The Perfect Knight and the Illusionist (BL)

MARIUS

"So, what did you want to say?" Blanche asked me, her voice not confrontational, but intertwined with both disinterest and intrigue in equal measure. Even under the bright afternoon sun that shone through the hallway windows, her eyes looked impossibly dark, yet her face was pale.

Like a marionette.

I couldn’t read her.

Failing to find an opening, I reminded myself that sometimes, the best way to create an opening is to open myself up first.

"I would like to ask you to participate in the Autumn Festival by holding an exhibition."

"That’s disappointing. I thought we were done with that talk," she said curtly.

"I really want to stress that it would mean so much," I pressed on. I had to. I couldn’t give up.

"I don’t care how much it means to the student council. This conversation is over."

With that, Blanche turned around to head back to the art room.

"Blanche—please. I’m not saying it would mean so much for the student council. I wanted to say how much it would mean to me, and to Skylark."

Blanche stopped, turned back, and got closer.

"So it’s a personal request? What for?" she asked.

"It’s because it would... make Skylark happy."

"What’s that got to do with you?"

"He’s my good friend."

"Oh, really?" Her tone was ripe with sarcasm.

"Really," I said as sincerely as I could.

She stared at my face, studying it, as if to find any sign that I was lying.

She couldn’t find any because I wasn’t lying.

"How would it make the Cheese Boy happy?"

"Please don’t call him that," I said.

"But it’s a cute nickname."

"I’m not sure if he’d like to be called ’cute’."

"Interesting. But it still doesn’t explain how it would make him happy."

I took a deep breath and said,

"Did you know that he comes from the South? From a very small, remote village called Erdville, where they have all these nice people and the best potatoes in the Empire. He has friends there—Davi, Abe, Blabber Becky, Big Sis Sally, even Boring Brad. He goes fishing, eats twenty people, and dances on tables banging on pots during festivals. But now... he’s away from all that. He has had a difficult time here. He made new friends, but he’s also been sick. But he still doesn’t give up. He sulks when he’s unhappy. But he lights up when he’s happy. He chose the art club because he thought it was ’fun.’ He enjoyed drawing those weird pictures. To have his pictures displayed in an exhibition at the Autumn Festival—that’s an achievement he can be proud of. He will be happy, and—"

I stopped as I found myself suddenly ranting—speaking a lot more than I ever intended.

Blanche then put her hands on her hips, tilted her head back a little, and said,

"You like him a lot, don’t you?"

My heart thumped.

Once.

"He’s a very good friend."

Blanche stood on the spot like a statue, her eyes not moving—not even blinking.

She then suddenly looked away, averting her gaze, and blurted out,

"Tsk. I suppose an exhibition wouldn’t hurt him."

"Is that a... yes?"

"Not for the student council. Not for you. But for the Cheese Boy."

"Thank you so much."

"Don’t thank me. I told you it’s not for you."

"Thank you nevertheless."

"Don’t get the wrong idea."

"I won’t. I really appreciate your understanding, and doing this for Skylark."

"Just one condition, though."

It made me a little worried for a second, but I had to take my chances.

"Name your condition, please."

"We choose our pictures. The student council will not have any say in it."

I was ecstatic at having won her over, but her demand was concerning.

"I don’t think we can have anything that is obscene, and—"

"What the hell do you think I am?!"

"I’m sorry. I was just a little concerned. There must be rules—"

"No rules. WE decide what pictures to display. It’s either that or no deal."

She was a tough negotiator. I had no option but to accept her terms.

"I understand. And I will trust you to make good judgments."

"Trust me and get burnt."

With that, Blanche headed back into the art room.

I clenched my fist in quiet joy. Things could be problematic if Blanche tried anything too wild, but I got the job done.

Then I saw Skylark walking down the hallway toward me as I stood just outside the art room.

He stopped, hesitated a little, but didn’t run away this time.

He dropped his head, looking at the floor, and walked toward me.

"Hi, Skylark," I greeted him first.

"Hi, Mario..."

I wanted to ask him why he ran away from me the night before, but then I saw Skylark lift his hand and clench the pendant under his shirt.

"Skylark," I said, and did the same.

"I’m sorry, Mario," Skylark said first.

This boy—he was braver than me.

And that was admirable.

"I’m sorry too," I said.

There we stood, both feeling our pendants through the shirts we wore.

Then I realized.

Trust wasn’t about telling each other everything and being able to keep it a secret.

Trust was believing that there was a reason for the other’s silence.

"Go inside. Blanche has an announcement to make," I said.

"...Oh?" Skylark asked, curious—temporarily forgetting the little awkwardness that floated between us.

"You will like it, Skylark. And I will be looking forward to it."

"What are you talking about...?"

I, for no reason at all, stretched my arm and put my hand on his shoulder. I had a sudden urge to embrace him, now knowing that—through Falken—being embraced is to be accepted, comforted.

But all I could do was give a little squeeze on his shoulder.

Skylark then reached up, for I was taller than him, placed his hand on my shoulder, and gave it a squeeze too.

Then we laughed.

Silly.

We were being silly.

And that was okay.

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