If you’re taking requests, could we see something with Nass and Bellamy during the early days of their relationship (maybe sometime during their first few meetings) with Nass suffering from allergies, if that works at all in their storyline? OR just Nass suffering from allergies and how Bellamy would react to it, I just want to see that hotheaded fire mage sneeze 💕🫶
Yield 1/1
Hi! Thank you so much for requesting this! I had so much fun writing a prequel story with these two and torturing Nass for a change!
Summary: 3k words. OC m/m. Nass is angry. And suffering from hayfever. Nass and Bellamy discover being photic is the only thing they might have in common.
Please note this is a PREQUEL story that takes place chronologically before the intro fic. This is back when these two still savagely hate each other. Or at the very least, is just Nass trying very hard (and failing) to hate Bellamy. Pics of my OC's here if you're curious!
I am going to link my Ko-fi here. If you enjoy my content and feel called to offer something, it is deeply appreciated. Either way, thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this universe. <3
***
“Is he in this class?” Nass mumbles to his twin. “Please tell me he’s not in this class.”
It’s the first week of school and he and a few other final years sit on the edge of the sparring ring, the September low light filtering through the arched windows. The air is already thick — humid, stale, too warm for morning — and the stone floors are radiating leftover heat from the day before. The open windows do nothing except let in more hot air and a steady drift of late-summer pollen that makes Nass’s skin itch.
They are waiting for Master Khandro to arrive to start their sparring class.
“Yes, Nass,” Marwa elbows him. “He’s in the class. I think its mandatory. Gods.” She rolls her eyes. “I take it your first class teaching together didn’t go very well?”
“It went very well,” Nass shrugs, rubbing at his nose. The skin beneath it is raw, already red. “I told him off.”
Marwa’s eyes widen.
“What do you mean you told him off?” she says slowly.
“I meand, I gave him a piece of my mind,” Nass sniffs. His voice sounds thick and congested even to his own ears. “No one else is going to do it. All my first years were too busy enamoured by the fact that he does not look like a heartless demon.”
“A what?” Anha looks over at him quizzically.
“A demon,” Nass repeats.
“No,” someone interrupts from behind them. “Not like a demon at all. He’s quite attractive really.”
Nass whips around with a glare, at Sana, the girl who had spoken. She shrugs, leaning in to mutter, “And his accent is very strange. I like it a lot actually —”
“Nobody asked for your opinion, Sana,” Nass rubs at his temples, at the growing sinus pressure collecting there. Heat slicks across his forehead; sweat beading along his spine. The room feels like it’s narrowing.
He doesn’t add that he's not sure if he hates the sound of Bellamy’s clipped accent or….finds it something else entirely.
“Nass,” Marwa elbows him again, this time a little harder. “Skies, you’re so rude.” “Sorry, Sana,” Nass says, because if not for nothing, he knows he’s being rude and grumpy.
“Hih’Gnxt’Shu!” He groans as a ticklish, wildly unsatisfying sneeze tears out of him, leaving his eyes streaming.
He’d been so flustered at the idea of having to teach with the son of his mother’s killer that he forgot to take his antihistamines this morning and hadn’t had time in between classes to go back to the dorms and get some. He has no idea what he’s allergic to, but ever since moving to the central province, he is a mess at the end of every summer.
“Do you have any antihistamines?” He asks Marwa, who similarly, is just as affected this time of year as he is. She shakes her head, and he groans.
It being still hot as shit outside, the windows to all his classes remain open and his eyes have been watering relentlessly for the past hour. His shirt is clinging to him from sweat. He’d sneezed fifteen times so far and it wasn’t even noon.
Gods, he hates the end of summer.
“Can I sit here?” A foreign voice asks politely.
Nass rips his gaze up from tending to his watering eyes and nearly recoils. Prince Bellamy is standing a meter in front of him, black sparring gear adorned on his broad chest like a second skin. The material is breathable and featherlight, far more expensive than anything that’s ever — or will ever — grace Nass’s skin. It looks good on him, contrasted against the bright blue in his eyes, that it makes Nass’s entire overheated, prickling body simmer with rage.
“No,” Nass snaps, face heating even more — from anger, from the temperature, from the humiliating fact that he can feel sweat gathering under his jaw.
“Oh thank goodness,” Bellamy’s face doesn’t change at the malice in his tone. “Because I wasn’t asking you.”
He looks Anha, gesturing to the empty space beside her.
“Of course,” she says warmly, giving him a smile.
“Don’t worry, Nassim,” Bellamy says, lowering his long limbs into a seated position. “I made sure to leave my demon fangs at home.”
Nass nearly chokes on the post nasal drip sliding down his throat.
“I told you, Your Highness,” He snaps his sinuses pricking with each word. “That it’s —its — hh’hhh’tsschh!”
“Allergy season?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow as Nass emerges from the crook of his elbow.
“Nd-o,” Nass snaps, blinking away irritated tears. “Itd’s N-Nass—Hh’ISHh’hew!”
“Bless you, Nassim,” Bellamy smiles politely, ignoring Nass’s request.
Nass feels his cheeks go red with anger. He flips Bellamy the finger.
“What?” Bellamy frowns. “If you’re going to be polite,” Nass sniffs, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. “Then call me by my name.”
“Oh, you want to talk about polite?” Bellamy’s tone is cordial, but it has an edge. “You spat in my face this morning in front of our entire class.”
“You insulted mbe,” Nass says, feeling his face grow redder by the minute. The heat is suffocating now; sweat is pooling in the hollow of his back.
“I simply suggested that the North and the South could reconcile,” Bellamy says, glaring over Anha’s lap at him.
“Um, should we move somewhere else?” Marwa says, looking between them.
“And that is insulting,” Nass snaps ignoring his sister. “As if we’d ever want to reconcile with you! The south will never forget decades of war, famine and dirty water! Or you Northerners outlawing our gods!”
He is half shouting now and is dimly aware of the class staring at them, but he can’t stop.
“It’s bad enough I have to see your face in my classes every day! And now you’re asking us to reconcile? It’s a fool’s dream, Your Majesty.”
Bellamy’s face is composed in diplomatic neutrality, but he is blinking very hard. Nass can see the Adam’s Apple bopping in his throat as he swallows.
“I have a duty to my country to try,” he says, stiffly.
Nass tries to reign in his anger — he really does. He reminds himself that Bellamy didn’t give orders to have his mother killed. In fact, Bellamy was a child — likely younger than Nass was — when his mother died. Still, when Nass looks at him all he sees is his blue eyes, made fun of in hushed whispers across Yekiti as bastard blue — for only the Velaquez royal family had an eye colour so peculiar.
“Nass!” Master Khandro’s voice rings out across the sparring rink. “On your feet. Now!”
At Master Khandro’s voice, Nass shoots to his feet.
“Are you a child?” She is standing at the foot of the sparring rink looking furious. “Apologize to Prince Bellamy, now!”
Nass’s brain sputters out. He stares at the faded mats.
He can’t apologize. He won’t —
“An apology is not necessary Master Khandro,” Bellamy holds up a hand. “Especially when it will not be meant.”
“In the rink then Nass,” Master Khandro’s long silver braids swish together as she points. “You are sparring first.”
Nass swallows the angry sigh that wants to come out of his mouth. Sweat is rolling down his ribs. His nose is prickling again — threatening another sneeze. His whole head feels swollen.
Not that Master Khandro will care about his miserable seasonal allergies.
So instead, he grabs a sparring stick from the wall and peels off his sweat-soaked shirt.
He tosses his shirt onto the floor just as a “Hih’Gnxt’Shu! barrels out of him.
He sluggishly aims it to the left, sinuses prickling with another "hh’hhh’tsschh!”
He sniffs in annoyance, wiping sweat off his collarbone.
Gods.
His seasonal allergies are the only time he sneezes more than once. And with the way Master Khandro is angrily looking at him, he doubts she will relieve him to even blow his nose.
Nass stamps down a tide of rising annoyance.
Honestly, Master Khandro is a Southerner, like Nass. She of all people should understand the problem with the prince. But she’s standing there like she has no problem in the world with him.
Is he truly the only one bothered by Bellamy’s presence at the university? His sister and her girlfriend don’t seem to be mind. Or any of his underclassmen.
Who cares if prince Bellamy is attractive and tall and has a sexy accent. He is still their enemy.
Has everyone lost their minds and forgot the decade long war that — that — “Hh’ISHh’hew!”
Nass drops the sparring stick and snaps into steepled hands, feeling the dampness explode against his bare skin. He feels sweat drip down his forehead as another, itchy “hH’ITSHh-!” tumbles out of him.
Gods. This is the last time he forgets antihistamines and — hh’k’tschhh!”
Nass groans.
“Are you alright, Nass?” Master Khandro asks as Nass emerges from his cupped hands.
He straightens, blinking furiously, then wipes his hands shamelessly on his shorts.
“Yes,” Nass clears his throat, voice rough. He rubs at his watering eyes, willing the burning to stop.
His classmates are all trying very hard not to stare.
That’s how he notices it.
Bellamy’s gaze flicks to him — quick, instinctive — and then drops just as fast, fixed carefully on the floor.
“What are you looking at, Your Highness?” Nass snaps before he can stop himself.
A few students inhale sharply.
“Nothing at all,” Bellamy says immediately.
His tone is smooth. Polite. Convincing enough that it almost passes. Almost.
Nass grinds his teeth. Liar. He sniffs hard, bending to retrieve his staff from the mat, fingers tightening around the grooved wood.
“If you’re going to stare,” he says, lifting his chin, “how about you come up here and spar, Your Majesty?”
The words taste sharp and bitter on his tongue.
“Without your bodyguard to protect you,” Nass adds, unable to stop himself, “it shouldn’t be a long match.”
Silence drops over the room.Even the heat seems to pause.
Bellamy blinks. Nass could swear he sees a vein twitch at his temple.
“I don’t have a bodyguard,” Bellamy says finally, voice measured. “Not now. And not ever.”
“Not important enough?” Nass arches a brow. He knows he’s being an asshole. He knows exactly where this will land. He says it anyway. “Bastard sons don’t get protection?”
The air shifts.
“Aw,” Bellamy replies lightly, though his eyes have gone cold. “How did you know?”
The words land clean and sharp but it gets him moving.
Bellamy rises to his feet, crosses the room without looking at Nass again, and takes a sparring stick from the wall. The students part instinctively to let him pass.
And when he comes to stand in front of Nass, shockingly, he bows.
The bow throws Nass off more than anything else. It’s formal. Correct. Respectful.
Which makes it unbearable.
The heat presses in on them — thick and unmoving, the air heavy with sweat and pollen. Nass can feel it slicking down his spine, pooling at his lower back, clinging to his ribs. His nose burns. His eyes itch. His head feels stuffed with cotton and fury.
But still. He has to own this bastard, like its the last thing he'll ever do.
Master Khandro steps back at last, arms folding.
“Begin.”
Nass lunges first.
He swings hard, fueled by rage and congestion, the sparring stick cutting through the air with a sharp whack—
and Bellamy isn’t there.
The prince pivots aside with maddening ease, the movement so smooth it almost looks lazy. Nass barely has time to register the empty space before he’s already turning, lungs burning, sinuses prickling.
Nass grits his teeth and lunges again.
Bellamy blocks the first strike, their staffs clanging together with a thwack.
Then he blocks a second strike.
And a third.
Each impact sends a sharp vibration up Nass’s arms, but Bellamy barely seems to feel it. His footing is perfect, weight balanced, movements gliding in a way that makes Nass irrationally furious.
Bellamy is better — much better — than Nass thought he was going to be.
“Stop circling,” Nass snaps, voice rough.
Bellamy doesn’t stop circling.
Nass growls and presses forward. His vision blurs at the edges, eyes itching, nose prickling with that familiar warning buzz.
No. Not now.
He feints left, swings right — and misses. Bellamy ducks smoothly, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat that doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He swings harder, faster now, abandoning form. Bellamy redirects Nass’s blows with small, precise motions that make Nass feel clumsy, overextended, sloppy.
Nass’s chest heaves. He can hear himself breathing. Too loud. Too fast.
Bellamy disarms him once — a clever twist of the wrist — and Nass barely manages to recover before Master Khandro barks, “Continue.”
They reset.
Nass wipes his face with the back of his arm, smearing sweat across his cheek. His fingers itch, his eyes stinging.
Nass swings wildly, frustration driving every strike, the staff whistling through the thick air as Bellamy retreats just out of reach.
“Hh’ISHh’hew!”
The sneeze tears out of him mid-swing — violent, sudden, humiliating. His staff dips for half a second, his vision blurring.
A sharp bark of laughter bursts from somewhere in the audience, quickly smothered.
Nass snarls, lungs burning. More sweat pours down his spine, drips from his jaw. His grip slips, the wood slick in his hands.
Bellamy moves.
He lunges so fast Nass barely registers it — a blur of motion, a sharp crack as Bellamy’s staff slams into his with ruthless precision. The impact jolts Nass’s arms numb. His grip gives.
The staff goes flying, skittering across the mat.
Before Nass can even turn, the end of Bellamy’s staff drives into his chest — not enough to injure, but perfectly placed to knock the breath clean out of him.
Nass gasps, stumbling back a step.
“Yield,” Bellamy says, calm as still water.
“Match over,” Master Khandro cuts in sharply, slicing the air with her hand.
Bellamy steps back, lowering his staff.
“Good match,” he says, smirking just enough to make it sting. “You should work on your footing.”
Nass hates him.
He hates him so much his vision swims, so much his hands shake.
He snatches his discarded stick off the floor and rushes Bellamy’s back, fury roaring in his ears, thought dissolving into instinct and —
Bellamy spins.
The staff in Nass’s hands flashes white.
There’s a sharp crack — like wood splitting — and then ice blooms over the staff in a violent rush. Nass’s fingers lock in place instantly, skin searing with cold so intense it steals his breath.
“What—?” Nass yanks, panic flaring as he tries to wrench his hand free.
Nothing moves. His fingers are stuck to the ice. Completely and utterly stuck.
The room goes dead silent. Bellamy turns slowly.
“Nassim,” he says evenly, breath barely raised, “you know the first rule of sparring.”
Nass’s face burns, blood roaring in his ears.
“Never attack your opponent,” Bellamy continues, eyes steady, “when their back is turned.”
Nass swears viciously in Kureesh, humiliation clawing up his throat.
Master Khandro storms forward. “Enough!” she snaps. “Bellamy — melt the ice. Now.”
Bellamy lifts his hand. The ice melts at once, water dripping down onto the mat between them.
Nass tosses the soggy staff to the side, breathing hard. If Master Khandro wasn’t standing there and if he wasn’t in class he’d — he’d —
“Outside!” Matser Khandro looks furious. “Both of you. Now.”
It is only his respect for Master Khandro that gets Nass’s feet moving in the direction of the door. He rips open the door to the side exit, Bellamy on his heels.
The midday sun cuts into his eyes, the moment he steps outside to the adjacent courtyard. It sends a spark sudden and intense racing through his sinuses. It has him automatically flinching with a — “Hh’ISHh’hew!”
Nass barely has time to turn into his elbow before the sneeze tears out of him, sharp and violent. It immediately triggers a second, higher-pitched, unbearably ticklish—
“’k’tschishh!”
He recovers with a wet, irritated sniff, eyes burning, and looks up just in time to see Bellamy in the same predicament.
The prince has twisted away from the sun, shoulders raised, jaw clenched. His broad frame shudders once—twice—three times—
until a half-strangled, clearly fought "hh’iiisSCH’yue!” rips free.
Bellamy presses a wrist to his long nose, blinking furiously against the light, composure visibly cracking.
Nass stares.
“…Was that a sneeze?” he asks, eyebrow lifting despite himself.
Even his sneezes sound ridiculous. Repressed. Over-controlled. Typical Northerner.
Bellamy sniffs, straightening slowly.
“I don’t want to fight you, Nassim,” he says, voice careful again. “We are co-teachers. And classmates.”
Silence stretches between them, filled only by heat and the distant sounds of the campus.
“I know my family has done horrible things to your people…” Bellamy trails off, gaze dipping for just a fraction of a second.
Long enough for Nass to remember—very sharply—that he is shirtless.
“And for that,” Bellamy continues, swallowing, “I understand your disdain for me. But I can assure you—I am here for peace.”
He extends a hand that Nass does not take.
Peace? More like privilege.
Bellamy exhales and lets his hand fall. “Maybe,” he says quietly, “we have more in common than you think, Nassim.”
“I have nothing in common with you,” Nass snaps, the words automatic.
“You both sneeze from the sun,” Master Khandro cuts in dryly, clapping Nass on the back. “That’s something.”
Nass jolts, blinking. He’d nearly forgotten she was there.
“I—” He clears his throat. “I guess so.”
Bellamy’s cheeks colour faintly pink.
“If you are to graduate Nass,” Master Khandro gives him a stern glare. “You will never pull what you pulled in my class today, do you understand?”
Nass nods.
“And,” Master Khandro says pointedly, already turning away, “that includes controlling your temper.”
She turns to go back inside, leaving them in the sun.
The heat settles back in, thick and buzzing. Nass wipes sweat from his brow, sniffing hard, eyes stinging.
Bellamy hesitates, his bright blue eyes so focused on Nass it nearly steals his breath away. For a moment, the prince looks like he might say something else.
Instead, he only says, “You should take your antihistamines, Nassim. It sounds like you’re really suffering.”
There is something nearly sympathetic in Bellamy’s voice. But before Nass can think about it for too long, he turns and goes.
Nass stands there shirtless and seething in the courtyard, nose itching again, heart doing something irritating and unfamiliar in his chest.
He hates Bellamy. He thinks he hates him like he’s never hated anyone in his life.
Which is deeply inconvenient — because somehow, he doesn’t know if hatred is supposed to feel like this.
