Pirisies

The air in the gold inlaid lounge of a popular, up town bar was too fresh. Most likely filtered to hide the sweat of dancing bodies, peppered with the fragrance of an expensive botanical gin the Second Heir’s world would’ve fallen apart without. It was his establishment after all. The bass thrummed slowly through the floorboards of The Obsidian like a beast’s growl, mirroring Mikhail’s frustration. He didn’t truly want to be there, but after entering certain social circles, all roads from the empty apartment led to the same neon-drenched dead end.

His leather jacket had gone out of fashion way before he was born, and the wear and tear didn’t help him blend in with diplomats and their shiny fabrics. His boots carried the grit of endless, thankless errands, while theirs were polished and obviously new. Yet he stood in the centre of the room like he owned every velvet chair and crystal glass.

Andrea watched him approach from her favourite spot on the obsidian bar, far from the reach of the bartender and other guests. Her gold-lined coat caught the strobe light, undermining her every attempt at staying low, but the clothes wasn’t her choice -it rarely was.

She watched him as the minutes past, fiddling with a flavour crystal in her hand, determined to stay sober. She hated how he moved with the unearned confidence of nobody. He had nothing to lose, while she had an entire country resting on her shoulders. When her dark eyes finally lifted to meet his, there was no surprise. Only a heavy, weary inevitability.

“You’re over the rope again, Mikhail,” she said quietly. Her voice cold, masked in its boredom. “I thought I paid the doorman enough to keep you in the alley.”

Mikhail leaned against the chilled bar desk, inches from her. He smelled of the sweet, summer rain so rare for the capital and cheap cigarettes he was too weak to leave behind, perhaps too desperate. The scent shouldn’t have been intoxicating, she made sure to get her things rid of it weeks ago, yet it made her lungs craving more.

“The doorman remembers me from before you,” he whispered with sad a smile. His piercing blue eyes mocked her very existence, though he grew up in reverence to her family, admiring every single Heir for a different reason. The years they spent together cracked the façade her family built around the Hale name, the spite chipped away the rest. “Money buys silence, but it doesn’t buy loyalty. You should know that by now.”

“I know I’m supposed to be meeting Elias’ son tonight,” she made it sound like a brag, adjusting her lace cuff to hide the tremor in her fingers. He could only guess what the name was supposed to mean to him. His brow climbed up, before she clarified. “Someone with a future. Someone who doesn’t live in a single room with a broken heater and a grudge for a pillow.”

“A future? Is that what you call those pale, polite boys who are too afraid to touch you? Come on,” Mikhail smirked, his voice dropping. “You’re bored, Rea. That’s why you’re looking at me.”

The nickname hit the same soft spot he always aimed for. The public knew her as The Child of Light, saviour they simply believed in. Her father tried his best to cotton her with Anie. Only he used that clipped tag, and he only used it when he wanted to remind her that beneath the runes embroidered fabric and precious stone jewellery, she was just as hungry and broken as he was. The blame was partly hers; objective viewer would credit the second part to him.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, her face flushing with desire despite her best efforts. “You don’t get to use that name. You’re a footnote, Mikhail. A mistake I keep making because you’re low effort, available and out of options, nothing more.”

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

He grabbed her wrist, his rough skin grazing against her porcelain palm. She seemed fragile at the first glance -delicate and soft with big chocolate eyes. She was anything but, her favourite past time featured throwing punches and disturbing magic wards older than her.

“Just say it, I’ve missed you,” Mikhail provoked, hoping for the sweet smile she graced him with when they were alone.

Pulling her into the shadows of a heavy curtain, away from the prying eyes, Andrea dropped the crystal; lost in an instant at the vibrating floor. She didn’t protest. Even there, at the heart of the Empire, where not only everyone knew her face, but where she was a regular, she was the centre of attention. People still starred like it was the first time -the boring nobles, the clueless mages, and Hales’ report squad.

“I hate you,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with cold anger, she loved to practice in the middle of the night. “I hate how you drag me down. I’m not your ladder to the Nobles, Mikhail. I won’t be your way in.”

“Hate is such a strong, final word,” Mikhail countered sweetly, his thumb pressing hard against her jugular, counting the frantic rhythm of her heart. Making sure her calm was just a mask. She mastered the distant mask of anger and illusion of calm, up close her body stood no change. “I’m the only one who lets you out of the gilded cage you call home. But you’re just as addicted to the wreckage we are. You came here to see if you could still feel the burn.”

He pulled her closer, old leather pressing against fine silk gown. Andrea didn’t push him away, didn’t protest. In the poorly lit end of the bar, they were just two broken pawns, convinced they were helping each other stay on the play board.

“One dance,” she bargained as she arched her neck to give him access. “Just one, and then I’m done. I’m erasing you.”

“You’ve been saying that for seven years, Rea,” he murmured against her skin. A cocky smile touching his lips. She couldn’t see it, but after hundred days and night they spent this close, she didn’t need to look. “You’re still here.”

He kissed her, desperately at first. Together they excelled at awkwardness. His back hit the hard wall. Their lips pressed together, mouths filled with the taste of sweet, herbal alcohol and bitter ash. She dragged him away from the lounge, away from the light, into the centre of the pulsing floor and sweating bodies.

“If resentment is your goal… You look like shit, Mikhail,” she said, her voice barely audible over the synth-heavy beat.

“You look like the reason for it,” he countered, stepping back into her space.

The air between them thickened, charged with the static every argument they’ve been through. He reached out, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. It was a gesture someone else might take for affection, she knew it was a threat -not physical, but one she always fell for. She loved the toxicity, the way he never cared for relationships past his research.

“We promised,” she whispered, leaning into his arms, her eyes closing. “Last month. We said that was the final time.”

“We’re terrible at being friends.” His hands circled her waist. His lips kissing the lotus scented hair.

The music was a minor-key melody that caried the lyrics of longing and ruin, summing up their past, presence and future a bit too literally for her. They began to move, not really dancing, but swaying in a rhythm that belonged only to them. He was a terrible dancer, blunt and crude and she never minded. It was the only thing she didn’t try to change about him. Their dance was beautiful in its own way, gracefully graceless.

“I hate how you make me feel,” she murmured into his neck. Her teeth grazing his skin; the bite was salty, but the sweet feeling it left her with compensated. “I had a good week. I went to Aet’Reon. We finished the lab. I slept eight hours. I was almost human again.”

At the mention of Aet’Reon his mind brought back memories he failed to bury deep enough. The expedition that had cost him months of his life and left him returning to a cold, empty house without the chance to say goodbye. And blaming Andrea only got him so far. He knew the risks, hoped for the best and hit the reality wall months later.

Mikhail’s grip around her tightened. His fingers dug into the silk. Her fingers traced his muscles beneath the leather jacket, trapped between soft fabric and the heat of his body. “And now?” he asked, his voice low against her collarbone.

Andrea looked at the exit, then back at him. She saw the wreckage of their past -the catastrophe their first expedition was, should’ve be enough of a hint- and the certain disaster of their tonight. She reached up, fisting her hand in his curly hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers. The kiss tasted like gin and salt, tainted with a seven-year grudge.

“Never,” she whispered against his lips.