There is no time to protest or to struggle. In a flash, Marco is pressed to the wall with nowhere to run, but Striker’s attention is exactly what he wanted. It’s all he could ever want ever since he was young and he would watch the white-haired knight-to-be swinging swords and shouting obscenities from the bottom of his stately windows. From the start, Striker is everything he should not want and yet, like all the princesses, the countless women he does not recognize, that flock to him like flies to honey, he is drawn to flame even if he should be burned. And if he should be burned, then he is scorched to the point of no return. Marriages, promised engagements, none of it will ever come close to the heat that swallows him whole.
With Striker’s fingers at his buttons, Marco watches them clatter to the floor with unattached curiosity. He’s lost in the haze; a certain kind of bitterness has taken hold of him as the night continues, but he looks at the chain of events that have sparked the knight’s jealousy. It’s Striker’s fault in the first place. With every kiss to every nameless stranger’s hand that belongs to Marco, his possessiveness grows. Those lips are his to kiss. Those kisses are not Striker’s to give away so freely. They belong to him. Striker is his. But if this is the game the knight wants to play, then the prince accepts with almost petty joy. After all, between the two, Marco is the one who’s had to take classes in manners.
So, Marco does the same. Except he pushes it just one step forward because he knows how this game works and he wants it to tip into his favor. So, the prince chases lords of stature and they fall into his palm unexpectedly. They talk slow, but Marco’s good at using his eyes. Such haunted blue eyes. His personality isn’t anything remarkable, but there’s something about Marco that’s nearly impossible to forget. It’s not bad at first; anybody would interpret it as friendly conversation, but the prince is known for his solitary mannerisms. He doesn’t mingle.
Yet here he is. Almost laughing, he places an arm on the lord’s arm, pretending to be ever-so-enlightened. It’s not that hard to pretend; he’s seen Connie do it enough times to humor her seemingly endless line of suitors. Briefly, he steals a glance towards Striker, but Striker’s still lost amidst the crowd of satisfied women. He’s pulled back to company by a strong arm that wraps around the narrow of his waist. It’s not quite what he was going for, but where’s the harm in indulging a little flirtation as revenge? Oh, and look. He sees Striker’s head turn now; he’s got his attention. Good. That’s just the way he likes it.
The arm around his waist drops a little lower and Marco flushes. Well, that escalated quickly, but he doesn’t see Striker anymore. Instead, gloved fingers wrap around his chin. Inquiry is whispered into his ear, but he’s not paying attention at all to what this man is saying. Where is Striker? Where did he go? Is he sulking now? It’s not quite like him to surrender so easily. He’s about to excuse himself from the affectionate lord’s company when a hand curls firmly around his wrist and he looks up to find himself staring in Striker’s eyes. Very furious eyes. Well, speak of the devil. And the devil will show.
The knight’s voice is nothing more than a low growl in his ear. His words are not meant for any other voice to hear; they belong solely to Marco. A shiver races along his spine and the hand that curls itself tightly around the prince’s wrist tugs him forcefully away from the clowder of noblemen gathered around. And Marco returns to the present. Slammed against the wall on the private balcony with nobody else around to witness his unraveling.
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