Page 58 of Crown of Steel

Why me? He didn’t answer my question. It shouldn’t have been too hard to explain, certainly not for someone like him. Arthur always has a sassy retort to whatever I dish out. The thought that he still sees me as his competitor, despite having done everything he’s asked me to do so far, including joining a group of privileged pricks who walk around in cloaks and scare the living life out of me despite them being students. I did that for him. The thought makes my brain stutter, its conclusion bringing a slither of shame. I’d do anything for him.

It’s like I have waited for years for someone like him. Someone who is big and strong, someone who challenges me, hears me out, makes me see different things. Someone like him.

Turning into yet another silent corridor, I let my gaze roam the framed pictures that decorate the walls while my mind is trying to wrap itself around my spinning thoughts.

I manage to successfully keep it gone for the rest of my walk back, ignoring the way it lingers in the back of my mind.

It only takes me another three wrong turns and two floors up, but finally, I reach our shared dorm. When I walk in, I find it void of the two other Deverauxs, which doesn’t surprise me. With Louis being at practice, that would only leave Gaël, and god knows he’s always hanging about.

Still… the faint sound of the piano makes me pause in the doorway. Whisking the final steps on the tips of my toes, I gently close the door, then just stand there, in the empty lounge, with my back against the door. Listening to Dominique playing the piano.

Such soothing notes, such tragic rhythm as the melody lingers around, meandering into my own, private thoughts.They’re all dotted around, a mixture of the past and the present.

My destiny. Arthur’s words echo through my mind. Would I ever be strong enough to rewrite my own destiny? The thoughts, the sound, the unexpected peace I’m finding from just standing here after what happened just before… It brings a lump to my throat, and I swallow, throat clicking, but it won’t be taken away.

My hand shakes when I bring my fingers to my hair and brush a lock behind my ear. For some reason, the music is making me feel more vulnerable than I should. It’s difficult to get my mask back on, like the sizes don’t match. Like the glue won’t hold. I’m feeling drained. And I guess I could use a friend right now.

I need my iron bars.

They are more solid, more trustworthy. They won’t let me down.

The music stops. With a tightening chest, I slowly head for my bedroom. Despite the nights becoming shorter at this time of the year, it’s not too late to go to the woods and finalize my shelter. But before I make it to my bedroom, Dominique’s door opens and he peeks outside. He’s bare foot, wearing a fancy looking pair of track pants that must be Gaël’s and a white tee. His darkish strands tumble around his head in a messy mop, as if he’s brushed through them too much. But his eyes…

They make me halt. “Are you alright?”

They are red-rimmed as if he’s been crying, the coffee-brown irises glossy. He shrugs and I swallow, searching for words. “Is, uhm, Gaël not there?”

Dominique doesn’t reply, just stands there. Waiting for something I won’t say. My throat feels thick with hesitation. “I like the way you play,” I settle with. He gives me a soft smile.

“Merci.”

“Would you…” I clear my throat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

“Sure.” The tips of his lips curl up, knowingly. “Come. I could use a friend as well.”

Following him into his bedroom, I notice how spacious and clean the place is. It smells nice here, like some spicy herb.

Dominique gestures to the couch by the window. “Sit. Please feel comfortable.” He installs himself in front of the piano, then turns over his shoulder. “This was my brother’s favorite song. ‘Moonlight Sonata’ by Beethoven.” And then he starts playing. Yes, it’s the same tune as the one he played right when I just came in. It’s slow and tragic, and it makes my chest tighten and my eyes burn. I think of Dad, in prison. I think of our small apartment back in Nîmes and my iron bars. Of my mother, who’s now watching Louis play football with her husband and her other, perfect son. Of Arthur challenging me, talking to me…

“He made me come,” I whisper, voice cracking. The piano stills and Dominique slowly swings around on his stool, facing me, not saying a word. “He—I—” I’m not even sure what I want to say anymore. This was a bad, bad idea.

“He likes you,” Dominique breathes after what feels like forever. The tension is heavy, somehow filled with anticipation. Still, his lie makes me huff in amusement.

“No. He hates me.”

“Ahh.” Dominique lets out a low chuckle and stretches out his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. “That too. He hates you for getting in his way.”

“I don’t want to get in his way.”

“No?” Dominique tilts his head as he gazes at me. “You don’t enjoy telling that smug bastard exactly what you think of him?”

“I—maybe?” Yeah, I fucking do. Dominique barks out a laugh.

“Exactly. So yes, Régis, you are in his way. And you know what else?”

“No?”

Dominique juts his chin my way. “He likes you standing in his way.”

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