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The winter gale howls outside, shaking the castle walls. Cold whistles in through the gaps between the cobblestone, it’s difficult not to shiver. A dim candle flickers in the middle of the hall, putting on its show, attempting to illuminate the room. Out of the corner of his eye, the King’s Hand observes the dancing flame, though his attention - sharp, unbroken - focuses on the papers in front of him.
His hands flip through pages, their gentle touch fleeting past his rough, scarred skin. The words melt into an incoherent blur, as if the true meaning is hiding away from him. He furrows his brows in frustration. The Hand continues to look.
He’s been searching for an answer since it all started. When did it start? It was unclear. The Hand faintly remembers the actual root of the conflict with the bandits of the desert, the filthy, sick schemers having buried it under layers upon layers of blood-stained dirt. All he remembers is the hate that filled him. The hate for people so deep in the crave for their own benefit, ones who wish to destroy, burn, blow into smithereens anything that stands in their way. And unfortunately, the Crimson Kingdom stood exactly there.
Perhaps there was a way to outsmart them. From a passing traveller he’d heard of a series of tunnels underneath the desert lands - although the entrance had long been buried beneath the developing kingdoms. He swore to make it his goal to find them, finally, they could gain the upper hand. His Liege was nothing but pleased when he’d learned, and allowed for the investigation. He knew patrols were scanning every inch of the Crimson Kingdom’s territory.
So the Hand sits in the library from dawn to dusk, the sun and moon watching over his struggles. He’d tried everything, anything that would work. He slams another book closed and throws himself back in his chair, scratching against the floor.
Guess it was another failed attempt.
And to make matters worse, the door burst open. The Hand perks his head up, seeing two knights standing at the doorway. He recognises their faces once they take their helmets off, bowing down to the King’s closest advisor - the two have served the Kingdom for as long as he can remember, and they certainly bear the scars to prove it.
“Your-” One of them starts, before a cough breaks his sentence. The Hand steps back as the knight’s companion catches his body, doubled over in pain.
“What happened? You two clearly aren’t bearing good news.” He eyes the two, blue eyes stone cold.
“The land’s frozen over.” The second knight replies. The weight of his words plummets down with a loud bang, silence following their crash. The Hand clenches his fists. “It’s too cold to continue the search. Our men are dying from digging at the ice, we are knights, not worms.”
He draws in a breath, spreading even more unease throughout his body, “Go back.”
The knight’s eyes are blown wide open, he looks as if he would be choking like the other, who was still clutching his side.
“What?”
“That was an order.” He says through gritted teeth, “I don’t care what happens, you will find that entrance.”
“The King himself forbade us from continuing the search.” The coughing knight raises himself up.
Frustration flares inside of him. He twists his lips into a pained grin, “His Majesty wouldn’t do that without consulting me, his advisor. So I suggest you two march over to the castle gates and-”
“My Hand.”
He stops, and the world halts its spinning. Like a dog whose name has been called, The Hand charges forward and falls into a bow.
The King gestures for the two knights to exit the room. It’s just him and his advisor, the duet pulling the strings in the play that is the Crimson Kingdom. Daringly, The Hand shoots a glance up to his Liege - he stands motionless, meeting his gaze.
“Stand up. You don’t have to do that in front of me.” The King watches as his Hand gets up to his feet.
He begins, “I think you’re clever enough to figure out why I sent those two to report to you, and not to me.” His tone is strained from his usual kindness, replaced and frozen over with ice.
“M-My Lord, I was only trying to help our situation! The bandits have only gotten more daring, we can’t just sit and wait for them to come to our doorstep!” The Hand argues, keeping his tone under control.
Something hypnotising writhes in the King’s eyes, his glance covered in a haze he cannot recognise. For a man he’d known since they were barely old enough to leave their mothers’ sides, the Hand could not read him for the first time in an eternity.
“I don’t want to have to bury more of our men because of this. Trust me, I want those parasites out of our territory. But we needn't lose more of what makes up our strength.” The King responds, his tone barely louder than a growl. The Hand shivers, “If you keep sending men out to die, you only prove you’re a pawn in their game. I can’t sit by and watch them die.”
“But-” The Hand shoots back, “They’re not dying out of a fool’s order, they’re dying for the greater cause of our safety! If only they keep searching, I promise you, we’ll-”
The King grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Their faces linger in close proximity, the Hand feels himself fall almost limp. His Liege exhales, he feels the warmth.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
And he pulls in. Their lips meet in an awkward kiss, a mix of clashing teeth and a furious attempt not to let go. Hot fire burns inside of the Hand’s chest as the King tightens his grip, sending them both back so they don’t collapse on the floor.
“Scene!”
The moment ends in the blink of an eye. Martyn falls to the wooden cover of the stage, thudding with a faint echo. In the inside of his mind, every noise is shoved to the background, taken over by a continuous ringing. He can barely see the brunet standing in front of him, desperately trying to explain himself.
“Martyn, I-” He struggles to find the right words, cheeks still burning with embarrassment. His hand is extended to help the other stand up, but Martyn is too swallowed by shock to react.
He can only listen to the ringing, he cannot watch.
Martyn jolts up to his feet and runs off stage. He pushes past the crowd of people backstage trying to catch him, calling his name. His attention, barely kept together, clings onto the faint outline of the changing rooms. Martyn bursts into the free stall and slides down the wall.
Somebody’s pounding on the door. It all doesn’t matter.
His lips still sting from the act that had just happened. He clenches his jaw, body tightening as he curls in further. The burning lava that had replaced his blood still runs through his veins, and even after he tugs off the cape that was part of his costume, he feels eternally scorching.
That didn’t happen. It can’t have.
Martyn buries his face in his hands. The darkness that covers him is almost soothing, with how he feels the world around him slip away. A knot still stands tangled deep inside his chest, and it’s nowhere close to letting go.
There was no way in the entire world that the boy playing that bloody King had just kissed him. It wasn’t even the discomfort he was feeling - strangely, and despite all the dread that came with the thought, somehow he’d felt right. Like it was meant to be. But for goodness sake, he couldn’t have done that after they’d gone off stage?
Martyn was long past the times of shaming himself for his heart pulling him closer to that ridiculous boy, who he’d first met when he was singing his soul out the day the school announced the production of his favourite musical. He didn’t know it was possible to feel the way he did, and so he punished himself. He’d never get the guy to like him back - they were simply friends.
Just friends.
But over time, something had changed. Martyn had repressed his feelings and somehow his object of attraction came closer. They bonded over their shared love for theatre, and he’d encouraged Martyn to try out for the drama club. He did, of course. If he didn’t, maybe he wouldn’t be experiencing a crisis behind the curtains.
And of course, when they’d heard of a new play being written by some seniors and their college friends, with no supervision from their questionable theatre teacher, their eyes practically lit up. Eagerly, they’d applied for every role they deemed suitable - and somehow, one fateful afternoon, they’d learned they got the lead roles.
Martyn digs his fingers into the soft fabric of his undershirt. If he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t be struggling to breathe at that moment. He wouldn’t be analysing each and every little moment spent with that idiot.
With a sigh, he grabs at his bag and changes out of the costume weighing down on his shoulders. He’s not having this here.
***
Ren is an idiot.
A goddamned idiot.
Trembling, he runs out into the corridor. At the time, the school is empty, rid of all the crowds usually inhabiting it. Nothing matters to Ren anymore. He takes a sharp turn, nearly tripping over his cape - screw the thing, he throws it off.
What was he even thinking? The image of Martyn too stunned to speak or move haunts his mind, he shot his shot and he blew it. He’s certain that no thought process went into it at all - just instinct.
The moment seemed perfect, with how the lights shone from above and how Ren felt almost hypnotised, he didn’t know what else to do when the script ordered him to pull Martyn in close. He was a beast. An animal. He couldn’t even stop himself from making his best friend uncomfortable.
Ren’s heart keeps pounding. He dreads opening the school’s glass doors and seeing him there, what would he even say? Did the dictionary hold enough words that would make his apology enough?
He catches sight of the exit and pushes them open, flying forwards with the force. The parking lot that stretches before the school building stands barren, only covered in the setting sun’s golden rays. It’s quiet. Ren listens out for a familiar voice, he looks out for his figure.
Recalling the layout of the school, Ren presumes Martyn must have exited through the emergency exit backstage. The guilt inside of him grows heavy enough to make him trip. He clenches his fists and follows the path to said exit, hoping that his friend was still there.
He bites down on the side of his cheek, the soft skin begins to sting. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face him. There was no way in the world he’d lose his best friend, the boy that lights up each and every one of his days, the one he tries to live every day to the fullest for, just because of his recklessness.
A voice resounds from behind the corner. Ren stops in his tracks, pressing his back to the wall as he listens in.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well- can you pick me up in ten minutes?”
Silence, then a furious scoff.
“What? Please, Cleo, you’re my only hope right now.”
It’s Martyn. Ren wants to run away, but something keeps him rooted in place.
“I- I don’t care, please, just send anybody over, even Jimmy!”
Martyn begins to walk towards the corner where Ren’s hiding. Panicked, he stumbles back.
A sigh of relief.
“Oh- thank you, thank you, thank you! So he’ll be there in ten? If he doesn’t crash the car, of course.”
Martyn hangs up, muttering something to himself, “God, that took a long time.”
Ren hesitates. He watches as Martyn sits down on the stone steps with a sigh, eyes unfocused, watching something beyond the lines of buildings. Guilt twists in his gut - if Martyn’s that willing to leave this place, would he even want to talk to him?
He exhales, convincing himself the action pushed away his worries. He had ten minutes to do this. Explain himself, act like he’s on the stage.
Ren walks out from behind the corner. The sound of footsteps startles Martyn, his body visibly tensing at the sight of him. Ren pretends this doesn’t feel like a stab to the stomach.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, shock hidden under the layers of acid in his tone.
“Martyn, I-” Ren begins, “I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry.”
“They sent you here to apologise, didn’t they?” Martyn spits, standing up. “I have nothing to say to you, Ren. Go back.”
Shocked, Ren doesn’t even know what to respond. Martyn eyes him like a hawk, and he’s never seen such hate in the mirrors of his icy blue eyes.
“I came here myself.” He eventually gets out. “I wanted to make things right between us.”
“Sure.” Martyn raises a brow. “Yeah, I want to see how you’re going to do that.”
Ren lingers in the deafening silence that follows. Martyn huffs a bitter laugh, lips twisting into a grin with no joy behind it. He thinks Ren’s being ridiculous.
“Go ahead.” He leads him on.
“I don’t think I was thinking properly. I just- I walked out on stage and you looked so unbelievable in the lights and I didn’t know how to control myself. The script-”
“It’s all because of the script, huh, Ren? We’re not our characters! This is real life, not some show. You can’t just pull back a curtain and pretend everything’s alright- it’s not!” Martyn yells. He takes a defensive step back.
“You know this is not what I mean. I just, God, I just saw the script needing me to get closer and my mind started to race. Do you know how many times I tried to keep myself controlled around you?” Ren digs his hand into his hair, tugging at the messy brown strands, “The King and the Hand, who cares about them, I could not see anything other than you when we’re playing them. It feels like- there’s something deeper.”
Martyn chews on his bottom lip, searching for something to reply with. “What do you mean, ‘something deeper’?”
Ren’s heart claws at the edges of his chest and if it were in a cage, it would clash and rattle at the iron bars. Is this it?
“I love you. I’m in love with you.”
The words strike between the two like lightning. Martyn opens his mouth to speak, but he cannot. It almost feels like they’re back at the stage, only this time they’re not being watched. Ren wishes he could run at that moment. He’s ruined everything again. But he needed to say those words, otherwise he’s certain he never would.
It seemed like the right moment.
It also seemed like the right one back during rehearsal.
He would never expect the words that came out of Martyn’s mouth.
“You like me back?”
Ren feels like collapsing.
“You like me back?” He mutters. All this time-
“Of course I bloody do!” Martyn roars.
“I didn’t run because I hate you or something, I ran because you’re a goddamn idiot and you make me crazy with how you always find ways to hold my hand or touch me somehow or when you complimented my costume or when you said I was the best at improv and how you dream of being like me and how you always have that charm in you and that stupid smile on your face and how your glasses keep falling off your damn nose and-”
“Martyn!” Ren stops him before he suffocates himself. “You really feel that way?”
Martyn sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. “We’re both idiots, I see.”
“Don’t call me an-” He tries to protest, “No, actually, I fully deserve that.”
Hesitating, Ren opened his arms out into an embrace. Martyn walked up and fell into the hold.
“You better not kiss me again.”
Ren chuckled.
It felt warm, a different type of it, no longer a sign of fluster - the aftermath of a very risky act, but something akin to a fireplace, or even smaller. A candle flickering in the middle of a cold room, sparking new flames of feeling.
They stood there in silence, simply enjoying the moment of clarity. Finally, Ren felt his unease fade.
“What does this make us?”
Martyn asked, his face still pressed against Ren’s shoulder.
“I don’t know. I say we figure that one out later.”
“Fair.”
HONK!!
The two jump up at the sudden noise, still entangled in the hug. In the parking lot appears one car - its driver desperately holding onto the steering wheel, as if he were dropped there accidentally.
He rolls down the window, the faint squeak that follows only digging in the awkwardness of the situation.
“Did I pick a bad time?”
Martyn rubs at the bridge of his nose, “Jimmy, I swear to God.”
Jimmy squawks, “Ey! I didn’t know you’d be having an- I don’t know, intimate moment with some guy!”
“Whatever. Thanks for coming, Tim.” Martyn begins to walk up to the car.
Ren charges forward to stop him, “You don’t want to come back to rehearsal?”
“Nah, I think we’ve both crashed that already. Plus, there’s another one tomorrow.” Martyn shrugs. He turns back to Ren.
“See you.”
“Bye.”
Martyn opens the door to the car. Ren doesn’t even register when the two drive away, leaving him standing there, alone.
And as any sign of the car being there vanishes into nothingness, Ren begins to walk back to the stage room.
It was worth it.