The Forbidden Section #19 (Patreon)

Akira had never put all that much stock into prophecy, fate, or any of the astronomical or divining arts. He didn’t even, really, believe in seers. Even if they managed to glimpse something in the days or years to come, it was all a matter of wibbly-wobbly interpretation, and the very act of trying to avoid a prophecy could be what ensured it came to pass.

And they were always so, so vague. You will meet a tall, handsome, stranger? Well, yes, probably at some point or other! He’d honestly expected a little better of Eiran considering the man otherwise seemed an avid believer that one needed proof and hard evidence to back up any claims or hypotheses.

Still.

Maybe if Akira had a prophecy telling him he was doomed to lose what he loved most, he’d be a bit twitchy too. Just in case.

He mulled over the small titbit Eiran had given him for some time, but it wasn’t enough, and could only really lead to more speculation. How could he know, for example, that Eiran had even given him exact wording? In something as nebulous as a prophecy, specific words and their connotations mattered. Something taken could be temporary, after all, it didn’t imply any inherent betrayal or destruction or lasting loss.

Even if it did…well. He wasn’t what Eiran loved most, so why should it affect his behaviour? He couldn’t be, not in the very least because Eiran didn’t let anything or any one close enough to truly have a shot at the position of beloved. Which made a sad sort of sense, but, well.

Did that mean that if Akira got rid of Adora then Eiran might finally be willing to commit to some kind of relationship with him? More than a few hasty kisses?

In all the grand reasons in the world for the supposed forces of good and evil, light and dark, to go to war it seemed an absurd and selfish one. But he did find himself daydreaming and imagining her well-meaning, kind head on a platter, and the look on Eiran’s face, so maybe Akira was simply an absurd, selfish and probably entirely immoral sort of person.

He'd take that if Eiran kissed him again.

He spent the rest of his graduation day holed up in Shadow Haven’s library, chasing down leads on prophecy, but there was little there. If he was the Dark Lord, he would have got his grabby little hands on every text, volume and theory available on prophecies and their reliability. Maybe they were all in Eiran’s study. It wasn’t like the Dark Lord was especially open about his exact relationship with Adora Clemente, was he?

Dwelling on that matter, on that whole ‘I can feel him’ malarkey, left him sour and prickly. And dwelling on the idea of breaking into Eiran’s office when he wasn’t there, if only to see if he actually did have all books on prophecy in there, was idiotic. Idiotic, but tempting.

All in all, he was actually relieved when he got a message from Xavier, asking where the hell he was. There was a post-graduation party at Xavier’s place and of course the other man assumed it was the height of everyone’s priority list.

It felt like a while since Akira had visited the Quinfell residence for something that wasn’t explicitly the Dark Lord’s business, even if his invitations for seemingly unrelated social events stemmed from the same place. He was also pretty sure that Xavier just wanted to pick his brain for the gossip on what had happened with Adora, as people were surely talking about it. She hadn’t exactly been subtle. Nonetheless, the whole affair could prove a distraction. And what were his other options?

Judging by the fact that Eiran was in his study, likely in retreat since he deigned to share something of personal importance and busy seething at his chosen enemy, Akira saw no harm in telling Xavier he’d be there shortly. He very much doubted Eiran had some form of graduation dinner or anything planned that might conflict after all, however much some small (not so small, but definitely childish and ridiculous) part of Akira had hoped.

So, he peeled himself away from the books (useless, and his vision was beginning to blur) before going to his room to get ready.

He had a little more in the way of ‘party clothes’ since his social calendar had filled in the last year, and the salary Eiran paid him didn’t have to go to food and rent to last him the summer before he could return the academy.

Still. It wasn’t exactly Akira’s forte, parties.

He left a note for the Dark Lord on the kitchen table to explain where he’d gone. He tried not to think it was the perfect excuse for where he’d be all night, if he decided to hunt down Adora Clemente in a pique of well-acted concern for his own well-being. He failed at not thinking about it. Then he was gone.

It was possible that he’d never quite get used to the grandeur of the Quinfell residence; its casual history and wealth, bearing down tradition and the weight of generations upon generations of magical wards. Magical family. It was possible, too, that the very word family was always going to be gnawing and ugly and wanting thing in Akira’s chest.

He found most of the guests, and Xavier, in the back garden. The air was balmy with the late summer evening and twinkling with hundreds of enchanted lights. They curled around a buffet table, and shimmered down garden paths transformed into the possibility of romance and secret rendezvous. People Akira recognised from school danced in the central space, carefree and whirling with drink, their futures secured or at least held off for a while longer.

He caught himself wondering how they would react if the Dark Lord showed up. If they would buckle and kneel before him. He caught himself wondering, again, what it would be like if they did that to him, instead of letting him slip seamlessly into their ranks unmarked.

He wanted it. He wanted that power, that respect. He wanted Eiran to look at him like he was something incredible, like something he’d risk everything to have. Even if it meant a fiery death somewhere, he wanted to be what the Dark Lord wanted, what he loved, above all else.

Oh, he was such a bloody fool that it physically hurt.

So, instead, Akira drank more champagne much too fast, and deflected questions and, when Xavier later pulled him in to dance, Akira let him.

Xavier was gorgeous in the half-light, spun-gold like Eiran’s natural eyes; Akira could admit that in the privacy of his reeling and slightly (very) tipsy brain. He was struck once again by how easy belonging was to Xavier, how much he suited the life he led. It made Akira want to be him or wreck him. One of the two. Maybe both. Up close, he smelled like cedar and something floral, sweeter than Eiran. His magic did not have that inescapable tug to it, but he was not weak.

In another life, if he'd never met Eiran, but he had he had he had...

“Heard you and Knight broke up,” Xavier said in his ear.

“I’ve had a busy day.”

Xavier laughed, and it didn’t in that moment even seem mocking. The other man was lighter too, on this great day of celebration, even if his own success had never been in question. He dragged Akira a little closer still, arms looping around Akira’s skinnier shoulders as the upbeat songs turned to something softer.

They swayed, breathless with exertion.

“Did you think about what I said about needing friends?” Xavier asked, voice lower than before.

And there – there it was. The recognition, even if it was recognition based more on who Akira had recently been seen with then his own merit, but nonetheless. It was more than he’d had, more than he’d been, before. There was a sharp, almost painful sort of pleasure to that.

Xavier’s breath tickled his neck.

“You’re not with your – whatever Eiran Thomas is to you, I note,” Xavier pressed. “Though you left graduation with him.”

“He’s a busy man.” Though that wasn’t, exactly, what Xavier was asking, was it?

Akira’s brain flashed, hopelessly, to their kiss. What would it feel like for Xavier to say what he did and know he was talking about the Dark Lord? To be able to point to Eiran and say that Eiran was his – what? His. Just his.

The garden spun around them, a haze of bodies and colour.

He wondered what Xavier would do if Akira kissed him. He wouldn’t flee upstairs to the study, he wouldn’t say it couldn’t happen, he wouldn’t play the game of ‘If I had less restraint’ because there would be no need for it.

In that instant, Akira knew that if he kissed Xavier, Xavier would kiss him back. For alliance, because he was the Dark Lord’s apprentice, and simply for the fun of it. There wouldn’t be any particular feeling involved, beyond something like winning a game, beyond the fact that the two of them were among the few who knew more of the truth. Who knew who Akira was. When more people knew, Akira would have more offers. Xavier was smart to try and cement something early. Get first dibs. It would even be nice to have someone who vaguely understood.

And if Akira accepted the alliance, even if Akira kissed him simply for the fun of it, he wouldn’t find his life divided before Xavier and after him.

As Xavier had said, the two of them could make the arrangement work. Professionally speaking.

Their gazes met.

Xavier smirked, so arrogantly sure of himself and the fact he was an excellent offer that Akira couldn’t decide if it was attractive or repugnant. Xavier trailed his hand up from Akira’s waist, cupping his jaw.

“Can I cut in?”

The voice was unfamiliar, and they both turned. The man in front of him was entirely unlike anyone he’d ever seen before too, though their age, but…maybe it was the mannerism, or the expression, or the intensity of him…something about him.

Glamour. The stranger was wearing a glamour, intricate and barely noticeable. Not a stranger, was it?

Akira managed a dumb, uncertain nod – not sure if he was projecting, wishing so badly – and the stranger took his hand.

For all the question, he didn’t stay to dance, he led Akira deeper towards the gardens and their secret spots instead, among the thick scent of roses and the rising dark as the lights of the party faded into the distance.

Akira studied his features, trying to confirm if he was right, if it was truly Eiran. He awaited a flicker of magic, a flash of gold eyes, a familiar smile or gesture. His heart pounded.

It was him, wasn’t it?

The stranger, tall dark and handsome, turned to him.

Akira extricated his hand, leaned against one of the trees and raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to speak, to maybe make some suitably witty comment.

Something silver flashed in the moonlight, and –

“Long live the Dark Lord.”

--  the knife drove right into Akira’s stomach.

Everything got a bit fuzzy after that.