing little to calm his racing nerves. The teacher turned and began walking, and Niccolò followed, each step heavier than the last. He forced himself to stand straighter as they approached the main gates, trying to even his pace as much as possible.
At the gates, a sleek black car idled, its engine humming softly. Armand Oscuro stood beside it, his tall figure silhouetted against the iron bars. Even from a distance, Niccolò could see the sharp lines of his father’s face, his cold eyes scanning the school grounds as his tailored coat blew gently in the breeze.
Niccolò’s chest tightened. He thought of the textbook, of the boys’ laughter, of his father’s disdain—He wanted to run, to hide where no one could reach him. But there was no escape.
Armand’s gaze locked onto Niccolò, and a chill ran down the boy’s spine. His father’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Niccolò.”
It wasn’t a greeting. It was a summons.
And Niccolò walked over like a well trained dog.
---
Niccolò stepped forward, his legs unsteady, as if the ground beneath him had shifted into something unrecognizable. The gates loomed behind him, the familiar schoolyard now a distant memory, its chatter fading with each step he took toward his father. Armand was already sliding into the backseat of the car, his hand resting on the polished door handle, waiting. He didn’t look at Niccolò as he approached, his eyes fixed forward, as if his son’s arrival was nothing more than a necessary inconvenience. It likely was in his mind.
Niccolò hesitated just a moment longer, his breath shallow. He glanced back, noticing the teacher still standing at the gates. She said nothing, though her expression seemed to carry some form of quiet pity. She must have sensed it—there was something in the air around Armand that turned every interaction into a subtle form of judgment.
Finally, Niccolò opened the car door, the cold metal pressing against his palm as he climbed inside. The leather seats were smooth beneath him, but they felt foreign—too rich, too immaculate for someone like him. The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere in the car thickened. Armand turned his head, his dark eyes glinting with the faintest trace of annoyance, as though the mere act of acknowledging his son’s presence was beneath him.
“Did you have a good time with your little friends today?” Armand’s voice was low, clipped, each word precise.
Niccolò swallowed, his throat dry. How'd he know about..?..whatever.
“It was… it was fine.”
“Fine,” Armand repeated with a quiet scoff. “I bet it was.” He adjusted his gloves, the sound of shifting fabrics filling the space between them. “..Do you know why I’m here, Niccolò?”
The question hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. Niccolò’s hands fidgeted in his lap as he considered the question.
“..No,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Armand’s lip curled slightly, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He sat back against the seat, eyes narrowing. “You’re no longer attending school.”
Niccolò’s heart skipped a beat. His stomach twisted, nausea rising in his throat. “W-What do you mean? I… I still have lessons. I still have so much to do. Besides, if I stay there, there's a better chance that col—”
“No, you don’t.” Armand’s tone became colder, more controlled. “Your mother and I have discussed this. There’s no need for you to continue attending that public school. I’ve arranged for you to continue your studies privately. At home."
Niccolò’s mind raced, but all he could manage was a shaky, “But—why? Why? I—I need to be there. With the other boys…”
“The other boys?” Armand’s voice rose slightly, his gaze hardening. “They’re nothing but distractions. You’re not like them. You shouldn’t waste time with children who will never amount to anything. Your place is here, with us. You are an Oscuro.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into Niccolò’s. “And you will be trained as such. Starting here."
Niccolò opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He could already feel the heat of shame creeping up his neck, the humiliation of his father’s expectations suffocating him. The idea of staying home, isolated, away from the one place where he felt the tiniest sliver of normalcy, crushed him.
“But I.. I want to be a dentist,” Niccolò blurted out before he could stop himself. “I don’t want politics or whatever you want. I want to help people. It's a noble profession and- and I'm good at it! G-Go ahead, ask me anything about—”
Armand’s eyes flashed with something darker, something more dangerous than Niccolò had ever seen. “You want?” he repeated, cutting off Niccolò mid-sentence. “You think that’s your choice?” He leaned in, his voice low and venomous. “You will never be allowed to waste your time on such nonsense. You are an Oscuro. You will do as you’re told.”
Niccolò shrank back, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. His father’s words were a poison that burned through him, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in their wake. He wanted to argue, to shout, but he couldn’t. He never could.
“I don’t need you surrounded by those filthy children, Niccolò,” Armand continued, his voice ice-cold. “Your future is much too important for that. You will have private tutors, you will learn what you need to know. Your time will be spent properly. No more distractions. This is for the best."
Niccolò pressed his hands tightly together in his lap, the sting of his father’s words burning through him. His stomach churned, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit.
Armand leaned back, satisfied with his decision, the silence in the car settling over them like a thick fog. “Understand?”
Niccolò didn’t answer immediately. His mind felt like it was spiraling, caught between his father’s crushing expectations and his own desperate need for freedom. But what choice did he have?
“Yes,” he finally muttered, his voice small and weak.
Armand didn’t acknowledge his response, staring out the window as if the conversation was already over. The city passed by in a blur, the noise of the streets dimming behind the heavy windows.
Niccolò stared at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. His father’s voice still echoed in his mind—You will do as you’re told. His dream of dentistry, of finding something that could give him control, now felt like a cruel joke. He would never be allowed to follow it, not in this life, not in this house.
The car rolled through the city, and Niccolò’s world became smaller, narrower. His heart ached with a loneliness he could never quite escape, at least not anymore.